The comment made such a strong impression on the detective, or amused him so much, that he’d put it in his report. It was Esther’s way of saying she wasn’t senile and the things that were missing from her house were stolen, not misplaced. They weren’t particularly valuable things in terms of financial worth but were rich in memories. She’d returned from one of her trips, noticed some trinkets were gone, and called the sheriff’s department.

That’s what had brought a detective to her duplex on Park Sorrento in Calabasas eight months ago and why Eve was back today. Esther lived on Calabasas Lake, a private park that was home to ducks and notoriously aggressive geese that were so violent, deputies were often called by irate homeowners wanting the fowl shot. The Calabasas Park Homeowners Association, wary of lawsuits from their notoriously litigious residents, erected signs around the lake warning people not to piss off the birds.

“This is a surprise,” Esther said, leaning on her gnarled carved-wood cane as she led Eve out onto her patio overlooking the lake. She was Gandalf without the beard. “I thought you’d written me off as a senile old bat.”

“Not at all,” Eve said. “There just weren’t any leads for us to pursue.”

They sat down at one of the tables. “So what has changed?”

“I’d like you to browse through these photos and tell me if you recognize any items,” Eve said, passing her phone across to Esther. Nan had sent Eve all the pictures of everything in Coyle’s bottom dresser drawer. “Do you know how to swipe?”

“Infants who can’t even talk yet can use iPads and iPhones,” Esther said. “What makes you think I can’t?”

“Sorry,” Eve said.

Esther swiped rapidly through the photos with a knobby arthritic finger for a minute or two, then froze.

“What is it?” Eve asked.

Esther’s finger trembled over the screen.

“In the summer of 1975, my husband and I were driving through France in this horrible little Citroën. Our car broke down in some village in the middle of nowhere. We had no money, so we stayed in a room above the mechanic’s garage overnight while he fixed our car. My daughter was conceived that night.” She turned the camera to show Eve the picture. It was a leather key chain with the Citroën logo, two chevrons, on a metal medallion. “We kept this as a memento.”

Eve’s suspicion was now confirmed. Coyle’s bottom dresser drawer was full of objects that he stole from the homes that he’d visited on service calls. Most of the knickknacks weren’t overtly valuable. They were personal trinkets that he could slip into his pocket and that could go missing, without being noticed by the owners, for days, months, or even years.