ten.”
“He keeps long hours.”
“Long would be good,” said Lilly Chang. “More like infinite.”
Milo phoned Happy Tots Child Care Specialists, spoke to a woman named Irma Rodriguez who sounded as if she was wrestling with abdominal pain.
“That one,” she said. “She sure fooled us.”
“About what, ma’am?”
“Thinking she was reliable. What trouble’s she gotten herself into?”
“Death,” said Milo.
“Pardon?”
“She was murdered.”
“Oh good Lord,” said Rodriguez. “You’re kidding.”
“Wish I was, ma’am. How’d Adriana come to register with you?”
“She phoned us, emailed references from her previous employers, was lucky the job with the Changs came up right then. That’s a good solid job, I was p.o.’d at Adriana for treating them so shabbily.”
“What was Adriana like?”
“Well,” said Rodriguez, “usually I meet applicants face-to-face but with the quality of her references and the perfect background check, I figured she’d be okay.”
“Who supplied the references?”
“Hold on.”
Several moments of dead air before she returned. “Only one but it was good. Mr. and Mrs. Van Dyne from Portland, Oregon. Someone killed her, huh? You just never know.”
I called Robin, told her I’d either be home late or spend the night in San Diego, explained why.
She said, “A nanny. Everything seems to revolve around little ones.”
“Seems to,” I said, picturing a paper-doll chain of tiny skeletons.
“If you do come home tonight, wake me, no matter how late.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive. I miss your feet in the bed. The way you end up in some weird position and I’m stretching and groping to find you.”
“Love you.”
“That’s another way of saying it. Whoever drives, be careful.”
We left the station at five fifteen. Rather than brave rush-hour freeway traffic, Milo took surface streets to Playa Del Rey, where we had dinner at a dockside Italian place with C decor and A food.
He said, “Leave the driving to moi, you can have wine, Mr. Wingman.”
We both drank coffee and by seven thirty I was feeling keyed up but no clearer on who’d want to kill a near- saintly woman. Once we got on the 405 South, Milo turned quiet and I picked up my messages.
Holly Ruche had phoned at six, apologizing for canceling and wanting another appointment. I left her a message saying okay. A hundred and ten minutes later, we rolled into La Jolla.
CHAPTER 21
Donald and Lilly Chang lived a brief stroll from the UCSD campus in a massive, gated complex called Regal Life La Jolla. Four-story brown-and-beige apartment blocks were surrounded by Torrey Pines. So was most of the beach town, where land didn’t nudge blue Pacific.
Gorgeous place, warm night. A lot more temperate than Portland though I doubted Adriana Betts had weather on her mind when she’d moved.
Searching for the right kind of job: caring for other people’s little treasures.
I knew all about that.
Milo rolled up to the Regal Life guardhouse. No need to flash the badge, Lilly Chang had left his name. We parked in a visitors’ area, walked past fountains, flagstone roundabouts, perfect palms and pines and coral trees, precise sections of velvet lawn.
It took a while to locate the building but we got buzzed through the security door immediately.
A redheaded, exuberantly freckled woman wearing enormous blue-framed eyeglasses, a black T-shirt, and baggy green linen pants responded to Milo’s knock. Her feet were bare. The shirt read
“Hi, I’m Lilly, c’mon in. Donald’s showering, he’ll be right with you.”
Dr. Lilly Chang was five six and lanky with a loose walk that caused her ginger mop of hair to shudder as she led us into her living room.
Despite the exterior luxe, the apartment was small, white, generically bland, a status unrelieved by the obligatory granite kitchen outfitted with the requisite brushed-steel appliances. What passed for a Juliet balcony offered an oblique view of a brown wall. The furniture looked as if it had been rescued from a dorm. The sole artwork was a poster featuring a cartoon human brain. The legend beneath the drawing read
No need for paintings or prints; the walls were pretty much taken up by photos of a beautiful almond-eyed baby with blue-black hair. In some of the shots, May Chang had been propped up for a solo pose. Her reaction to stardom ranged from stunned disbelief to glee. In other pictures, she sat on Lilly Chang’s lap or that of a balding Asian man who looked close to forty.
A white plastic baby monitor breathed static from atop a black plastic end table. Above the table hung the largest portrait of May, gilt-framed.
Lilly Chang said, “I know, we’re a bit too in love.”
I said, “She’s adorable. How old is she?”
“Twenty-two months. She’s our joy.”
She fingered the hem of the T-shirt. One of those smooth-faced women whose age was hard to determine. My guess was early thirties.
“Please, sit,” she said. “How was your drive?”
Milo said, “Piece of cake.”
“My parents live in L.A., I try to see them every five, six weeks. Sometimes it can get pretty hairy.” She smiled. “Though I guess you guys could use your siren to speed through.”
Milo said, “That would be nice but unfortunately it’s a big no-no.”
“Figures,” she said. “Can I get you some coffee or juice?”
“No, thanks, Dr. Chang.”
“Lilly’s fine.”
I said, “Where do your parents live?”
“Sherman Oaks. I was the original Valley Girl.” Showing teeth. “Gag me with a spoon. Fer sure.” She turned grave. “So we’re here to talk about poor Adriana. I’m still integrating the news, it’s so dreadful.”
“It is,” said Milo.
“May I ask where it happened?”
Milo said, “Cheviot Park.”
“Wow,” she said. “My family used to go there for Fourth of July fireworks. It always seemed like a safe place.”
“It generally is.”
“Wow,” she repeated. “After we spoke I tried to think if there was anything I could remember that might help you. The only thing I came up with, and it’s probably nothing, is four, five months ago, Adriana came with us on a trip to see my parents. We offered her the day off but she said she didn’t need it, just in case Donald and I wanted
