"Morning, Officer. I'm here to visit Jacob Haas on Charing Cross Road."

"Charing Cross," he said, stretching it out so he could appraise me. "That's all the way over in Jersey."

I resisted the temptation to say, "Atlantic City or Newark?"

"Thanks."

He cleared his throat. "New around here?"

"First time," I said.

"Relative of Mr. Haas?"

"Acquaintance. He used to be the sheriff. Back when it was Treadway."

He hesitated a moment before saying, "Sure." The same dullness I'd seen on the gas jockey's face. Treadway meant nothing to him, either. He knew nothing of the area's history. How many people did? I looked past him at the peach and walnut trees, now just woody memorials. Nothing else from the ranching days remained. Certainly not a hint of the blood-bath at the Ardullo ranch. If Jacob Haas wasn't in, or if he refused to see me, I'd wasted my time. Even if he talked, what could I hope to learn?

The security guard's car phone buzzed and he picked up, nodded, told me, "Jersey's way at the end-go straight through to the lake, turn right. You'll see a sign pointing to the White Oak golf course. Just keep on and it'll be there."

I drove away, watched him through my rearview mirror as he performed a three-point turn and headed toward Balmoral.

Piccadilly Arcade was a small shopping center due east of the security office. Grocery with a post office and ATM, dry cleaner, two clothing shops leaning toward golf togs and velour jogging suits. A sign outside the second said the movie tonight was Top Gun.

My drive to Jersey took me past perfectly appointed public buildings-the clubhouse, the spa-tennis courts, swimming pools. The houses looked better from a distance.

They varied in size by development. Essex was the high-rent district-detached split-levels and two-story hacienditas on postage-stamp lots, some landscaping, lots of Cadillacs and Lincolns, a few satellite dishes. Clear views of the lake. Fit-looking white-haired people in activewear. Further inland, Yorkshire was mock-adobe town houses clumped in fours and fives. A little skimpier in the flower-and-shrub department, but still immaculate.

The lake was obscured, now, by peppers. The trees were hardy, drought resistant, clean. They'd been brought into the San Fernando Valley years ago by the truckload, taking over the chaparral and contributing to the death of the native oaks. A quarter-mile of shaded road before Jersey appeared.

Mobile homes in an open lot. The units were uniformly white and spotless, with plenty of greenery camouflage at the base, but clearly prefab. Just a few trees on the periphery and no direct access to the lake, but majestic views of the mountains.

The few people I saw also looked in good shape, perhaps a bit more countrified. Parked in front of the mobiles were Chevys, Fords, Japanese compacts, the occasional RV The road that split the subdivision was freshly asphalted. No-frills, but the overall feel was still cleanliness, good maintenance, seniors settled in contentment.