The old man’s chest swelled. “Who says?”

“This is the spot where you saw her.”

“It’s also a turnoff,” said Bondurant. He hefted the antifreeze. Stared at the brush. “Naked girl, it’s like one of those stories you tell in the service and everyone thinks you’re lyin’.” He licked his lips. “Few years back that woulda been something.”

Sucking in his belly, he hitched his jeans. The roll of fat shimmered down, covered the horse’s eyes.

Milo said, “Know your neighbors?”

“Don’t got any real ones.”

“No neighborhood spirit around here?”

“Let me tell you how it’s like,” said Charley Bondurant. “This used to be horse land. My grandfather raised Arabians and some Tennessee walkers— anything you could sell to rich folk. Some of the Arabians made it to Santa Anita and Hollywood Park, a couple of ’em placed. Everyone who lived here was into horses, you could smell the shit miles away. Now it’s just rich folk who don’t give a damn about anything. They buy up the land for investment, drive up on Sunday, stare for a coupla minutes, don’t know what the hell to do with themselves, and go back home.”

“Rich folk like Brad Dowd?”

“Who?”

“White-haired fellow, mid-forties, drives all kinds of fancy cars.”

“Oh, yeah, him,” said Bondurant. “Guns those things too damn fast coming down the mountain. Exactly what I mean. Wearing those Hawaiian shirts.”

“He here often?”

“Once in a while. All I see is the damn cars speeding by. Lots of ragtops, that’s how I know about the shirts.”

“He ever stop to talk?”

“You didn’t hear me?” said Bondurant. “He speeds by.” A gnarled hand slashed the air.

“How often is once in a while?” said Milo.

Bondurant half turned. His hawk-nose aimed at us. “You want a count?”

“If you’ve got charts and graphs, I’ll take them, Mr. Bondurant.”

The old man completed the turn. “He’s the one who killed her?”

“Don’t know.”

“But you’re thinking he could be.”

Milo said nothing.

Bondurant said, “You’re a quiet guy, except when you want something from me. Let me tell you, government never did much for the Bondurant family. We had problems, no help from the government.”

“What kind of problems?”

“Coyote problems, gopher problems, draught problems, prowling hippie problems. Damned mourning cloak butterfly problems— I say ‘butterfly,’ you think cute ’cause you’re a city boy. I think problem. One summer they swarmed us, laid their eggs in the trees, destroyed half a dozen elms, nearly polished off a sixty-foot weeping willow. Know what we did? We DDT’ed ’em.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “That ain’t legal. You ask the government can I DDT, nope, against the law. You say what should I do to protect my elm trees, they say figure something out.”

“Butterfly homicide’s not my thing,” said Milo.