“The registered owner is a company named DSD.”

“Towelheads,” said Rutger. “And I won’t shrink from saying so. They bomb us and then we kowtow? Utter rubbish.”

“Arabs,” said Milo.

“Who else? Oil money, otherwise known as blood money, came into play, oh did it! In my day, they’d have been told what for.”

“Not allowed to buy property?”

“Covenants we called them, and a good thing they were.” Turning back toward the framework. “Monstrosity. This was a lovely neighborhood, put Beverly Hills and those people to shame.”

“Those people being…”

“Beverly Hills people. Hollywood. Now it’s them with their oil.”

“Can you give us names of people associated with DS—”

“I can’t give you something I never knew,” said Rutger. “The entire transaction was manipulated by slick Jew lawyers. You’d think they’d avoid each other like the plague. Jews and towelheads. But when it comes to money, there’s common ground.”

“Sir,” said Milo, “we’re investigating a murder, so if there’s something you can—”

“I know what you’re investigating, I just told you I heard it on the news.”

“And rushed right over.”

“Absolutely.”

“Why, Mr. Rutger?”

“Why?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why not? Last I heard this was still a free country.”

“Mr. Rutger, this is a serious case and I don’t have time—”

“Neither do I, Officer. Why did I rush over? Because I’ve been violated. Again.”

“Again?”

“This place was mine, Officer. They took it from me. And now blood has spilled. Barbarians.”

“Tell me how they took it from you, sir.”

“Tell?” said Rutger. “I could write you a book. In fact, I’ve been thinking about doing just that. ‘Pillage of the Innocent.’ It could be a bestseller, given the way people feel about them.”

“How about a summary, Mr. Rutger?”

“Why would you want that?”

“So I can understand—”

“Fine, fine, here’s your summary: a tragedy that symbolizes everything vulgar this country has become. When I was a boy, a beautifully proportioned home sat here. A lovely Georgian Revival designed by Paul Williams. Not that you’d know who that is—”

“Top architect in the forties and fifties,” said Milo. “Black, so he couldn’t live in most of the neighborhoods where he worked.”

Rutger smoothed his tie. “Be that as it may, he knew how to design a home. My father paid for it with honest work, not by manipulating currency or money-changing or scheming.”

“What business was your father in?”

“Honest business. My sister and I grew up in bucolic splendor. Not that she cares… so what do they do? Demolish our lineage and put up that.” His chin quivered. “Visigoths.”

“You were opposed to selling DSD the property but your sister disagreed?”

Rutger glared. “Haven’t you been listening? They stole it from under me.”

“How?”

No answer.

“Sir?”

“No need to get into any of this, Officer.”

“I’d like to anyway.”