Milo said, “Wages of sin paid out monthly.”
His bell-push was answered by an accented female voice. “Hallo, who?”
“Police. We’re here to talk to Mr. Sterling.”
“Who?”
“Mr. Sterling,” said Milo. “The man who lives here.”
“Ohhh.”
A minute of dead air was broken by a deep male voice.
“Police? Really? What’s going on?”
“Sorry to bother you, sir, but we’re working a case and your name came up.”
“What case?”
“Whitney Killeen.”
“Oh man! You finally found him?”
“Could we talk, sir?”
“You didn’t.Shit. So what do you want?”
“A few minutes of your time, Mr. Sterling.”
“Fine, fine, fine, hold on.”
The gate slid to the right with a slight clatter and we stepped into a small courtyard set up with struggling palms.
An oak door studded with oversized nail-heads swung open. Jay Sterling was in the doorway before we reached it, hands on hips, glaring.
He was tall and husky, in his mid-fifties, with silver hair faded at the sides and clipped short on top. Eyeglasses dangled from a chain. He wore a charcoal sweatsuit that draped beautifully and might’ve been cashmere. Pale feet were bare, ending in manicured toenails. Same for his fingernails. A ruddy face featuring high-wattage true-blue eyes was shaved glossy. As we got closer, the aroma of a citrus-based cologne asserted itself.
“Total letdown,” he said. “I was hoping you finally found him.”
Milo said, “Him.”
“The fucking asshole who killed her. What’s your name by the way? And how about some I.D.”
Milo flashed the badge. “I’m Lieutenant Sturgis, this is Alex Delaware.”
“Lieutenant?” said Jay Sterling. “That mean Whitney’s finally being taken seriously after two fucking years?”
“You feel she wasn’t?”
“I don’t feel, I know—you’re Ventura County, right?”
“LAPD.”
Sterling squinted. “Well that’s good, I guess. The Ventura guys were clowns. But why LAPD? I don’t get it.”
“Could we come in?”
“Place is a mess but sure. Been here nine weeks, finally scored a cleaner but she’s no great shakes.”
