“Used to be, Milo, but we don’t see that kind of big-scale looniness on the Westside, except for occasional threats to animal researchers. All we had last year was a wimpy amateur fire set in one of the U’s med labs and we caught the fool. Worked there, sweeping floors, no affiliation with any group—one of those guys you’d know about, Doc. Shit-for-brains thought he’d liberated all the little Mickeys but what he ended up with was rodent flambé and third-degrees on both arms. I think it stays quiet here because no one expects houses in Holmby or B.H. or Bel Air to be anything but gross. You start eliminating ostentatiousness on the Gold Coast, you get the Gobi Desert.”

“Bite your tongue, Don.”

Boxmeister grinned, pulled out a notepad and pen. “Tell me again which oil type owned this barbecue.”

“Prince Tariq of Sranil. Not the Mideast, Asia, it’s near Indonesia—”

“I’ll look it up,” said Boxmeister. “So you’re thinking your original vics also planned to torch the place but got interrupted by someone, they had an accomplice who finished the job and roasted whatshisname Rutger in the process.”

“That’s a good summary, Don.”

“Political. That sucks. If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to keep a lid on that part of it, no sense getting the neighbors thinking al-Qaeda’s lurking near their tennis courts.”

“Good idea,” said Milo. “Especially because all I’ve got are guesses.”

I said, “How was the body positioned?”

“There was no body, Doc. Just bones and ashes and some dental plates.”

“Did the fire move it?”

Boxmeister thought. “That high up, probably not.”

“Where in the turret was it found?”

“Right in the middle.”

“Not near the stairs?”

“Was he trying to escape? Doesn’t look like it.”

“Quiet killer,” I said. “Rutger had no idea.”

“Or he knew but couldn’t do a damn thing about it. No traces of a cell phone were found.”

Milo said, “Phone would’ve survived the blast?”

“Some part of it probably would,” said Boxmeister. “Tell you one thing, I’m going to look into the composition of that liver can. Anything that can survive something like this, I’m stockpiling.”

A woman’s voice, argumentative, caused the three of us to turn.

A young brunette in the grip of a female officer pointed at Milo. Slim, long-haired, the house-sitting daughter who’d spotted Doreen Fredd on Borodi.

Amy… Thal. She wore a red silk robe over pajamas and fuzzy pink slippers. Protested as the cop held her back.

Milo jogged over, excused the officer, returned with Thal. High-intensity lights turned her freckles to Braille dots.

“Don, this is Ms. Thal, a cooperative neighbor. Amy, Captain Boxmeister from the arson squad.”

Boxmeister said, “I’d shake your hand but mine’s filthy.”