THE SUNSET WAS on the right, a fiery ball spewing golden rays on a smooth slate surface. They were about ten miles from their destination, and while the traffic had been gnarly, the view had been pretty and the sushi had gone down smoothly except for the thirst factor. Oliver was on his second Diet Coke when he saw the off-ramp for La Jolla Village Drive.

“You turn right here,” Marge told him. “Melinda’s parents are Mark and Delia Defoe, correct?”

“Correct. As in Treasure Island.”

“That was Robert Louis Stevenson,” Marge said. “Defoe is Robinson Crusoe.”

“Stop showing off.”

“I’m not showing off, I’m just saying…never mind.”

“Aren’t you impressed that I even knew that Defoe wrote some South Sea shipwreck book?”

“Very impressed. Your literary Q has gone up a notch. Can we talk about the case?”

“Sure. Melinda’s parents are babysitting their great-grandson. They’re in their late seventies. Jared asked us to be gentle with them. What’s the name of the development?”

“La Jolla Pines.”

Oliver slowed the car. “What does that sign say?”

“That’s La Jolla Woods.”

He crept another mile. “How about that sign?”

“La Jolla Hills. Your directions say to go straight for three miles. It hasn’t been three miles.”

“What’s that?”

“La Jolla Shores.”

“They’re not very original over here.”

“Keep going…” They rode a minute in silence. Marge squinted in the dusk. “There’s the turnoff to La Jolla Pines.”

Oliver hung a left, which put them into a forested development of stucco and wood, two-story town houses, more or less Cape Cod in style. The homes were constructed almost identically but individualized by finishing material, plants, garden statues, fences, and gates. They drove through winding streets that gently rose and fell, the asphalt roads shadowed by mature eucalyptus and pines. Green lawns, lots of blooms, and a plethora of citrus trees. The air was wet and briny, the temperature around sixty-five degrees.

They parked in front of a white and brick house that was bedecked with multicolored impatiens. As soon as they got out of the car, the front yard lights came on and the door opened. An elderly woman stepped out onto the front porch. She was meticulously coiffed and dressed: white slacks, a white shirt, and a red blazer. Her teased salon-style hair was blond, her nails were long and painted pearlescent white, and large diamond rings adorned her knobby fingers.

Marge had her badge out as she introduced herself. “Mrs. Defoe?”

“Delia…” She walked a couple of steps and put her finger to her lips. “The old man fell asleep right on the living room couch. We can talk in the den.”