“Junior’s probably twenty-one, twenty-two, Bobo’s maybe a year younger.”

More than kids, thought Milo.

“They gave us no trouble,” said Del Monte. “They’re just a couple guys like to have fun.”

“And the girl?”

“Her I didn’t see.”

Milo thought he picked up something new in Del Monte’s voice. “Name?”

“Caroline.”

“Age?”

“Younger—maybe seventeen. It was really no big deal, everyone dispersed. My message said you’re Central. Where was your db found?”

Milo told him.

“There you go,” said Del Monte. “Fifteen miles from Bel Air. You’re wasting your time.”

“Probably. Three hundred partying kids just caved when you showed up?”

“We’ve got experience with that kind of thing.”

“What’s the technique?” said Milo.

“Use sensitivity,” said the rent-a-cop. “Don’t treat ’em like you would a punk from Watts or East L.A. ’cause these kids are accustomed to a certain style.”

“Which is?”

“Being treated like they’re important. If that doesn’t work, threaten to call the parents.”

“And if that doesn’t work?”

“That usually works. Gotta go, nice talking to you.”

“I appreciate the time, Officer. Listen, if I came by and showed a photo around, would there be a chance anyone would recognize a face?”

“Whose face?”

“The vic’s.”

“No way. Like I said, it was a swarm. After a while they all start to look alike.”

“Rich kids?”

“Any kids.”

It was nearly 10 A.M., and Schwinn still hadn’t shown up. Figuring sooner rather than later was the best time to spring Janie’s photo on Del Monte and his patrol buddies, Milo threw on his jacket and left the station.

Del Monte had been decent enough to call and look where it got him.

No good deed goes unpunished.

It took nearly forty minutes to reach Bel Air. The patrol office was a white, tile-roofed bungalow tucked behind the west gate. Lots of architectural detail inside and out—Milo would’ve been happy to make it his house. He’d heard that the gates and the private-cop scrutiny had been instituted by Howard Hughes when he lived in Bel Air because the billionaire didn’t trust LAPD.

The rich taking care of their own. Just like the party on Stone Canyon: ticked-off neighbors, but everything kept private, no nuisance call had reached the West L.A. station.

Del Monte was at the front desk, and when Milo came in, his dark, round face turned sour. Milo apologized and whipped out a crime-scene snap he’d taken from the pile Schwinn had left in his desk. The least horrifying of the collection—side view of Janie’s face, just the hint of ligature ring around the neck. Del Monte’s response was a cursory head flick. Two other guards were drinking coffee, and they gave the picture more careful study, then shook their heads. Milo would have liked to show Melinda Waters’s photo, but Schwinn had pocketed it.