“Ann and Andy, huh?”

“I was thinking Nick and Nora.”

“We taking Asta along?”

She thought about that. “No, she bores easily.”

We reached Portico Place shortly before one p.m. Crows squawked and squirrels raced up trees but no sign of human habitation, which is routine for any high-end L.A. neighborhood. The same vantage spot was available but I parked south of the house and farther away to avoid a pattern.

Oblique view but good enough to make out the BMW and the Lexus in the cobbled court.

Robin said, “Nice place. For one of those.”

“McMansions?”

“No, it’s better than a McMansion. Nice proportions. But new trying to fake old never really works, does it? Still, this one’s a valiant try.”

She handed me one of the sandwiches she’d prepared.

Roast beef on rye, horseradish-flavored mustard, wrapped precisely in foil. Potato chips, pickle slices, sweating cans of soda. Everything packed in a mini-cooler.

“This is way too civilized,” I said.

“What does Milo eat?”

“Burritos are a favorite but anything quick and massive and oily.”

“Well,” she said, “why not kick it up a bit, class-wise? Even when doing something uncivilized.”

“What’s uncivilized about watching?”

“We’re not watching, we’re hunting, angel. Praying for someone to end up helpless and thrashing in a snap-jaw trap.”

“That bother you?”

“Not at all.”

We finished the food and the drinks, sat another twenty-three minutes before the gates swung open.

Connie Longellos nosed her Lexus to the street and turned south. Passing right by us but staring straight ahead.

“Pretty woman,” said Robin. “But kind of grim, from what I could see. If her husband did that to her, being pretty obviously isn’t enough.”

Fourteen minutes later, the BMW exited. Philip Suss sat high at the wheel, lips moving, smiling as he talked.

Robin said, “Nothing grim, there. Whoever he’s chatting with is making him happy.”

Suss headed south, too.

I waited awhile before following.

Robin said, “This isn’t one bit boring.”

When Milo and I had followed Connie Suss, she’d driven east on Ventura Boulevard to Sherman Oaks. Her husband took that same thoroughfare west, avoiding the freeway and slogging through turgid midday traffic. Easy to follow, as he nudged his way toward Encino’s business district. I stayed three car lengths behind, closed the gap occasionally before drifting back, caught glimpses of his still-moving mouth.

He remained on Ventura through Tarzana and crossed into Woodland Hills where he turned left on Canoga Avenue, left again on Celes Street, right onto Alhama Drive. Stopping in front of a yellow, fortiesera one-story cottage, he strode to the front door, rang the bell, was admitted.

Robin said, “Nice white linen shirt, tailored slacks, polished shoes, and his hair’s all shiny. He sure ain’t playing poker with the boys.”

“Nora strikes.”