“Neither of them left the entire evening.”

Divana grinned. “Trust me, they were there. They were totally there.”

Lori never reappeared and Divana remained in her chair. Examining her pedicure as we exited the house.

When we were back in the car, Milo phoned the Hilton, verified the room and the payment with Philip Suss’s platinum card. Records from electronic keys said no one had left until seven forty-eight in the morning, with reentry half an hour later.

I said, “Talk about an ironclad alibi.”

Milo’s smile was wider than Divana’s. “Titanium-clad.”

“Bet that was more fun than your meeting downtown.”

“Death would be more fun than my meeting downtown. That was nirvana.”

We high-fived.

“Bro.”

“Bro!”

Next stop: a quarter hour east on the 101 to North Hollywood.

The old man lived in a calamine-pink bungalow just south of Victory Boulevard. Cutest house on the block. When we got there he was pruning a massive bird-of-paradise that nearly obscured his picture window. A back bent at birth lowered his stature so he needed a footstool to reach the middle of the plant.

I supposed he’d needed some kind of lift to work the bar at the Fauborg. All those years, I’d never thought about that.

When he saw us he put down his clippers.

“Can I help you?”

Teutonic accent. I’d never heard him speak.

Gustave.

I’d pulled a surname from an L.A. Magazine article on the city’s best mixologists.

Milo said, “Mr. Westfeldt, we could use some help.”

The old man listened to the request. “Sure, no problem.”

Chapter 36

ress for success.

For this job that meant my best suit, a black Zegna I’d found on sale, a yellow tab-collar shirt with French cuffs, a black-and-gold Hermès tie purchased at the same closeout, Italian loafers so infrequently worn their soles remained glossy.

One hand swung free. The other clasped the handle of a chrome-plated case fitted with stainless-steel clasps.

“Very James Bond,” said Robin. “Aston all gassed up?”

“With jet fuel.”

“Try not to eject.”

She walked me down to the Seville, touched an ancient Detroit-fashioned flank. “Guess this’ll have to do.”

“A boy can dream,” I said. “Zoom zoom zoom.”

The mansion’s copper pedestrian gate was locked. After I pressed the buzzer, the closed-circuit camera rotated. Seconds later, the front door eased ajar and the Slavic maid—Magda—studied me through the crack.

Manfred the cat sat by her feet, a plump bundle of feline confidence.

I smiled and waved.

She pushed the door fully open, came forward. The cat remained in place. “Yes?”

“Dr. Delaware for Mrs. Suss.”

“Doctor?”

“Dr. Alex Delaware.” I checked my watch. Things to see, people to do.

She studied me. “You here before.”

“Sure was.”

Her forehead rumpled.

I let her study my faculty card. The venerable med school across town prints nice-looking credentials, replete with an impressive gold seal. My appointment’s in pediatrics as well as psychology.