"Gasped once, then she got calm pretty fast. Sexy voice. Like Elise's on the disc minus the depression."

As I drove up the Glen, he unwrapped the skirt-steak/baked-chicken/bacon/fried-potatoes-on-rye sandwich he'd constructed from leftovers scrounged in my fridge. Hydration came from slurps of Diet Dr Pepper in a half-liter bottle he'd brought with him.

By the time I reached Mulholland, he was phoning and eating, trying to find out why his priority request for Elise Freeman's phone records had received no response. Drones at her carrier kept transferring him, then cut him off. A second attempt produced "technical issues" as an excuse.

When he inquired about the subpoena of her financials at the D.A.'s office, he was informed of "transfer delays." He tried Deputy D.A. John Nguyen, who put him on hold.

One minute later, Milo clicked off, scowling. "John can't cut through the fog, either."

"Everything gets shunted to the chief's office."

"Hardening of the procedural arteries." Clutching his chest in mock horror, he buried his face in animal protein. Gulping fast, without taking a breath. More distraction than gustatory pleasure.

I picked up the 405 North at Sepulveda, merged to the 134 West, coasted through the western reaches of the Valley as it turned into the 101. Speeding past brown-felt hills and plugs of the heroic trees that gave Thousand Oaks its cachet, I cut through the widening gullies and ambitious peaks of Camarillo. A few exits north and plein-air ceded to concrete: one beige mall after another.

A razor-straight shot through the agricultural bounty of Oxnard and Ventura took us past Carpinteria, where the Pacific became a western neighbor. Flat, blue, breaking frothily, the water soft-sold peace of mind. Sea lions bobbed, surfers took advantage of swells, tankers big enough to merit a zip code floated on the horizon. A few miles before Santa Barbara, the rich green buffer formed by the old-growth vegetation of Montecito cooled and sweetened the air. Global warming on your mind? Plant a tree.

Santa Barbara announced itself with a glorious lagoon that rimmed Cabrillo Boulevard's eastern edge. To the west, the ocean persisted. Tourists worked both sides of the sun-kissed thoroughfare on bikes and pedicabs. Sandra Freeman Stuehr lived a few miles past Stearn's Wharf, west of State, in a mint-green bungalow on a quiet, shady street. Three individual units on an eighth-acre lot. Hers faced the street.

Not that different in style from her sister's home, but none of the isolation.

She came to the door holding a coffee mug and flexing a bare foot. She wore a crisp, black linen mandarin-collar blouse, butter-yellow walking shorts, hoop earrings, half a dozen gold bangles. Her toenails were polished scarlet, her fingers glazed flesh pink. Honey-blond hair was clipped in a pageboy.

Thirty pounds heavier than Elise and two years younger, she had bone-china skin, clear blue eyes, and a way with makeup that widened the age gap; she could've passed for late twenties.