Crows squawked, squirrels chittered, all kinds of animal noises became evident once you listened. I spotted a deer munching dry grass then speeding toward a McMansion that blocked far too much canyon view, came upon the desiccated remains of a gorgeous red-and-yellow-banded king snake. Juvenile, from the size of it. No signs of violence to the little reptile. Sometimes things just died.

I kept going, using the branch for a walking stick that I hoped would imply Habitual Hiker. Nice day to be out walking, if you ignored the occasional car roaring toward you, oblivious or hostile to the concept of foot travel. Fools texting and phone-yakking and a notable cretin shaving his face made the journey an interesting challenge. More than once I had to press myself against a hillside to avoid being pulverized.

I kept up a steady pace, tapped a rhythm with the stick, pretended to be caught up in pedestrian Zen. In L.A., that makes you strange. In L.A., people ignore strange.

When I reached my destination, I found a tree-shielded spot across the road and had a look at the entry to the compound. A discreet sign warned against trespassing. An electric gate ten or so yards up blocked entry. The road to that barrier was a single lane of age-grayed asphalt in need of patching, shaded by bay laurels and untrimmed ficus. A stray plastic cup lid glinted from the shrubbery. Appropriately secluded but a little on the shabby side; not a hint this was Buckingham West.

I continued walking, searched for police surveillance. None that I could see; maybe Milo hadn’t gotten around to arranging it.

I hadn’t heard from him since the meet at Melvin Wedd’s crime scene. Probably inspecting Wedd’s apartment, locating next of kin, all that logical detective procedure.

Correspondence with Wedd’s family would be an exercise in deception: prying out dirt about a victim/possible suspect under the guise of consolation. Milo was good at that, I’d seen him pull it off plenty of times. Later, he’d mutter about the power of positive hypocrisy.

I covered another mile, reversed direction, took a second look at the access road to the compound, repeated the process several times, never encountering another person on foot.

They say walking’s the best exercise, if we had time to do enough of it, we wouldn’t need to jog or run or tussle with implements of gym-torture. By the time I got back in the Seville my feet were starting to protest and I guessed I’d covered at least ten miles.

It had been a learning experience. Body and mind.

When I was minutes from home, Robin called. “Guess what, Brent’s back in town, can’t wait to talk to you.”

“Eager to do his civic duty?”

She laughed. “More like his un-civil duty. He hates them, Alex. Quote unquote. He’s lunching, guess where?”

“Spago.”

“Grill on the Alley. Karma, huh?”