“I didn’t—I wasn’t sure. It’s not like I was still thinking about it. I used to think about it. Then it stopped. Then he showed up … I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No, no, you did great, Ati. We really appreciate it. Now tell us everything you know.”

“That is everything.”

“Dahlia definitely planned to return to L.A.”

“We had plans,” said Ati Meneng. “A whole day, soon as she got back. First we were going to the Barney’s warehouse sale and have lunch at this café at the Santa Monica Airport—that’s where the sale is. Then we were having dinner at the Ivy—not the beach, the one on Robertson. Then we were going dancing. But she never came back. And she left her car at her house and when I looked in through the window, all her stuff was still in there.”

“You went over because you were worried.”

Tears turned the black eyes to pond-stones. “I kept calling. Her cell was disconnected, she had no more Internet for IM’ing, her house was dark. My mind started running. I mean I liked him the couple of times I met him, but I didn’t really know him. And what my parents said, that started to bother me.”

“About people from Sranil.”

“Superstitious peasants. Cannibals, rituals. You know?”

“Scary,” said Milo.

“Really scary, so I stopped thinking about it. I would’ve called her family but I didn’t know how to reach them. I figured if she stayed away long enough, they’d do something.”

“Even though her parents wanted her gone.”

“She just said that,” said Ati Meneng. “It probably wasn’t even true. Families love each other. Like her sister, Dahlia said they were different but they still loved each other.”

“The serious sister.”

“Dahlia said she even thought about becoming a nun then she became an architect, built houses.”

“Speaking of houses,” said Milo. “Do you remember the address of Dahlia’s?”

“Never knew the address, Dahlia always drove me there and took me home. She liked to drive real fast, said in Germany there were roads with no speed limits, she used to go a hundred miles an hour.”

“What neighborhood was the house in?”

“Brentwood.”

“Could you find it?”

“For sure.”

Milo stood. “Let’s do it.”

“Right now?”

“Can’t think of a better time, Ati.”

CHAPTER

28

The house that evoked Ati Meneng’s “That’s it!” was a mini-colonial wedged between two much larger Mediterraneans. Twenty-minute drive from the station, nice section of Brentwood, a short walk to the Country Mart.

One symmetrical story was faced with white clapboard. Lead-pane windows were grayed by curtains and sideburned by black shutters. A red door was topped by a fanlight. The lawn was compact and trimmed, the empty driveway spotless.

Two blocks away was the vacant lot Helga Gemein had given her partners for her nonexistent residence. Milo said, “You’re sure, Ati?”