“Could very well be alive. What’s your evidence any kind of crime was perpetrated against the sister? By some oil sheikh, no less. This is the stuff of migraines, Sturgis. Cut the fantasy and get back to shoe leather. I’m sure you’ve worn out your share of desert boots.”

Milo’s gaze dropped to today’s footwear. Crepe-soled, brown sailcloth oxfords, long in need of resoling. “Anything you say, sir.”

“Don’t patronize me, Sturgis.”

“Wasn’t trying to, sir. May I call you should what you deem substantive comes up?”

“Have I ever been unresponsive to your needs, Detective?”

“No, sir. I’ll start eroding my shoes and let’s hope nothing gets blown up in the interim.”

Silence.

“Sir?”

“Let me make something clear,” said Weinberg. “I find no merit in your request but in the name of esprit de corps, I’m going to talk to the chief about a news feed. Just in case.”

“In case what, sir?”

“Porkers are spotted soaring in the western sky.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Think nothing of it,” said Weinberg. “Because that’s what it’s going to amount to.”

I hadn’t heard from Milo by ten the following morning, figured the night hadn’t gone well.

Robin said, “We’ve got steaks, let’s feed him.”

I tried all his numbers, got no answer until nearly six p.m. He was curt, subdued. All business, none of it encouraging.

Gayle Lindstrom had followed through, with disappointing results: no sign of Helga Gemein at any airport, commercial or private, nor was she listed on any passenger manifests.

Moe Reed’s calls to Masterson had remained unanswered and he’d followed up with a visit. The firm’s glass doors were locked. If Elena Kotsos or her husband was on site, they weren’t letting on.

Real estate searches throughout California had produced nothing. Reed was working on Nevada, but as the day progressed and government offices closed down, options were fading.

No better luck on the lush streets of Holmby Hills, where Sean Binchy had prowled wearing skater duds. Starting at the wheel of his private drive, an ‘84 Camaro inherited from his father, then repeating the circuit twice on in-line skates.

I’d done a drive-by myself, on the way to the station. Huge houses, towering trees, no people. As if Helga Gemein’s dream of a human-free world had come to pass.

Milo’s expanded door-to-door had boiled down to reassuring the neighbors they were safe. A few additional residents had seen Helga entering or exiting the little white house but no one had exchanged a single word of conversation with the blond/brunette/redheaded women they described as “kind of cold,” “frosty,” “distant,” “off in her own world.”

One man was sure Helga drove a midsized American sedan, make unknown. Black, dark blue, dark gray, I don’t really remember.