Lobo Canyon was velvety pasture rolling into fog-capped hills, copses of California oak reveling in the dry spots, grass thriving where sprinklers ruled. Impeccable manses were graced by equally impeccable corrals inhabited by beautiful prancing creatures. All that bucolic loveliness topped by a cloudless Delft sky.

This was stunning terrain laid out millennia ago by God or Nature or whoever you chose to give credit, then developed and subdivided for decades. For the most part intelligent progress, with an eye toward preservation. But all that serenity came with a price: Once you were this far from the city, you rarely left.

Back when I saw patients regularly, I encountered plenty of bored West Valley adolescents who’d stimulated themselves with mischief and occasional felonies. I wondered how the Corey girls had fared in Eden.

How they’d cope now, with everything crumbling.

The house Ursula and Richard Corey had once shared lay behind a guard-gated entrance six miles south of the freeway. Iron lettering atop the left-hand gatepost proclaimed RANCHO LOBO ESTATES: A PRIVATE COMMUNITY.

The gate was more symbol than barrier, an X of metal set into a wooden frame, the spacing more than wide enough to admit a large man. The road beyond the gate snaked quickly out of view, a narrow S of decomposed granite shaded by sycamores native to the region and eucalyptus, once Australian interlopers, now granted amnesty as resident aliens.

The guard was a stout, middle-aged woman in a blue gingham shirt with western-style pearl snaps. As we idled next to her booth, she continued reading Modern Equestrian. I thought Milo did a great job of simulating patience.

Finally, he cleared his throat. Loud.

The woman blinked but her attention remained fixed on the page. “Who’re you here for?”

“The Coreys. Don’t call ahead.”

She turned to find Milo’s badge in her face. “Is there a problem?”

“Not on this side of the gate.”

She waited. He stared her down.

Finally, she said, “That’s good,” and pushed a button.

A wooden sign ten yards in warned against speeds above five mph. I dared to tackle the granite road at fifteen, the Seville’s tires playing a crunch sonata as we passed estates ranging from generous to vast.

Most of the properties were named: La Valencia, Cloudburst Ranch, El Nido, StraightWalker Farms. Grass was as green as it could ever be, dirt was uniformly cream-colored and raked smooth, fencing was stark white when it wasn’t burnished pine.

The beautiful beasts confined to the corrals flashed flanks groomed to sateen and sported manes and tails so composed, they might have been blow-dried.