“When and where did you see her?”

“When would that be … not recently. A month ago? I really can’t say. Where would be right there. Walking near that dump. That’s what caught my eye. No one walks here, there are no sidewalks.” Smile. “Which is the point, keep the riffraff out, God forbid it should be a real neighborhood. I didn’t grow up here, we used to live in Encino, my brothers and I had sidewalks for lemonade stands, rode our bikes. Once the parentals had empty nest they decided fourteen thousand square feet for two people was a nifty idea.” Shrug. “It’s their money.” Dropping her eyes to the photo, once more. “I’m really feeling it was her I saw. I remember thinking she was cute but her clothes weren’t.”

“You saw her twice.”

“But close together—like twice in the same week.”

“Walking,” said Milo.

“Not for exercise, she wasn’t dressed for that, had on heels. And a suit. Not a good one. A little tailoring would’ve improved it significantly.”

“What else can you remember?”

“Let me think … the suit was… gray. The way it didn’t move with her said it had a lot of poly in it.”

“Walking but not for exercise.”

“Strolling past, then stopping and strolling back. Like she was waiting for someone. You have no idea at all who she is?”

“Unfortunately not.”

“Too bad,” she said. “No I.D. really messes you guys up, right? I TiVo C.S.I., Forensic Files, New Detectives.”

“Was there a car nearby?”

“Not that I noticed. Hmm, guess that’s another reason she stood out. What normal person doesn’t drive?”

We crossed the street, tried one more house. No one home.

Talking to four more maids, one genuine liveried butler, and two personal assistants on the next block produced no further recognition of Jane Doe.

Back in the unmarked, Milo gave Masterson and Associates another try, connected. “This is Lieutenant Sturgis, I called yesterday about a crime scene on Borodi La—a crime scene. A construction project and your firm is listed—Ma’am, this is a homicide case and I need to—yes, you heard me, correctly, homicide—what I need to know is—okay, I’ll wait.”

A minute passed. Two, three, six. Disconnection.

Gunning the engine, he drove, looked back at rutted dirt and curling plywood, the girdle of yellow tape. “Man’s home is his castle. Until it ain’t.”

CHAPTER

11

Masterson & associates: architecture. design. development. shared the sixth floor of a heartless tower on Century Park East with two investment firms.

The company’s lobby was a duet of pale wood and stainless steel sealed by a wall of glass. Poured cement floor. The seating was black denim cushions set into C-shaped, gray-granite cradles.

Milo said, “Kinda homey, Norman Rockwell would drool.”