“Tempt away, Jezebel. What do you want to do?”
“See some gorgeous.”
—
Fifty minutes later we were forty miles east in San Marino, strolling the grounds of Huntington Gardens.
It’s a one-of-a-kind place, the former estate of a playboy insurance heir, combining two-hundred-plus acres of world-class botanical specimens with a couple of serious art museums and a massive scholar’s library that Robin uses when she’s researching antique instruments.
We spent the day filling our senses with a crazy quilt of fragrant roses, the serenity of the Japanese Garden and the Chinese Garden, a collection of cacti that could’ve come from another planet. After an early dinner at a seafood place on Huntington Drive, we were back home by six forty-five and tending to Blanche.
Robin said, “That was lovely, babe…I want to check a bridge repair on that Stromberg. Darn thing popped the first time.”
“Sure.”
“When I finish, we can watch something dumb.”
“You bet.”
She kissed me and left. Moments later, Milo called.
“What’s up?”
“Alicia verified that Alberts is totally out of it. I finally connected with one of the FBI guys but he said he knew nothing. Then the second turned out to be an honorable gentleman named Walter Karski. Happy to talk but couldn’t do it right then because he and his wife were babysitting grandkids. We agreed to meet tomorrow, he lives in Ventura. You busy making the big bucks or can you spare some time for altruism?”
“What time tomorrow?”
“Eleven.”
“My morning appointments end at eleven thirty.”
He said, “That would get us there twelve thirtyish but beggars, choosers, and all that. I’ll ask Karski if we can push it up. If you don’t hear from me, we’re on.”
I set the timer for tomorrow’s coffee, had just finished when Robin returned. “Good news, the bridge is stable. How about a bath before we rot our brains?”
“Love it when you get sybaritic.”
“Love it when you use professor words.”
—
At eleven thirty a.m. Milo rolled up in front of the house and idled the Impala, revving a few times with an itchy foot. The moment my door closed, he U-turned, coasted back down to the Glen going north, continued into the Valley, and picked up the 101 North at the Van Nuys on-ramp.
An hour of driving stretched to eighty-five minutes due to a lane closure just past Tarzana. Two miles of orange cones shunting traffic to the right in order to protect a road crew.
No crew in sight. A sign proclaimedYour Tax Dollars At Work!
Milo said, “Salt in the wounds.”
Once free of the snarl, he compensated by pushing the car to eighty-eight. Cops aren’t immune to CHP tickets but he pretends they are.
When it became clear that we’d still be late, he phoned Walter Karski.
A cheerful voice said, “Whenever you’re here.”
The house was a white-clapboard bungalow in the hills overlooking the Beaux-Arts masterpiece that houses Ventura city hall and beyond that, Main Street, the primary artery of the city’s Old Town. This high up, the bonus was a thin blue line of ocean hovering above rooftops.
Small house, beautifully kept. A path of herringbone brick led to a door painted aqua. The siding was immaculate, the lawn pristine even where a robust crepe myrtle shaded the grass. Running along the front was a lush border of impatiens and daisies.
