A screen porch set up with a propane heater had been used recently. Feminine products were stacked on a windowsill. Casual clothes hung in a cedar-lined chest. DNA recovered from the cot pushed into a corner was later found to match Tiara Grundy’s. For three weeks, she’d been living out in the country, maybe enjoying the creek out back. Maybe deluding herself the rules were anything but Leona’s.

Two smaller bedrooms at the opposite end of the house were set up as lairs for teenage boys, with rock posters, renderings of race cars, unstrung electric guitars. Alternative light sources picked up copious amounts of semen on both twin beds. Same for pine flooring, hook rugs, a nearby bathroom.

In the same nightstand drawer that held the Glock was a Patek Philippe Ladies’ Calatrava wristwatch with diamond bezel. Thirty-five grand retail. Mark Suss had gone way off budget.

Swabs from the back of the watch also matched Tiara’s nucleic acid. Not a trace of Leona’s. She’d resisted the temptation to inherit.

But she had expressed herself; the watch’s crystal face was ruined, scored to a ragged, filmy grid by some sort of sharp object. The tip of an empty ballpoint pen stamped with Markham Industries’ address and phone number was later found to match the tool marks.

Milo said, “Love is fun but hatred’s forever.”

Leona Suss hired a team of Beverly Hills attorneys who soared straight over Nguyen’s head. A deal was struck quickly and quietly: The accused would plead guilty to second-degree murder, receive fifteen years with possibility of parole after ten, and spend her time at a medium-security prison that had decent psychiatric care.

No need to confess, no airing of any motive.

Nguyen said, “Don’t say I told you so.”

I said, “Eventually, you’ll be happy about it.”

“Why?”

“You’ll shower and not feel dirty.”

Chapter 40

hree days after the arrest, Robin and Milo and Rick and I went to dinner. The same family-run Italian place on Little Santa Monica.

Milo said, “Sir Alex Olivier. You poured it on heavy, amigo. Cops are idiots, huh?”

“I sacrifice for my art.”

He laughed. “Yeah, I can see the pain.”

Rick said, “Idiots? That could be one of your lines, Big Guy. When you’re in that mood.”

“Better believe it,” said Milo. “Anyway, thanks for figuring it out, Dottore. Chief says this time you’ll get some serious consulting dough. Soon as he figures out a way to make it kosher.”

“Sorry,” I said, “but I turn blue.”

“What?”

“When I’m holding my breath.”

Everyone laughed. My head was elsewhere but I was pretty sure I’d done a decent job of faking sociable.

As our glasses clinked, my cell beeped.

Robin said, “You didn’t turn it off?”

I held the phone to my ear, did a few “Uh-huhs,” clicked off, and stood and squeezed Robin’s hand. “Sorry, genuine emergency.”