“Bodies are stacked up in the fridge closet like firewood, coroner’s not seeing this as high priority because cause of death is pretty obvious. I bitched, but they’ve got a point. The X-ray of Backer’s head shows bullet frags in his brain, and Jane’s a clear strangulation. What they didn’t find was any sign of sexual assault. Oh, yeah, just in case I was getting the least bit cheerful, the only prints that show up in Backer’s car are his and Jane’s but since she’s not on record, big damn deal. She doesn’t have a single distinguishing scar, deformity, or tattoo. Though she did get a nose job, a long time ago. I’ve been trolling the Doe Network and every other missing persons database, but so far nothing, even allowing for a bigger schnoz. And Backer’s hard drive turned out to be more of the same: porn, ecology, architecture.”

“Sounds like a Woody Allen film,” I said.

“Sounds like a tragedy. I’ve already left two messages with those hooh-hah architects, still waiting to hear back. Let’s go see what the neighbors have to say.”

This time he drove. “In case the parking nazis return.”

“You’ve gotten yourself immunity?”

He produced the crumpled ticket. Tore it into shreds and dropped them in the trash. “I’m a scofflaw.”

But for the crime scene, Borodi Lane was stately and sun-splotched. He stopped to check the new chain. Snug.

“I still don’t get the point of a half-day patrol, nothing on the weekend.”

I said, “People capable of building houses like this rarely deal with the day-to-day. Being across the ocean would make it even harder to stay in touch. Some underling probably told a subordinate to order a plebe to maintain security but keep an eye on the budget. A peon lower down the ladder tried to earn brownie points by skimping. Besides, what was to steal? Rotten wood?”

“Unnamed foreign investor. Okay, let’s get to know the good folk of Borodi Lane.”

Six pushes of gate buzzers produced three no-answers and an equal number of Spanish housekeepers answering the intercom. Milo coaxed the maids outside, showed them Jane Doe’s picture.

Perplexed expressions, head shakes.

The seventh house was an unfenced brick Tudor, generous but not monumental, fronted by a cobbled motor court. Bentley, Benz, Range Rover, Audi. A young brunette in lavender velour sweats answered the door. Freckles struggled through matte foundation. Long silky hair was tied up carelessly. “Is this about the murder?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Ma’am? I’m twenty-five.”

Milo smiled. “I vaguely remember being twenty-five.”

She extended a hand. “Amy Thal. This is my parents’ place. Before they left, they told me what happened. Mom didn’t even want me to stay but I told her to chill. I always house-sit the cats when they go to Paris.”

“When did your parents leave?”