Underneath the red jacket she wore a black silk blouse. A gold link necklace punctuated every two inches by small square diamonds circled a smooth neck. A bullet hole marked the sweet spot where the necklace met the center of her clavicle. Another entry wound marred her left cheek, an inch or so beneath the eye. That one had distorted her expression into something hard to categorize: confusion, helplessness, terminal dismay.

Faint stippling around the holes said the shooter had been six inches to two feet away. Two clean shots to the windpipe and the brain said death had probably been quick. No exit wounds in her back made small caliber likely, a pair of .22s or .25s bouncing around inside her, ravaging tissue.

“Casings?”

Milo shook his head. “If there were, they were taken. There’s a thousand bucks and change in her purse as well as a Lady Rolex that isn’t working, maybe she was planning to take it in for repair. Plus a whole bunch of platinum cards and the bling she’s wearing. Need to see more?”

I studied the face for a second. All that cared-for beauty brought to this. “No.”

He rolled the body back, covered it up. “Thoughts?”

“She was probably targeted and followed on foot. Unless you’ve spotted fresh tire tracks that I missed.”

“Nope.”

“How many security cameras are in the lot?”

“Ready for this? Not one in the actual parking areas.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Wish I was. There’s a unit above each elevator door and at the main entrance to the lot, plus a couple at the front and rear doors of the building.”

“Why nothing down here?”

“You tell me.”

“Who found her?”

“Another woman walking to her car. Poor thing was so shook up I had to back her Mercedes out for her. Took a while to calm her down for a statement, hence the relative quiet by the time you got here. What do you think about it being a frontal attack?”

“Shooting her from behind would be easier,” I said. “So maybe whoever did it wanted her to know who was killing her. Or the plan was to get her from the back but she heard footsteps and turned. Who is she?”

He handed me the small white rectangle.

California driver’s license of Ursula Corey, forty-seven years old, blnd/blu, five eight, one twenty-nine. Address in Calabasas.

“I mapped it,” he said. “Horse country. Fits an affluent lady.”

“Any idea what she was doing here?”

“Matter of fact I do. It was her housekeeper I was just on the phone with. Señora Ursula had a meeting with her lawyer, maid’s not sure what his name is, something with an ‘F,’ maybe Feldman or Fellman. Any other ideas? If not, I’m ready to check the directory.”