We parked and got out. A shed-sized generator behind the RV lot hummed and snicked. “Recreation and picnicking” seemed to mean a place to park, access to a bank of chemical toilets, and a few redwood tables. An in-ground pool, drained for the winter, was a giant, white, gunite bowl. Behind the swimming area, a pipe-fenced horse corral was empty and sun-bleached.

A few people, none below sixty, sat in folding chairs near their trailers, reading, knitting, eating.

“Must be a stopover,” I said.

“To where?” said Milo.

I had no answer for that and we continued walking toward the white-frame buildings. Prewar bungalows; all three were roofed with green tar paper and had stout casement windows and tiny front porches. The largest structure was set well back from the campgrounds. A thirty-year-old Dodge Charger, red, with chrome wheels, occupied the adjoining gravel driveway.

Staked signs shaped like pointing hands identified the other two buildings as Office and Refreshments. The sunlight made it hard to discern any internal illumination. We tried the office first.

Locked door, curtains across the windows. No response to Milo’s knock.

As we headed over to Refreshments, its door creaked open and a tall, thin woman in a brown print dress stepped out onto the porch and positioned her hands on her hips.

“Can I help you?”

Milo put on his welcome smile as we approached her. It didn’t change the wary expression on her face. Neither did his badge and his business card.

“L.A. police.” She had a smoker’s voice, sinewy, freckled arms, a scored, sun-cured face that might’ve been beautiful a few decades ago.

Wide-set, pink-lashed amber eyes examined both of us. Her nose was strong and straight, her lips chapped but suggestive of once-upon-a-time fullness. Permed auburn hair framed her in a way that concealed some of the wattle in her neck. White frizz near her hairline said she was due for a touch-up. Clean jawline for a woman of her age— sixty-five minimum was my guess. Katharine Hepburn’s country cousin.

She tried to return Milo’s card.

He said, “It’s yours to keep, ma’am,” and she folded it small enough to conceal in her hand. The brown dress was a floral jersey and it caught on the sharp bones of her shoulders and pelvis. The upper edge of her sun-spotted sternum was visible in the V-neckline. Her chest was flat.

“I used to live in L.A.,” she said. “Back when I didn’t know any better. Same question, Lieutenant Sturgis. What can I do for you?”

“Does Barnett Malley live here?”

The amber eyes blinked. “He okay?”

“Far as I know, ma’am. Same question.”

“Barnett works here and I give him a place to stay.”

“Works as . . .”

“My helper. Doing what needs to be done.”

“Handyman?” said Milo.