My first sighting of the compound entrance was at nine eighteen. Sixteen minutes later, I used my phone to record a delivery from an organic market on Melrose. Eight minutes passed before the truck exited.

Just before ten a.m., a dry cleaner from Beverly Hills completed a similar circuit, then nothing for the next half hour. Blanche and I settled in a shady, safe spot up the road. Water for both of us. I ate a PowerBar and she made short but dainty work of a Milk-Bone, burped happily, and grew entranced by flowers, flies, butterflies, bees, potato bugs. A small plane that circled overhead for a few seconds.

We were back at ten forty-eight, watching the entrance to the compound. Seconds later an unmarked white Econoline van with blackened windows passed us, rolling down from the east. No livery number that I could see, so not hired transport. No I.D. of any sort. As it turned up the compound road, I got my binocs out.

An arm shot out and punched the call button. As the van idled, I managed to make out the lettering around the license-plate frame.

There was a 323 phone number on the top slat.

Home Sweet Home Schooling on the bottom.

The gate swung open, the van drove in. I called Home Sweet Home’s number, got voice mail for Oxford Educational Services followed by a brief description of the mission statement:

Specialized instruction and on-site learning experience provided by alumni of top universities, designed to augment and enrich the educational experiences of homeschooled children.

Did that include anatomy and forensic anthropology?

Nine minutes after the Oxford van had entered, it drove back out, headed south on Coldwater. One of the windows was half open. I caught a flash of juvenile face before the glass slid back up.

On-site learning.

A field trip?

Scooping Blanche into my arms, I ran back to the Seville.

CHAPTER
46

I caught sight of the van descending Coldwater. A Jaguar and a Porsche traveled between us. Perfect cover as we crossed into Beverly Hills.

The cars kept going as the van turned right at Beverly Drive, edging Coldwater Park and cruising slowly.

The park was small but well equipped, with a shallow rock-stream, a playground, and barbered grass. Toddlers frolicked. Mothers nurtured. Nice place for the youngest of the Premadonny brood—the little blond girl—to recreate. The older kids would probably be bored. Then again, these were children who rarely got out. Maybe swings and slides would be a big thrill.

The van made that moot by rolling past the park. Mansions gave way to small charming houses on narrow lots, as the road grew dim under canopies of shaggy old trees. Potholes appeared. The ambience was more funk than luxe, not unlike the slice of Beverly Glen where I lived.