“Coury’s a Van Nuys fender-bender,” said Milo, “so no big surprise there. And old Luke doesn’t look like the brightest bulb in the chandelier. But personally, I’m disappointed in Nick Hansen. Maybe he didn’t fulfill his promise.”

We left the library and sat out in front on a stone bench that ran along the reflecting pond flanking the entrance. I watched students come and go as Milo appropriated the identity of a Southwest Division Auto Theft detective and phoned DMV. It took some prodding to get the clerk to go back two decades, but when Milo hung up he’d filled two pages with scrawls: makes, models, owners, and addresses of record.

“Vance Coury, Sr. owned a Jaguar Mark 10 sedan, a Lincoln Continental, and a Camaro.”

“So Janie was right on,” I said. “The Lincoln was probably the missus’s wheels, and Vance, Jr. drove the Camaro. When he was out to impress girls, he took Daddy’s car with the deep pile carpeting. Something that would set them at ease before he got them up in that room and pulled out the rope.”

“He’s got himself a slew of wheels, now: eight registered vehicles, mostly classics, including a couple of vintage Ferraris.”

“You said the Cossacks had a Ferrari out in front of their house. Maybe the King’s Men never went dormant, and Coury’s bunking in.”

“Coury’s home address is listed in Tarzana, but could be,” he said. “And guess what: I was wrong about Nicholas Dale Hansen not living up to his capabilities. Drives a BMW 700 and lives in Beverly Hills on North Roxbury. Guess he just didn’t want a bio.”

“Modest,” I said.

“Or he shuns the limelight,” he said. “Because who knows what too much attention can do.”

“What about Luke Chapman?”

“Nothing on him. Never owned a car in California.”

“Meaning he hasn’t lived in California for a while,” I said. “Maybe the family moved out of state after high school. Or it’s another disappearing act, voluntary or otherwise. If he was as dull as his picture implies, he would’ve been considered another weak link.”

“Snipping off loose ends,” he said.

“That makes me think of two other ends, both apparent accidents: Bowie Ingalls hitting that tree and Pierce Schwinn hitting that rock.”

“Oh, your imagination,” he said. “So how’d the boys get the parents to stash Caroline?”

“She’d been the problem child for years. If she poisoned that dog, her parents probably had a sense the problem was serious. If the boys came to them feigning horror at something terrible Caroline had done, they might very well have believed it.”

“The boys,” he said. “Bunch of sleazes and that Boy Scout. He’s the one who interests me.”

“Merit badge for murder,” I said. “What a concept.”