Wedd’s new registered vehicle was a black Ford Explorer, purchased brand-new, three weeks after the theft of the red BMW. “Be interesting if he jacked it way up and stuck on fancy rims.”

He shifted to the Web, called up an image of an Explorer enhanced that way, sent the picture to Heather Goldfeder, and asked if it resembled the SUV she’d seen.

Seconds later: cud b cant say 4 sure how r u.

He sent back a happy face emoticon.

Her instant response: me 2 xoxoxo.

The landline and cell phone Groot had given for Wedd were unresponsive to Milo’s calls. No message machine on either.

He said, “A fellow who likes his privacy. Let’s invade it.”

The address was an apartment west of Barrington and just north of Wilshire. Officially Brentwood, but not what you thought of when someone said Brentwood.

Quarter-hour drive from the station under the worst circumstances. Circumstances were favorable: i.e., Milo’s leaden foot. We made it in eight.

CHAPTER
26

Back in the fifties, someone thought it was a nifty idea to erect a two-story box with the top floor cantilevered over a concrete carport, the entire structure slathered with pimply aqua stucco, the squat, expressionless face embellished by a five-foot starburst spray-painted gold and the proclamation Dawn-Lite Apts in that same gaudy tint.

Several decades later someone thought restoring the dingbat to its original glory was historical preservation.

As we pulled up to Melvin Jaron Wedd’s building, a white-garbed painter was regilding the star, his compadre patching thin spots of aqua.

Milo said, “Misdemeanor, maybe a felony.”

I said, “You don’t like midcentury?”

“Depends on the century.”

“Didn’t know you were into architecture, Big Guy.”

“Rick is. I imbibe through osmosis.”

We got out and inspected the carport from which the BMW had been lifted. Six stalls, one occupied by a dusty brown Acura. No tenant names, not even a unit number. The mailbox at the foot of the grubby stairs that led up to the second story listed J. Wedd as residing in 3.

Each apartment was accessed through an open landing. Number 3 was ground-floor rear. Cheap vertical blinds blocked the single window. A dead plant in a terra-cotta-colored vinyl pot squatted near the door. So did several piles of junk mail. Milo pushed a button. The resulting buzzer sounded like flatulence.

No answer. He tried again. Rapped hard with detective-callused knuckles.

The door to the adjoining unit opened and a dreadlocked head emerged, bleached-blond with dark roots. Matted strands trailed to a black-shirted shoulder. The face below the hair was bronze, seamed, craggy, hazed by three days of dark stubble. Sagging eyes were wary. A bass voice said, “Police, right?” and the eyes turned friendly.

Milo said, “Yes, sir.”