“Last Friday. I work Tuesdays and Fridays. There were absolutely no heads lying around when I weeded the flower beds. And I didn’t see any sign of digging. Nothing. At all. When do you think I can get in there and get the place cleaned up?”

“You work exclusively for Mr. Chandler?”

“No, but he’s my main job.”

The three of us took a stroll along the outer path of the garden. The tape was still up, and so was the main tent just off the patio. The piles of dirt were casting shadows over the pachysandra.

The kid told us that he’d had this job for only three years, but he was attached to the place. He got agitated when he saw what the forensics team had done to the garden.

“Look at this mess. Just look. I’m pretty freaked out, if you want to know the truth. Whoever did this knows this garden. He could be someone I know.”

I said, “Who, Ricky? Who do you know who could have done this?”

“Look, I want to tell you something, but not officially.”

“Okay,” Conklin said, playing along.

“Nigel Worley doesn’t like Mr. Chandler. And I know why, because Janet confided in me. She had a thing with Mr. Chandler when the Worleys first moved in, like ten years ago.”

“A ‘thing’?” Conklin said.

“Janet told me it was just a fling and that she didn’t hold that against Mr. Chandler. She was married. He was married. It went on for a couple of months.

“She said that she still loves him in a funny way.”

“That’s the word she used? Funny?”

“She said odd. Do I think that she killed people and dug up their heads? Honestly, I don’t see it.”

“And Nigel?”

“Nigel has a temper and he’s not subtle. If he was going to kill someone, he would just freakin’ kill him. And I think first up would have been Mr. Chandler.”

Perez showed us the gate that opened onto a narrow concrete walkway on Ellsworth Place and he showed us the lock for the gate. He said that he had the only key.

It was a simple lock, could have been picked, but there was no evidence to show that it had been tampered with.

I took out the sketch of Jane Doe.

“Do you know this woman?”

Perez took the drawing, looked at it for a long few seconds.

“Is she one of the victims?”

“Yes.”

“Her head was cut off?”

“Do you recognize her?”

“She looks familiar, but I don’t know her. It’s like, maybe I saw her in a coffee shop or something like that.”

He handed the drawing back to me, then said, “You know who you should talk to? Tom Oliver, Mr. Chandler’s driver. He’s been with Mr. Chandler for about twenty years. He’s gonna be your expert on Harry Chandler. And maybe he’ll recognize this woman.”

Chapter 41

I PRESSED THE bell marked T. L. OLIVER at number 4, one of the four identical six-story brick houses on Ellsworth Place that bounded the mansion on its west side.