“To me he still looks good as Adriana’s killer, because even with doping her up, I don’t see Prema managing to physically restrain another woman, drive her to the park, shoot her. Plus, Wedd’s car was spotted near the scene. Wedd could’ve also dispatched Qeesha—talk about your efficient estate manager. But at some point he turned expendable.”

“Queen Bee tying up loose ends.”

“She’s a tall woman,” I said, “might fit the seat position on the Explorer. Getting Wedd to drive her somewhere wouldn’t be a problem. Attending to her needs was his job. And the spot where he got shot isn’t that far from the compound. Laurel up to Mulholland, hook west to Coldwater, drive a few miles. For someone in good shape, no challenge walking back.”

“Shoot a guy, mosey on home, do Pilates,” he said.

“And maybe ditch the gun along the way.”

He phoned Sean Binchy, ordered him to search Mulholland Drive between Laurel and Coldwater for a .45.

I said, “Qeesha was an experienced con. Had enough street smarts to pick up on any growing tension at the compound. She called in Adriana for support because she was unwilling to give up her dream. Figured if she could hold out until the baby was born, Donny would bond with his child and protect her.”

He said, “Buzz buzz buzz goes the Queen Bee and the Drone wimps out.”

We reached the Seville. He pointed to his unmarked, several vehicles up the row. “Off to garbage patrol.”

“When will you start the surveillance?”

“After the trash reap. Why?”

“I’m kind of into hiking,” I said. “For the exercise.”

He looked at me. “Free country. Hope you get good weather.”

I was back on Coldwater by nine the following morning, had added a small backpack. Inside was a pair of miniature binoculars, two bottles of water, a few snacks.

Being noticed wouldn’t be a problem, just the opposite, but that was good: I was now that guy who parked his Cadillac on the turnoff and was foolish enough to brave oncoming traffic in the name of aerobics.

I’d also brought a companion: Blanche trotted along happily at the end of the short, pink leash she favors when making personal appearances. I made sure to keep her away from the road and she picked up the drill quickly, heeling and adjusting herself to my pace, breathing audibly but easily.

Nothing like a dog to make you look harmless. Especially a small cute dog and there’s nothing cuter than a French bulldog.

And no Frenchie is more appealing than Blanche.

Still, she’s not a setter or a retriever and even with cool weather and ample hydration, I knew my time would be limited by her stubby legs and her flat face.