I cruised up half a block before finding the address. One-story front–back duplex, nearly concealed by palm fronds. Green building; not philosophically, literally: mint-hued stucco below the midline, lime wood above.

Quiet, seldom-traveled street. Perfect for a love-nest.

The nest Mark Suss had feathered was Unit B, at the rear. No name on the mailbox. Unit A was marked Haldeman. An old black Mercedes convertible sat in the driveway. Milo ran the plates. Erno Keith Haldeman, Malibu address.

We walked past the car, along an oleander-shrouded brick path littered with fronds and seeds and pods and toxic pink petals. The air smelled like Tahiti. If Erno Haldeman was in his front unit, he wasn’t letting on; no one interrupted our progress to B.

Plain wooden door, blinds drawn. The Welcome! mat was vacuumed spotless. No one answered Milo’s knock. He called the county assessor and asked who owned the property, scrawled something, and pointed to the front unit.

We retraced our steps to Erno Haldeman’s double-width door, elaborately carved, with an elephant centerpiece that spanned both panels. A brass knocker hung from the pachyderm’s trunk.

Milo used it, four times, hard. The wood—teak or something like it—responded with a dull thud.

He tried again.

A male voice, deep and boomy, said, “Go away.”

“Mr. Haldeman—”

“Not interested in what you’re selling.”

“We’re not—”

“That includes salvation if you’re Jehovah’s Witnesses.”

“Police, Mr. Haldeman.”

“That’s a new one.”

“It’s true.”

“Read off your badge number and I’ll verify with the Sheriff’s.”

“L.A. police, sir. Lieutenant Milo Sturgis.” Reciting his stats.

Ponderous footsteps preceded the crack of the door. A gray eye peered out from a spot well above Milo’s sight line. “For real?”

“Very real, sir.”

“What’s this about?”

“Your tenant.”

“Tara? What’s up with her?”

“She’s dead, sir.”

The door swung open on a mountain of white linen.

Midforties, slope-shouldered, as broad as two men and stretching to an easy six six, Erno Haldeman had hairless pink hands the size of rib roasts, a bullet head shaved clean, a fleshy ruddy nose that drooped to a petulant upper lip, hound-dog cheeks that vibrated as he breathed. Straw-colored eyebrows were big and coarse enough to scour greasy pots. The gray eyes were rimmed with amber, disproportionately small, bright with curiosity.

The linen was a two-piece ensemble that had to be custom: blousy V-neck shirt, drawstring pants. Mesh sandals barely contained massive, prehensile feet. Haldeman’s toenails were yellow and ridged, the consistency of rhino horn, but his fingernails were impeccably shaped and coated with clear polish.

“Tara?” he said. “You’re kidding.”

“Wish we were, sir.”

“What happened to her?”

“Someone shot her, sir.”

“Around here?”

“No, sir.”

“Here I was thinking you caught her doing something illegal, wanted my input.”

“She impressed you as someone who’d engage in illegal activities?”