An elderly Asian man answered the bell ring. Barely above five feet, he wore a spotless white shirt, cream linen slacks, and blue velvet slippers with lions embroidered at the toes. One thin-boned hand held a rolled-up copy of Forbes.

“Yes, please?” Soft voice, oddly boyish.

“Lieutenant Sturgis, Los Angeles police.”

The man’s eyelids quivered. “Did something happen at the store?”

“No, sir. We’re looking for Phyllis Tranh.”

“That’s my daughter. She’s out of the country. May I ask what’s going on?”

“Could we come in, Mr.…”

“Albert Tranh. May I see that badge again, please—yes, of course, come in.”

A thirty-by-twenty living room was furnished completely in American Colonial, much of it actually from the period. Albert Tranh rang a small pewter bell with a gold handle and a blue-uniformed maid appeared.

“My coffee please, Irma. And for you gentlemen …?”

“Nothing, thanks,” said Milo.

“Bring some sweets, Irma,” said Albert Tranh. His English was barely accented. Precise elocution said he’d worked hard to achieve that.

As the maid left, Albert Tranh pointed to a silk brocade sofa the color of bruised plums and waited for us to take our places before settling in a yellow silk Chippendale side chair. Dominating the room was the single break in the Colonial motif: a lithograph above the mantel, Jasper Johns flag.

The rest of the wall art consisted of framed samplers, landscapes portraying bygone Hudson River edens, and stiff-looking portraits of puritanically garbed people with severe faces. Deputy D.A. John Nguyen had once told me that his family and their community of Vietnamese emigrants loved America enough to make a DAR lady blush.

Milo informed Albert Tranh of Ursula Corey’s murder. The old man’s free hand wafted like a dry leaf before settling on his chest. The copy of Forbes bent as fragile-looking fingers squeezed. “That’s horrible. What happened?”

“You knew Ms. Corey well?”

“Oh, yes, very, we did business together. A lot of business. You can’t tell me what happened?”

“She was shot to death, sir.”

“Good grief. Where?”

“Century City.”

“Century City? In the mall?”

“In a parking lot.”

“A parking lot,” said Tranh. “A robbery? A carjacking?”

“Doesn’t appear to be either, sir.”

“Yes, of course,” said Albert Tranh. “Why would you be here if it was a robbery?” He frowned. “May I ask why Phyllis is relevant?”

“Ursula’s ex-husband told us about her friendship with Ursula.”

“Richard said that,” said Tranh. “Really.”

“You find that surprising.”

“Did Richard also inform you he and Phyllis had a relationship?”

“A romantic relationship?” said Milo, evading seamlessly.

“I wouldn’t go that far, Lieutenant. Richard and Phyllis dated briefly. Nothing underhanded, this was well after Richard and Ursula’s divorce. Nevertheless, I didn’t approve, mixing business with personal. But Phyllis is a strong-willed girl. Would you excuse me one second?”