“Why not start with the simplest assumption? When I’m heading north and want to avoid the freeway, I take the Sepulveda Pass. Late at night, once you get north of Sunset, it’s a fast ride, pretty much empty. But that also means breaking down in an isolated area.”

Engine noise sounded from the mouth of the sub-lot. The same valet rolled up in a baby-blue Jaguar sedan, got out and stood by the driver’s door.

Milo walked over to him. “If you insist.”

The valet said, “Huh?”

“I’ll take it in trade if you throw in the extended warranty.”

The valet gaped. Milo got an inch from his face. “Where’s the Crown Vic, friend?”

“I got a call from a resident.”

Milo took out his cell phone. “Want me to call you, too? What’s your number, pal. And while you’re at it, show me some I.D. for an official police investigation.”

The valet didn’t answer.

Milo flashed his shield. “Get it now.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Lazarus are coming out in a—”

“I’ll help ’em. Go.”

The valet hazarded eye contact. Whatever he saw made him scurry off.

Milo eyed the Jaguar. “Budget wheels, pshaw. If Katrina did break down and got picked up, think Mr. Bentley Thief was stalking her?”

“Or cruising for a victim and she fit his appetite.”

“Sexual psychopath,” he said. “What’s the link with Ella Mancusi?”

I said, “Thrill of the hunt.”

“Guess so. Normally, I’d kiss Katrina off as not worth my time. But with two big black cars boosted and blood in the damn Bentley…” He shook his head. “Let’s try to find the Mustang.”

An elderly couple exited the condo, saw him standing next to the Jag. Stopped.

He grinned. “Evening, Mr. and Mrs. Lazarus.” Opening both doors with a flourish, he said, “Have a great time.”

The couple approached the car nervously. Got in, sped off.

Seconds later, the valet roared up in the unmarked and screeched to a stop. Milo took his hand, opened it, and slapped a five in his palm.

“Not necessary,” said the valet.

“Nor deserved. Have a nice life.”

We drove the Sepulveda Pass north all the way to the Valley’s southern border just shy of Ventura Boulevard, continued a few miles beyond. North of Wilshire was the low, flat stretch of veterans’ cemetery, then small businesses and apartments. After that, rolling hillside topped by lights. Traffic was thin. No sign of Katrina Shonsky’s car.

As we returned to the city, Milo said, “Oh, well. If I liked the simple life, I’d be a farmer.”

“There’s always south,” I said.

“A hundred and fifty miles’ worth to Mexico.”

I looked up at the foothills to the east. “Plenty of side streets to explore.”

“What a fun guy,” he growled, turning right and cruising several dark, winding roads.