He pulled out his pad and pen. “Time to fill in the time line before she snared Mark Suss. She splits from Santa Fe after her third arrest, which would be no longer than nine, ten years ago. Travels around, heads west. Maybe she even landed in those places she told Olga. A couple of years later, she’s in L.A., probably low and grubby because she gets nabbed off the bus, works the street. A year later she signs up with Olga, becomes a high-priced spread, lasts three then she retires at the ripe old age of twenty-six. After meeting Muhrmann and maintaining some sort of relationship. Am I missing anything?”

“I find it interesting that she stopped paying her rent right around the time her mother died.”

“What, traumatized into fiscal irresponsibility?”

“Maybe that motivated a life change.”

“Skipping out on the rent is psychological growth?”

“Starting to save up for the future could be,” I said. “She was ready for a move. Did she go somewhere between the time she cut out and the time she was found?”

“Shacking up with someone?”

“Or living by herself.”

“Where?”

“Good question.”

“I’ve already been through real estate records and she doesn’t own anything. If she had a new landlord, you’d think they’d call in if they saw her face on the news.”

I said, “Unless whoever she was living with had a vested interest in not calling.”

“Muhrmann. Or Connie Longellos. Or both. There’s a secret fun-pad somewhere.” Frowning. “Or neither. Time to follow the money trail.”

We grabbed jet-fuel coffee from the big detective room, walked to his office, and played computer games.

With no legal way to access bank and brokerage accounts, the best bet was real estate records.

Philip Suss and Connie Longellos-Suss owned four commercial parcels in L.A. County plus the house in Encino and a Huntington Beach condo. Property taxes had been paid faithfully, no liens or major encumbrances. A warehouse in the toy district and a Tarzana facility rented to a sports club carried mortgages, but nothing substantial compared with assessed value.

Milo toted up the most recent appraisals and whistled.

“Twenty-four million bazoongas.”

I said, “It’s probably an underestimate because the properties haven’t been assessed for years.”

One property had been sold last year: the building housing Connie Longellos’s art gallery. Forty percent short-term loan on that one, but profit from the transaction had taken care of that and Phil and Connie had netted just short of a million dollars.

“Connie didn’t go under,” he said, “she wanted to clean up on the real estate. Oh, man, there goes my motive for her, goddamn rich people, yet another reason to hate ’em.”