Clarice Jernigan said, “Without optimism there isn’t much point, is there? Bye, guys, time for me to meet a few more wonderfully compliant patients.”

We walked up to Leona Suss’s gate.

Milo said, “Firing squad. Now that she’s planted that in my head it’s gonna stay there.”

We were trying to figure out a next step when a black-and-white SUV pulled up behind the Seville, gunned its engine, went quiet.

Beverly Hills PD Suburban. A young uniformed female officer got out, studied the Seville’s rear plate, hitched up her belt, studied some more.

Milo gave his mini-salute. She wasn’t impressed.

Small woman. Five three, tops, narrow-hipped, small-busted, and open-faced, with a long brown ponytail.

“Looks about twelve,” said Milo, digging into his pocket. “Maybe she’s selling Police Scout cookies.”

The cop confided something to her radio. Adjusted her belt again and came forward, one hand on her baton.

The open face was freckled, lightly made up except for generous eyeliner and mascara turned to gritty paste.

Borderline Goth; go know.

W. Bede on her badge.

“Gentlemen. That your Cadillac?”

I said, “It’s mine.”

“License, registration, and proof of insurance, please.” A too-husky voice tightened the cords of her neck. Straining, as if she’d taken lessons in authoritative but missed the final.

Milo flashed his badge and his card. “Will this do, Officer?”

Bede’s teal-green eyes seemed to enlarge as her pupils contracted.

She said, “L.A. Homicide? Nothing came up at roll call about any joint investigation.”

“There’s an investigation,” said Milo, “but it only touched upon your fair city a few minutes ago.”

“Touched? I’m not … sure what that means.”

“The occupant of this house is someone we might eventually want to talk to.”

“This house?” As if owning eight-figure real estate exempted you from suspicion.

Milo said, “Mrs. Leona Suss.”

“What’s your interest in her?”

“She may know certain individuals of interest and we wanted to make contact with her.” Smiling. “Top of that, Officer, we get to hang out in nice places. But you’re used to that.”

Bede’s posture relaxed and her eyes crinkled. Wholesome farm girl in tailored blues. “You’d be surprised, Lieutenant. We get alarm calls, ninety percent are false but we do walk-throughs anyway. You’d be amazed at the crap people call decorating in Beverly Hills.”

“Big money, no taste.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

“Did Mrs. Suss call us in?”

“Five minutes ago, the non-emergency line.”

“Good response time.”

“That’s why people live here.”

“What was the complaint?”

Bede smiled again. “Two males loitering in an old car.”

“A Ferrari woulda made a difference?”

“Probably.”

“Maybe someone should tell her there’s old and there’s classic.”