Dear Uncle Desi, Merry Christmas. Thanks for the play oven, I love to cook on it. Yumm numm. I wish we could hang out. Love, Samantha.

Milo said, “Someone cared about him,” and headed for Backer’s computer.

The screen opened directly to a server, preset by a “remember me” password. Nine unread e-mails, all spam except for a missive from [email protected].

hey lil sib, how goes it? really desi you need to write more miss you, specially sam. write, call, sing a song, send an e-card use a messenger pigeon. lol. Luv xoxox ricki

Milo printed the page, slipped it into an evidence bag. Returned to the screen and checked the toolbar for Backer’s recent searches.

“Nothing’s been cleared for days,” he said, “the guy definitely wasn’t worried about privacy.”

I said, “Fits with the direct approach.”

He ran his finger down the list of recently visited sites.

EBay, news outlets, ecology chat rooms, online men’s clothing resellers. In a solid block at the bottom, thirty-three porn sites.

“What a shock.” He began scrolling.

Five minutes later: “Same straight-on stuff. Okay, let’s see if I can ruin someone’s day.”

The Washington State number connected to a message machine. Identifying himself by rank, he left his number.

“You have reached the home of Scott and Ricki and Samantha and Lionel, we’re not in now but please blah blah blah. My hooh-hah detective instincts tell me Lionel’s the pooch.”

Returning to the closet, yet again, he pawed through the pockets of Desmond Backer’s clothing. Four crumpled Trader Joe’s receipts, a half-year-old sales slip from Foot Locker for the running shoes, a cheap plastic pen, a few loose coins.

“So what’s missing from this picture, Doc?”

“Anything to do with Jane Doe.”

“So—and perish the thought—you could be off about her being a significant other, she was just another booty-cutie.”

“He took Holman to Santa Monica, stayed in the Valley with Passant.”

“So maybe she lives near Holmby? But her clothes say not as a resident—an au pair or something? Time to revisit the hood. But first, this Shangri-la’s parking amenities.”

The building’s sub-lot was one-third full, and Backer’s BMW was easy to spot. Milo gloved up again, peered through the windows, tried the doors, found them locked, ran his flashlight over the interior.

“Nothing looks off, but let’s see what the techies have to say.”

I said, “Backer and Jane got to Borodi some other way.”

“She drove? Why not, a smooth guy like Uncle Desi could probably get women to do all sorts of things. And if I had any idea who the hell she is, I could look for her goddamn car.”

“You up for another visit to the scene?”

“Why?”

“Nothing else comes to mind.”

CHAPTER

9