“Caterpillars all over the place, pretty fast-moving for what they were,” said Bondurant. “I had fun stepping on ’em. The car guy kill the girl?”

“He’s what we call a person of interest. That’s government double-talk for I’m not gonna tell you more.”

Bondurant allowed himself half a smile.

Milo said, “When’s the last time you saw him?”

“Maybe a couple of weeks ago. That don’t mean nothing. I’m asleep by eight thirty, someone’s driving past I ain’t gonna see it or hear it.”

“Ever notice anyone with him?”

“Nope.”

“Ever see anyone else go to that property?”

“Why would I?” said Bondurant. “It’s above me a good mile and a half. I don’t go prowling around. Even when Walter Maclntyre owned the land I never went up there because everyone knew Walt was nuts and excitable.”

“How so?”

“I’m talking years ago, Mr. Detective.”

“Always interested in learning.”

“Walter Maclntyre didn’t kill no girl, he’s been dead thirty years. The car guy must’ve bought the land from Walter’s son, who’s a dentist. Walter was also a dentist, big practice in Santa Monica, he bought the land back in the fifties. First city folk to buy. My father said, ‘Watch and see what happens,’ and he was right. Walter started off like he was gonna fit in. Built this huge horse barn but never put no horses in it. Every weekend he’d be up here, driving a truck, but no one could figure out why. Probably staring at the ocean and talking to himself about the Russians.”

“What Russians?”

“The ones from Russia,” said Bondurant. “Communists. That’s what Walter was nuts about. Convinced himself any minute they were gonna come swarming over and make us all potato-eatin’ communists. My father had no use for communists but he said Walter took it too far. A little you-know-what.” A finger rotated near his left ear.

“Obsessive.”

“You want to use that word, fine.” Bondurant hitched his jeans again and returned to his truck on bandy legs. He put the antifreeze back on the passenger seat, slapped the palm of his hand on the hood. The smoke had reduced to occasional wisps.

He said, “Ready to go. Hope you find whoever killed that girl. Beautiful thing, damn shame.”

* * *

The entrance to the property was unmarked. I overshot and had to travel half a mile to find a spot wide enough for a U-turn. As is, my tires were inches from blue space and I could feel Milo’s tension.

I coasted back slowly as he squinted at the plot map. Finally, he spotted the opening— ungated and shaded by twisting sycamores. Hard-pack dirt ramping high above the canyon.

Two S-turns and the surface converted to asphalt, continued to climb.