“My two kids have great jobs but they’re overdrawn on their credit cards.”

“Maybe Mrs. Mancusi thought her son was irresponsible and that’s why she didn’t want to give him the house.”

“She wouldn’t have actually been giving it to him, just — ” Barone smiled. “Functionally, it’s the same thing, so maybe you’ve got a point. But if she didn’t trust him, she didn’t tell me. I can’t overemphasize how reserved she was. But polite. Ladylike. It’s so strange to think of her being murdered. Was it a robbery?”

“Doesn’t seem to be.”

“You’re thinking the son wanted to push things along?”

“We’re not thinking anything yet.”

“Whatever you say.” Barone batted her lashes.

Milo got up. “Thanks for the copy. And for the nonbillable time.”

“Sure,” she said, touching his hand. “You’re the most interesting thing that’s happened all week.”

During the ride down I said, “Must be the uniform — oops, you’re not wearing one.”

He said, “Nah, my cologne. Eau de schmo.”

It was four p.m. by the time we headed for the Prestige Rent-A-Car lot in Beverly Hills. During the drive, Milo called the motor lab. A couple of errant hairs and various wool, cotton, and linen fibers had showed up in the Mercedes, but no blood or body fluids. The car had been vacuumed recently by someone who’d taken care not to leave prints. The lab would be removing the door panels tomorrow but the tech cautioned Milo not to expect too much.

He said, “Story of my life,” and drove faster. “Ella’s estate was mostly her house. What do you think it’s worth?”

I said, “That part of Westwood? Million three, minimum.”

“That’s what I was thinking. Nice windfall for a loser like Tony.”

I said, “Ella wasn’t interested in reducing his tax burden and she stood by as he lost the apartment on Olympic and ended up in that dive.”

“Mommy thinks he’s a loser and he knows it.”

“Nothing like self-loathing to stoke rage,” I said. “And this was a healthy, youthful seventy-three-year-old who planned to be around for a while. Meaning extended poverty for Tony.”

The unmarked’s radio kicked in with a message to call the station.

“Sturgis, I’m on my way to a… who? Okay, tell them… tomorrow. Afternoon. I’ll call them in the morning to set up a time… handle them with care.”

Click.

“Antoine Beverly’s parents dropped by the station. Downtown told them I’m on the case, they want to meet me. Feel like sitting in? It could turn out to be a situation where psychological sensitivity is called for.”

“Sure, just give me a couple hours’ notice.”

He said, “Thanks — oh, man, look at all that chrome.”