“She was tried for the murder of a Mafia-connected guy at the Bel-Air Hotel,” Croft said. “Thought it was Ed Eagle. She was acquitted. Weird thing is, she escaped from the courthouse while the jury was deliberating and later had to plead to the escape. Let’s go see her.”

—

THEY PRESENTED THEMSELVES at the front desk of the Bel-Air Hotel and identified themselves. “Mr. and Mrs. Grosvenor checked out at eleven this morning,” the desk clerk told them.

“You got a home address for them?” Morales asked.

The woman checked. “Twelve Eaton Place, London SW1,” she said.

“London, England?”

“That’s correct.”

“Was that their destination when they checked out?”

“I assume so,” she said.

“Has their room been cleaned yet?”

“I’ll call housekeeping.” She made the call. “Yes, and a new arrival has checked in.”

Morales thanked her, and they left. “You got the address of that house in Bel-Air that the Grosvenors made an offer on?”

Croft checked his notebook. “Here we are—it’s over on Copa de Oro.”

“Let’s see what we can find there.”

—

THE HOUSE WAS impressive without being ostentatious. Morales rang the bell, and a uniformed houseman came to the door. Badges were flashed. “Is the owner at home?” he asked.

“Yes, sir, if you’ll come in and wait a moment. He’s on the tennis court, I believe.”

“Just take us out there,” Morales said. “What’s his name?”

“Simpson,” the man replied, then led the way.

Two middle-aged men were banging away on the tennis court. One of them came over after a point. “What’s up?” he asked.

Badges were flashed again, and Morales introduced himself and Croft. “Mr. Simpson, I understand that you had an offer on your house from a Mr. and Mrs. Charles Grosvenor. Is that correct?”

“That is correct.”

“Did you accept the offer?”

“I made a counteroffer. They wanted to think it over.”

“When did you last see them?”

Simpson looked at his watch. “About an hour ago,” he said.

“Do you know where they went when they left?”

“They said they were going home.”

“Home to England?”

“I assume so.”

“Do you happen to know on what airline they were traveling?”

“During our conversation, there was passing mention of a private jet,” Simpson replied.

“Do you know what kind of jet?”

“No, but it would have to be a fairly big one for an Atlantic crossing.”

“Did they mention an airport?”

“Yes, they said they were flying out of Burbank.”

“Thank you, Mr. Simpson.”

The two detectives left the house and headed for Burbank. Forty minutes later they were in the airport’s tower.

“May I help you, gentlemen?”

“I hope so,” Morales said. “Have you had a departure today of a flight to London, England?”