“Loo?” A big, blond cop wearing an untucked denim shirt and jeans waved from ten feet away. As he got closer, the shirt’s flap billowed, exposing his sidearm.

Soraya Hamidpour seemed entranced by the weapon.

Milo said, “What’s up, Greg?”

“Sorry to bother you but calls are getting heavy and watch commander wants to know how long you’ll need us.”

“One car stays for right now, the rest of you go. Call for a crime scene team. We’re going to tear this place apart.”

“Tear?” said Hamidpour.

Greg said, “The warrant—”

“Signed, sealed, delivered.” Wink wink hidden from the Realtor’s view.

Greg grinned. “You got it, Loo.” He hustled back to the convoy.

Soraya Hamidpour said, “You can’t tear it up.”

“This could be a crime scene, ma’am.”

“Oh, no. Couldn’t be, it’s so clean—”

“We’ve got chemicals that go beyond the surface.”

“But I already have someone interested—”

“We’ll be as quick as possible, ma’am.”

Soraya Hamidpour threw up her hands. “This is a disaster.”

“Tell you what,” said Milo. “If we could speak with the owner, get some details on the tenant, it might mean less of a—”

“The owner is — I can get you details but the owner doesn’t like…” She took a deep breath. Recited the name of an A-list movie star.

Milo said, “Did he know Mr. Heubel?”

“No, no, never. It’s managed. He lives in Florida.” Cupping her hand around her mouth. “Something to do with community property. The last divorce. Also, he gets a place to park his airplane.”

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER
30

A call to the company that had leased the house to Nicholas Heubel firmed up the details.

A-List Leading Man had owned the property for five years, purchasing it as part of a divorce settlement with his fourth wife. The plan had been for her to live there, but she’d changed her mind and moved to Colorado with a younger actor, where A-List bought her a ranch. Upon the advice of his business manager, the house had been converted to a rental.

Since then, three tenants had been in residence.

Two young families with “industry connections” and, for the past twenty-two months, Nicholas Heubel.

Heubel had cold-called the company, representing himself as a freelance investor, produced a bank account “more than substantial enough to qualify.” He’d paid first and last months’ rent plus a damage deposit with a twenty-four-thousand-dollar money order.

The leasing agent, still miffed about being fired, promised to fax over Heubel’s rental application and any other paperwork in the file.

Milo said, “Time to talk to Tony Mancusi.”

As we set out on the drive to Hollywood, he phoned Sean Binchy. “Forget the paint-and-chrome stuff. Here’s something real you can do.”