“Seems to be. Is that important?”
“One less relative to talk to. Are the parents alive?”
“Don’t know and not gonna talk to anyone at this point, Alex. Intact families can get protective and I don’t want her to know we’re looking at her.”
—
He took Westwood to Pico, turned left, passing through the Rancho Park district and the southern border of Century City where high-rises pretend L.A.’s a real city. Hooking a right on Beverly Drive, he continued through the original ranch houses and recent McMansions of Beverlywood, once a start-up neighborhood for newlyweds, now a final stop for the affluent.
As we continued south, the street got curvier, darker, quieter. Beyond quiet, the silence of slumbering suburbia. The trajectory gradually veered from affluence as big houses gave way to small houses, which finally conceded to blocks of apartments and the drone-buzz of the freeway.
Turning left on National, he made a series of GPS-directed turns,found his way to Holt Avenue, and cruised slowly before locating the address.
The building looked just as it had on my screen but for pink stucco darkened to an indecisive gray barely defined in the nocturnal haze. L.A. ranks architecture somewhere below slime mold, and the block was the usual mix of charmless boxes from various decades.
Milo said, “What’s that, a bow tie?”
“Dressing for success.”
He grunted, backed up, and parked in the only available space. Three buildings north and across the street, with a diagonal view of Tiana’s.
Switching off his headlights, he worked his phone. “City has it listed as ten units, five on the first floor, five on the second. The Safe Place thing you sent me says hers is number eight, so she’s on top.”
Lights on in one apartment on each of the floors but that said nothing about rear units.
Milo thought for a while, said, “Stay here,” got out, closed the driver’s door softly, looked up and down the block, and crossed the street.
He was back moments later but remained outside the car talking through the open driver’s window.
I said, “Nothing?”
“Nope. Door’s security-coded. Gonna look around a bit more, stay put.”
He was gone longer, returned breathing rapidly.
“Tenant parking in the back. God was merciful and it’s open carports and in the number eight slot is a dark-blue Highlander. Expired registration, hopefully the plates haven’t been switched.”
He ran them, gave a thumbs-up. “Owned until a couple of years ago by an eighty-year-old guy in Woodland Hills.Hekept up the reg and duly recorded the sale. But then the buyer—guess who?—notified DMV it was going to be junked so it was never re-registered.”
I said, “Ghost wheels. Good way to avoid reg fees. Also helpful if you’re planning something nasty.”
“She planned for two years? Or maybe she was doing other bad stuff in the meantime.”
“If she killed Martha and Lynne, we’re talking a seven-year grudge, so two years doesn’t seem like much.”
He chewed his cheek, pushed hair off his forehead. “Good point. And going ghost is relatively low risk. Even if you do get pulled over, you can probably talk your way out of anything but a warning.”
I said, “If you’re a former beauty queen, highly probable.”
“Little Miss Scofflaw,” he said, punching a palm with a fist. “Finally Ihavesomething.”
—
We watched the building for another hour. In all that time, three cars drove by and a single late-night dog-walker passed by with a trudging, older Lab in tow.
“Quiet night,” said Milo. “Nice when I’m trying to sleep, crap when I’m working. Let’s call it.”
But ten minutes later, he pulled over on the southern tip of Beverly Drive and got on his phone.
