We stood near my driver’s door and he called Moe Reed, told him he’d be bringing the CDs to the office, Reed should copy and go through every second. “Exit’ll be soon after the murder but entry could be anytime after seven. Run any plate you can decipher. Look for anything that stands out.”

“Will do, L.T.”

Clicking off, he placed his hand on the Seville’s forest-green hood. “Shiny. You take it to a detailer?”

“Did it myself last Sunday.”

“Talk about dedication. I could use some shiny, you get to drive, I’ll come back to get mine.”

“Where are we going?”

“To the ex-husband slash prime suspect and if we can’t find him, the daughters.”

“You didn’t buy Fellinger’s character testimony on Mr. Corey’s behalf?”

“Sticking up for the enemy? Yeah, that was different, wasn’t it?”

“So were Fellinger’s kind words about Richard’s lawyer.”

“One big happy family. Except that the Coreys have been shelling out legal fees for five years and now one of them got executed. No, I’m not buying it. I’m thinking Fellinger just bullshat us shamelessly and I want to know why.”

“Maybe you should talk to Richard’s lawyer, see if the love really is mutual.”

“Before we see Corey and the girls?”

“If he’s close enough and available.”

“Sure, why not?” Milo looked up Earl Cohen, attorney-at-law. Roxbury and Wilshire, Beverly Hills. Ten-minute ride.

He phoned. Cohen gasped when he heard about the murder. When Milo asked if he had time to chat, Cohen said, “Yes, of course.”

The brass plaque on the walnut door made Earl Cohen, Esq., the senior partner in a three-lawyer firm. Second in command was Beverly Cohen, number three was Rajiv Singh.

Smaller setup than Fellinger’s but similar geometry, including the use of hardscape behind a receptionist/​gatekeeper, this wall, travertine marble.

This woman sat typing. No need for her to break her stride because Earl Cohen stood in front of her, motioning us in.

Richard Corey’s legal rep was eighty or close to it, thin and narrow-shouldered in a beautifully draping mocha suit, a blue shirt with a high, starched Eton collar and a yellow tie that had to be Hermès. Mesh loafers tinted somewhere between orange and brown revealed a hint of aqua-and-orange argyle sock. His hair was thick, long, snow white, swept back. The right side of his neck was hollowed out; surgery to remove a parotid or salivary tumor. Bright-blue eyes dulled to gray at the edges.

He said, “Hello, policemen. Come in, please,” in a soft, raspy voice.

Cohen’s personal office was enormous, with French oak walls and deep-pile burgundy carpeting. Grant Fellinger subjected his guests to hard seating; Earl Cohen indulged them with cushy leather club chairs.