Still, he had taken care of her—or at least seen her taken care of. Mrs. Dodd was always happy to fetch her groceries or ferry her to appointments if it meant an early afternoon. So, yes, Keegan had nothing to regret. He had been a dutiful son—but now duty felt like the bare minimum. He could have done more. As her only child—her only remaining relation—he could have gone out of his way for her more often.

Down the hill, light from Nigel Ormsby’s swimming pool shimmered like a nest of bright snakes against the mansion’s stucco walls. Somewhere, way out to the west, in that milky sea of lights, was the Brentwood bungalow where a famous actress had put herself to sleep with pills, wanting never to wake again. Up above, among the once-inviolable stars, two Russian spaceships circled the earth—which proved, to Keegan’s way of thinking, that nothing could remain unspoiled.

CHAPTER TWO

Tuesday, August 14, 1962

WHEN HIS MUG of instant Folgers was ready, Keegan put the tin kettle on the stove’s back burner and took his coffee outside to where he’d stood the night before, looking down on the city lights. The temperature had to be in the eighties already, and it would be climbing fast, but at least there was still a slight updraft breeze. He stood barefoot on the lawn in the wrinkled clothes he’d slept in. The grass underfoot felt brittle.

In the harsh light of a new day, the gray city already lay under a sepia blanket of haze. The view was nothing like the black-felt jeweler’s tray he’d seen glimmering in the thick of the night. This daylight vista looked tragic and tawdry—like seeing the weary starlet, sans makeup, away from the studio lights.

Keegan lingered at least a minute, blowing on his coffee and taking in the view, before he noticed the woman down below him. She sat near the edge of Ormsby’s glassy swimming pool. Her back was to the water, and she bent over some sort of wooden table painting in watercolors. She was young and slender and wore what looked like beige riding pants and a tailored white blouse—clothes that evoked a kind of old-family, patrician wealth. She sat with her knees together and her legs tucked under her chair, like someone trained to ride sidesaddle.

The young woman faced a terrace of magenta bougainvillea vines that framed one corner of Ormsby’s garden. In the early light, the blooms were the color of cranberry juice held to the light. She studied the scene, then bent over her work again, presenting Keegan with the top of her head; a mop of dark curls, cut short. Her right hand darted like a Singer needle, dotting her work with a fine brush. When she looked up again at her subject, Keegan held still, so he wouldn’t draw her attention.