Melinda Waters’s law office occupied one of eight suites in a sand-colored adobe building that abutted an Italian taverna. The restaurant’s chimney billowed storybook puffs of smoke and cooking smells that got my salivary glands going. Then I thought about what lay ahead, and my appetites shifted.

The units faced a large, open parking lot backed by a high berm and an opaque stand of trees, as if the property—the town itself—terminated at a forest. We parked and got out. The air was frigid and perfect.

Each office had its own entrance. A wooden post hung with shingles served as a directory. Four other lawyers, a psychotherapist, a practitioner of therapeutic massage, an antiquarian book dealer, a print gallery. How far was Ojai?

Melinda Waters’s door was unlocked and her front room smelled of incense. Big rust-and-wine-colored chenille chairs with fringed pillows were arranged around a battered old, blackwood Chinese table. Atop the table were art books, magazines that worshipped style, a brass bowl full of hard candy, and straw baskets of potpourri. Would any of that ease the pain of bankruptcy and eviction?

Blocking the rear door, a round-faced Indian woman of thirty or so sat behind a weathered oak desk and pecked at a slate gray laptop. She wore a pink sweatshirt and big, dangling earrings—geometric and hard-edged and gold, more New York than New Mexico. As we approached her desk, she looked up without conveying much in the way of emotion and continued typing.

“How can I help you?”

“Is Ms. Waters in?”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No, ma’am,” said Milo, producing his card.

“L.A.,” said the receptionist. “The police. You’ve come all that way to talk to Mel.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Her eyes scanned the card. “Homicide.” No surprise. No inflection at all. She reached for the phone.

Melinda Waters was five-five, curvy and chunky and busty in a tailored, moss green pantsuit turned greener by the wall of maroon-bound law books behind her. Her eyes were a lighter green edged with gray and her hair was honey blond, cut short and swept back from a well-formed face softened by full lips and the beginnings of a double chin. Big, round tortoiseshell eyeglasses were perfectly proportioned for the thin, straight nose upon which they rested. Her lips were glossed, her manicure was impressive, and the diamond ring on her finger looked to be two carats, minimum.

She barely looked at us, gave off an air of bored competence, but seemed to be working at that. The moment I saw her my heart jumped. Same face as in the Hollywood High yearbook. Milo knew it, too. His expression was pleasant, but cherry-sized lumps had formed where his jaw met his sideburns.

Melinda Waters stared at his card and waved us into two cane-backed chairs that faced her desk.