Sullivan kisses the top of his head and, standing behind him, bites her lip and stares off into the distance. That brief gnaw, out of her companion’s view, the only hint life isn’t absolutely peachy.

Her white Porsche is the only vehicle any of the detectives has seen at the mansion, no way it will accommodate the man and the chair so Reed isn’t surprised by the silent arrival of a huge black hybrid van bearing livery plates and the discreetly gold-stenciled name of one of the city’s larger limo services above the rear left bumper. A black-suited driver gets out. His instant smile and enthusiastic wave imply familiarity. So do the return waves from Flora Sullivan and the man in the chair.

The driver slides open the van’s rear passenger door. An electric platform eases forward and lowers to sidewalk level. Taking the chair from Flora Sullivan, the driver wheels the man up the ramp and inside. As the door slides shut, Flora Sullivan walks into the quiet street, around to the driver’s side, gets in before the driver can assist her.

The van drives away, slowly, smoothly.

Reed waits a while before picking up the van’s taillights two blocks later. He follows the oversized vehicle onto Beverly Boulevard, hangs back as the van pulls into the valet lot of an extremely expensive Japanese restaurant just east of La Cienega.

Extremely because last year Reed took Liz there for her birthday and the bill was a shock, though he figured he’d hid that pretty well because the rest of the evening had gone great …

No problem for people who live in Hancock Park and can afford a chauffeur.

The van pulls up in front of the restaurant. The driver gets the man in the chair out. Flora Sullivan takes over. Someone who looks like a maître d’ holds the door open.

Sullivan and her companion—a man who fits the stats provided for her husband, Gary, minus the disability—remain inside for nearly two hours. Halfway through, Sullivan comes out and brings the driver what looks to be a plate of sushi.

Fifteen minutes after arriving back at the mansion on June Street, lights out.

Two apparently happy couples. Milo and I and everyone else are beginning to doubt our hypotheses.

Day four of the surveillance, Milo’s back watching the building on Avenue of the Stars and this time, Grant Fellinger leaves earlier than before, at just before five p.m. Not in the BMW, not in the Challenger. He exits on foot, accompanied by an extremely pretty young Latina wearing a dark suit and pearls.

The receptionist who’d been there the day of Ursula Corey’s murder.

Okay, here we go, finally.

Too bad, Bonnie Jo, you seem like a nice woman.