“Yeah, well,” said Bryczinski, “all kinds of people don’t leave behind Mexican money. Idiot coins, pesos, whatever. I checked them out, not worth a thing so I gave them to my niece, she’s four.”

“Any other intruders?”

“Nah, that’s it.”

“No evidence anyone ever came up here to fool around?”

“Nope. That second time, I figured some illegal working on one of the other rich-idiot houses around here had nowhere to go so he slept here. Big surprise to me is why more idiots don’t break in. I showed you that chain. Do you want to know about animals?”

“What kind of animals?”

“Critters,” said Bryczinski, savoring the word. “I find animal dirt all the time. Rats, mice. Coyotes, I know it’s coyotes because their dirt is these little shriveled things, look like dry Vienna sausage. I seen plenty of coyote dirt back when I lived in Fallbrook.”

“Avocado country,” said Milo.

“Huh?”

“Don’t they grow avocados in Fallbrook?”

“My dad was in the navy, we lived in an apartment.”

“Ah … any visitors during the day, Doyle?”

“Never. Place is dead.” Bryczinski flinched. “So to speak.”

“Don’t get bothered by this but like I said I need to ask routine questions of everyone associated with a homicide.”

The guard’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

“What were you doing last night?”

“You’re saying I’m in some kind of suspicion because I found them?”

“Not at all, Doyle. I need to be thorough.”

Bryczinski swiped his brow with a uniform sleeve. “Whatever. Last night, I was sleeping. I get up at four, Mom wakes me up, I hit the hay by nine.”

“You’re Mom’s sole caretaker.”

“Idiot cat sure can’t do much.”

Milo laughed.

The guard said, “Glad someone thinks it’s funny.”

Milo watched him hobble down the stairs, wincing. “And the diagnosis is…?”

I said, “No shortage of pent-up anger, but probably not enough physical strength and smarts to pull it off.”

“Even with a gun?”

“You find any kind of link between him and either one of your victims, I’ll change my mind.”

“He claims to have only a flashlight but he could’ve packed. I’ll have uniforms check the entire property for discarded weapons. Bryczinski’s prints are on file because of the security job. Maybe they’ll show up where they shouldn’t be. Like on the floor, right where they’re laying.”

Another glance at the bodies. “Cute couple. Tough luck for Ken and Barbie.”

I said, “Played with like dolls. Then discarded.”

He re-read Desmond Backer’s business card. “Up for Venice? We’ll take your gondola.”

CHAPTER

4

Gemein, Holman, and Cohen weren’t advertising.

Skimpy oxidized-iron address numerals were placed low on the building’s façade, barely a foot above the sidewalk. Under that: GHC: CONCEPTS.