“There’s another possibility—that the sister will be completely protective and not let you get within ten feet of Sarah. If this happens, you calm the sister down and assure her that you have Sarah’s medical and psychological interest at heart.”

“I do. It’s the truth.”

“I know, honey. Look, Cindy, it’s late. I’ve got to get some sleep. But I’ll be reachable all morning. If you have a problem, don’t hesitate to call me on my cell. But honestly, I don’t think you’ll need to, because I know you’ll handle it perfectly. After what you’ve gone through, this should be easy.”

“Thanks for the confidence. I love you, Daddy.”

“I love you, too.” A pause. “So how’d you meet this guy?”

“We’re not having this conversation, Dad.”

“Just use me and discard me.”

“What else are parents for?”

12

It was a one-story Spanish house sitting in a block of Arts and Crafts bungalows, the stucco so white it sparkled like snowdrift. Nestled among large-leaf banana plants and cocoa palms, the home had the requisite red-tiled roof and the little gated courtyard. Full of curb appeal: That was real estate lingo for something that looked good on the outside. I had tried to dress soothingly—a sage blazer over cream-colored blouse and slacks— but I suspected that Ms. Sanders wouldn’t be focusing on my sartorial splendor.

It was just past eight in the morning, early enough to catch her before she went to work, and I chose not to phone beforehand because I didn’t want to scare anyone off. I rang the bell. The peephole door opened.

“Yes?”

“Good morning. I’m Officer Cynthia Decker. I’m looking for Louise Sanders.”

“Who are you?”

“Officer Cynthia Decker of Los Angeles Police—Hollywood.”

She opened the door a fraction of an inch. The chain was still attached. “Can I see some ID, please?”

Billfold already in hand, I slipped it through the crack. She took it and, after a few moments, passed it back. The door opened all the way.

She was much older than I expected—in her late forties or early fifties. I was led to believe that Sarah was in her twenties. That meant there was quite an age gap between them. Louise had short, blunt-cut gray hair that framed an oval face and gray-green eyes. Her features were regular, and once, she had been pretty. Now, she was handsome in her black skirt suit and crisp white blouse.

“Yes?”

“May I come in for a few minutes?”

“What’s this all about?”

“I’ll be happy to explain everything, but it’s better if we talk inside.”

Reluctantly, she allowed me to cross the threshold. The living room was small but restored beautifully—dark beamed ceilings, Saltillo tiled floor, textured beige stucco walls, and lots of molding and niches. There was a brown leather couch with matching chairs; the accent tables were made of heavy dark wood. An upright piano stood in the corner; a sheet of music rested on the stand. I asked her who played.