He asked the watch commander for six officers in plainclothes and three unmarkeds. That took another forty-five minutes to put together and it was nearly two by the time we convoyed to Brentwood.

No SWAT team because that would’ve been too conspicuous in Nicholas Heubel’s leafy, lovely neighborhood. But bulletproof vests for everyone, shotguns and rifles at the ready.

Milo had the other cars hold back a block, parked ten houses up from the vanilla house, told me to sit there and proceeded on foot.

Ambling, as if this were a casual visit.

He made it past six houses. Stopped. Pointed.

For Lease sign staked in the lawn of the vanilla house.

Taking out his weapon, he held it close to his pants. Dark pants, the gun was barely visible. Brief stop at the front door and a bell ring.

The inevitable silence. He walked around the side of the house. A similar foray last year had resulted in a date with a shotgun.

I sat there.

He reappeared, shaking his head. Weapon back in the holster.

Cell phone in his palm. He punched it hard enough to kill it.

Ten minutes later, a white Jaguar drove up to the house and a short, dark woman in an eggplant-colored pantsuit got out.

Milo greeted her. “Ms. Hamidpour?”

“I am Soraya. You are the lieutenant?” Straightening the For Lease sign.

“Lieutenant Sturgis, ma’am. Thanks for coming.”

“You say there is a problem with the house, I come. What is the problem?”

“How long has it been for lease?”

“Two days.”

“How long has it been vacant?”

“The owner doesn’t know exactly. What is the problem?”

“When’s the last time the owner heard from the tenant?”

“The owner doesn’t hear from the tenant. It’s a managed property.”

“Your company.”

“Now it is us.”

“Who was it before?”

She named a competitor.

Milo said, “Owner’s not happy with their performance.”

“Not at all. The tenant left without giving notice. Two months’ unpaid rent. At least he left it clean.”

Milo rubbed his face. “Have you cleaned it further?”

“Yesterday,” said Soraya Hamidpour. “The usual.”

“Vacuuming?”

“Carpet shampoo, to make it look extra-good. It’s scrubbed down pretty nice. Most of the rooms don’t even look as if they were lived in.”

“Who’s the owner, ma’am?”

“He lives in Florida.”

Out came the notepad. “Name, please.”

Soraya Hamidpour scrunched her lips. “It’s a little… tricky.”

“How so?”

“The owner likes to stay private.”

“Hermit?”

“Not exactly.” She turned back to the sign, scraped something from a corner.

“Ma’am—”

“Do we need to get into that?”

“We really do, ma’am.”

“The problem with the house is…”

“The tenant’s not a nice person.”

“I see… my problem is the owner… a certain type of exposure, he likes. But…”