Prestige Automotive Executive Services amounted to a cracked concrete lot covered by a canvas awning. Small-print signage, two dozen vehicles crowded nose-to-bumper, and a shed-like office to one side.

“All that chrome” was a mass of Porsches, Ferraris, Lamborghinis, a mammoth Rolls-Royce Phantom, a pair of Bentley GT coupes — smaller cousins to Nicholas Heubel’s stately sedan. Up in front, three Mercedes S600s.

Two silver, one black. A vacant slot next to the black car.

Iron posts marked both edges of the driveway. Between them, a limp length of chain snaked across the cement. A key lock was looped to a ring that passed through the right-hand post. Shiny, but cheap.

Milo’s laughter lacked amusement. “A gazillion worth of wheels and they use drugstore crap. I could pick this under the influence of any number of mind-altering substances.”

In the office, a small man around thirty sat next to a folding card table and listened to reggaeton. The tag on his blue shirt said Gil. The tattoos brocading his neck and arms said his pain threshold was high. His black hair was perfectly combed, his soul patch squared to the size of a Scrabble tile. On the wall were a tool-company calendar and Playboy centerfolds that made me feel like a ten-year-old kid.

Milo flashed the badge. The man switched off the radio. “Yeah, they told me you were coming.”

Milo said, “You’re off the beaten path, Mr….”

“Gilbert Chacon.”

“How do customers find you, Mr. Chacon?”

“We don’t rent to no customers. The rental lot’s on La Cienega. This is the ultra-luxury lot. We do calls from hotels, it’s all delivery.”

“Guest wants a car, you bring it to them.”

“Yeah,” said Chacon, “but we don’t deal with no guests, just the hotels, everything goes on the hotel bill.”

“So not much traffic here.”

“Nobody comes here.”

“Someone came here last night.”

Chacon’s mouth screwed up. “Never happened before.”

“What’s your security setup?”

“Chain and a lock,” said Chacon.

“That’s it?”

Chacon shrugged. “The police is what, a minute away? Beverly Hills, you got cops all over the place.”

“Is there a night watchman?”

“Nope.”

“Alarm system?”

“Nope.”

“All those fancy wheels?” said Milo.

Chacon reached back. His fingers grazed a clapboard wall. He must’ve liked the feel because he began stroking the wood. “The cars got alarms.”

“Including the Mercedes that got lifted?”

“It come with a system,” said Chacon. “They all do.”

“Was the system activated?”

Chacon’s hand left the wall and rested on the desk. His eyes floated up to the low plasterboard ceiling. “Supposed to be.”

Milo smiled. “In a perfect world?”

Gilbert Chacon said, “I’m the day supervisor, come at nine, leave at four thirty. At night, it’s up to the main lot what happens.”

“On La Cienega.”

“Yup.”

“Who has the key to the lock?”

“Me.” Chacon reached into his pocket and brought out a keychain.

“Who else?”