“I live in the guesthouse. She lives in the main house.”
“Anyone else live on the premises?”
“The maid. In the main house.”
“No siblings, boyfriends, girlfriends?”
“That’s it.”
“And you work at your mother’s firm?”
“More like I run it. She’s not there too much anymore.”
“Where were you Saturday night?”
“Satur—you mean last night, don’t you?”
“No, I mean Saturday night. Start there.”
“Saturday night I didn’t do anything. I stayed home and watched television.”
“By yourself?”
“That’s right.”
“What did you watch?”
“A DVD. An old movie calledThe Conversation. Coppola.”
“So nobody was with you or saw you. You just watched the movie and then went to bed.”
“Basically.”
“Basically. Okay. That brings us to Sunday morning. What did you do yesterday during the day?”
“I played golf at Riviera, my usual foursome. Started at ten and finished at four. I came home, showered and changed, had dinner at my mother’s house—you want to know what we had?”
“That won’t be necessary. But later on I probably will need the names of the guys you played golf with. What happened after dinner?”
“I told my mother I was going to my place but instead I went out.”
I noticed that Levin had started taking notes on a small notebook he had taken out of a pocket.
“What kind of car do you drive?”
“I have two, an oh-four Range Rover I use for taking clients around in and an oh-one Carrera I use for myself.”
“You used the Porsche last night, then?”
“That’s right.”
“Where’d you go?”
“I went over the hill and down into the Valley.”
He said it as though it was a risky move for a Beverly Hills boy to descend into the working-class neighborhoods of the San Fernando Valley.
“Where did you go?” I asked.
