By the time Bosc had stopped writhing on the floor and the green had gone out of his complexion, his hands were cuffed behind him and he was panting and struggling to choke out words and Milo was kicking the door shut. He lifted Bosc by the scruff and dumped him on the black leather couch that took up most of the living room. The rest of the decor was a white beanbag chair, a huge digital TV, expensive stereo toys, and a chrome-framed poster of a wound red Lamborghini Countach.

Bosc sprawled on the sofa, moaning. His eyes rolled back and he retched and Milo stepped back from the expected projectile puke. But Bosc just dry heaved a couple of times, got his eyes back on track, looked up at Milo.

And smiled.

And laughed.

“Something funny, Craig?” said Milo.

Bosc’s lips moved a bit, and he struggled to talk through the grin. Sweat globules as big as jelly beans beaded up his forehead and rolled down his sculpted nose. He flicked one away with his tongue. Laughed again. Spit at Milo’s feet. Coughed and said, “Oh yeah. You’re in big trouble.”

CHAPTER

35

I sped up Highway 33, sucking in the grass-sweet air of Ojai. Thinking about Bert Harrison living here for decades, light-years from L.A. For all that, the old man had been unable to avoid the worst the city had to offer.

As I approached the bank of shops that included O’Neill & Chapin, I eased up on the gas pedal. The stationery shop was still shuttered and a CLOSED sign was propped in the window of the Celestial Café. Midway through town, I turned onto the road that led up to Bert’s property, drove a hundred feet from his driveway, and parked behind a copse of eucalyptus.

Bert’s old station wagon was parked out in front, which told me nothing. Perhaps he’d left for his overseas trip and had been driven to the airport. Or his departure was imminent, and I’d enter to find him packing.

Third choice: He’d lied about the journey, wanting to discourage me from returning.

I admired Bert, wasn’t eager to examine the possibilities. Returning to the Seville, I swung back onto the highway. Ready to tap the source, directly.

The entry to Mecca Ranch was latched but unlocked. I freed the arm, drove through, closed the gate behind me, and motored up under the gaze of circling hawks—maybe the same birds I’d seen the first time.