“Beer, too,” said Milo. “In case you find nothing and your mood drops.”

“I’m used to that, L.T.,” said Reed. “Beer doesn’t sound bad, though.”

West L.A. to the beach towns above Malibu is an hour minimum. I hit some clog on the 405 prior to the 101 transfer, compensated with fast-lane lead-footing, made it in sixty-five minutes. Milo had slept through most of the ride. As I rolled into Oxnard, he sat up, knuckled his eyes, and groaned and muttered something about surfing.

I said, “Ever try it?”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” he said. “Sharks eat walruses.”

Oxnard is one of Ventura County’s toughest towns, an often hardscrabble place rimmed at the outer borders by agribusiness and truck yards. Next come layers of trailer parks catering to seasonal farmworkers and modest tracts occupied by multiple generations of blue-collar families. A notable Latino gang presence proclaims itself with angular graffiti. Crime rates are among the highest in the region.

A whole different Oxnard appears when you cruise past miles of high-end industrial park and head west toward the ocean. A whole different planet appears when you reach the harbor: luxury hotels, tourist piers offering seafood and whale-watching tours, recreational marinas crowded with sleek white yachts that occasionally leave their berths.

High-end developments cluster along the inlets carved into the city’s western rim. Mandalay Bay was one of those, a finger of serene blue water lined with fresh-looking single dwellings and condominiums, many equipped with docks and boat slips.

As we approached the apricot-colored, side-by-side duplex Richard Corey called home, a vee of pelicans soared overhead and brine itched my nose. Corey, R./Urrick Ltd. was the northern unit.

The man who came to the door was bald and rangy, with a pointy white goatee roughened by random errant hairs. He wore a faded navy polo T-shirt and yellow paisley shorts. His feet were bare, his arms and face tanner than his legs. Half-glasses perched low on a long, fleshy nose. His eyes were small, brown, watery. The portion of face not taken up by the chin beard was coated with two or three days of stubble.

“Yes?”

“Richard Corey? Lieutenant Sturgis, Los Angeles police.”

“Los Angeles?” Corey adjusted his spectacles and read Milo’s card. “Homicide? I don’t understand.”

“May we come in, please?”

Corey blanched. “One of the girls? Oh God—don’t tell me that!”

“Your ex-wife, I’m afraid.”

Corey staggered. The card fell from his fingers. He made no effort to retrieve it. “Ursula? No way. I just spoke to her this morning.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss—”

“My loss?” said Corey. “What about the girls—we have daughters.” He gaped. “Do they know?”

“Not yet, Mr. Corey. May we come in?”

“Oh, God, how am I going to tell them? Ursula? What happened?” Corey’s breath caught. His mouth remained open, streaming sour breath. “How could this happen? Where did it happen?”