We left the station at five fifteen. Rather than brave rush-hour freeway traffic, Milo took surface streets to Playa Del Rey, where we had dinner at a dockside Italian place with C décor and A food.

He said, “Leave the driving to moi, you can have wine, Mr. Wingman.”

We both drank coffee and by seven thirty I was feeling keyed up but no clearer on who’d want to kill a near-saintly woman. Once we got on the 405 South, Milo turned quiet and I picked up my messages.

Holly Ruche had phoned at six, apologizing for canceling and wanting another appointment. I left her a message saying okay. A hundred and ten minutes later, we rolled into La Jolla.

CHAPTER
21

Donald and Lilly Chang lived a brief stroll from the UCSD campus in a massive, gated complex called Regal Life La Jolla. Four-story brown-and-beige apartment blocks were surrounded by Torrey Pines. So was most of the beach town, where land didn’t nudge blue Pacific.

Gorgeous place, warm night. A lot more temperate than Portland though I doubted Adriana Betts had weather on her mind when she’d moved.

Searching for the right kind of job: caring for other people’s little treasures.

I knew all about that.

Milo rolled up to the Regal Life guardhouse. No need to flash the badge, Lilly Chang had left his name. We parked in a visitors’ area, walked past fountains, flagstone roundabouts, perfect palms and pines and coral trees, precise sections of velvet lawn.

It took a while to locate the building but we got buzzed through the security door immediately.

A redheaded, exuberantly freckled woman wearing enormous blue-framed eyeglasses, a black T-shirt, and baggy green linen pants responded to Milo’s knock. Her feet were bare. The shirt read I May Look Lazy but on a Cellular Level, I’m Quite Busy.

“Hi, I’m Lilly, c’mon in. Donald’s showering, he’ll be right with you.”

Dr. Lilly Chang was five six and lanky with a loose walk that caused her ginger mop of hair to shudder as she led us into her living room.

Despite the exterior luxe, the apartment was small, white, generically bland, a status unrelieved by the obligatory granite kitchen outfitted with the requisite brushed-steel appliances. What passed for a Juliet balcony offered an oblique view of a brown wall. The furniture looked as if it had been rescued from a dorm. The sole artwork was a poster featuring a cartoon human brain. The legend beneath the drawing read Software: Sometimes You Don’t Have to Buy It.