old, perched assertively on the property’s highest knoll. Windows gleamed like zircons. Red bougainvillea climbed the walls like gravity-defying rivulets of blood. The hue of the stucco was a perfect foil for an uncommonly blue sky.
Several smaller outbuildings dotted the property, same color, same genre, as if the mansion had dropped pups. North of the structures, walls of cypress surrounded something unseen. To the rear of the property was a black-green cloud of untamed conifer, sycamore, eucalyptus, and oak.
As we got out of the van, Prema strode toward us, holding a sheaf of papers. She wore form-fitted black jeans, a black mock turtle, red suede flats. Her hair was combed out and shiny, held in place by a thin black band. She’d put on lipstick and eye shadow and mascara.
New take on gorgeous.
Milo said, “Morning.”
“Morning, Lieutenant. I just called the tribe, they’re halfway to San Diego, should be gone until eight or even nine. Is that enough time?”
Milo said, “We’ll do our best.” He introduced her to Morry Burns.
She said, “Pleased to meet you.”
Without answering, Burns laid down a pair of metal carrying cases, returned to the van, brought out the dolly. A third trip produced the flat sides of several unassembled cardboard boxes. He walked up to Prema. “Is there some hub where all your computers feed?”
“Like command central? I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think or you don’t know?”
Prema blinked. “No, there’s nothing like that.”
“How many computers on the premises?”
“Don’t know that, either. Sorry.”
“You have a smart-house setup? Crestron running the lights, the utilities, your home theater, all your toys?”
“We do have a system, but I’m not sure the computers go through it.”
“Show me your personal machine. We’ll work backward from there.”
“Right now?”
“You got something better to do?” Burns began stacking his dolly.
Milo pointed to the papers in Prema’s hand.
She said, “I pulled phone records for the last six months. Every line that goes through this property.”
Without looking back, Burns said, “Landlines and cells?”
“Yes.”
“Your employees have personal cell accounts?”
“I’m sure they do-”
“Then that’s not every line.” He made another trip to the van.
“Well … yes,” said Prema. “I just wanted to help.”
Tyler O’Shea appeared with Sally in tow.
Prema said, “A dog?”
Milo said, “While you work with Detective Burns on the hardware, Officer O’Shea will be exploring the property with Sally.”
O’Shea, young, virile, muscular, gawked at Prema. When he managed to engage eye contact, he beamed.
She smiled back. O’Shea blushed.
“Hi, Sally, aren’t you a pretty girl?” She reached to pet the dog. O’Shea blocked her with his arm. “Sorry, ma’am, she needs to concentrate.”
“Oh, of course-concentrate on what?”
Milo said, “Finding anything interesting.”
“You think you’ll find evidence here?”
“We need to be thorough, Ms. Moon.”
Sally’s leash strained as she oriented herself toward the forest. Her nose twitched. She panted faster.
Prema said, “Sally’s one of those … dogs that look for bodies?”
O’Shea said, “That’s part of her repertoire, ma’am.”
“Oh, my.” Head shake.
“What’s back there in the trees, ma’am?”
“Just trees. Honestly, you’re not going to find anything.”
“Hope you’re right, ma’am.” O’Shea clicked his tongue twice. He and Sally headed out at a quick trot.
Morry Burns returned. Tapped his foot. Checked his watch.
Milo said, “Who’s working on the premises today, ma’am?”
“Just the core staff,” she said. “The maids and the cook. Do you need to talk to them?”
“Eventually. Meanwhile, go with Detective Burns. Dr. Delaware and I will stroll around a bit.”
Prema forced a half smile. “Of course. He’s a psychologist, anything can be interesting.”
First stop: the four walls of cypress. An opening on the east side led us into a flat area the size of two football fields. One corner was devoted to a safety-fenced half-Olympic pool with a padlocked, alarmed gate. The opposing corner housed a sunken tennis court. Diagonal to that were a regulation basketball court, a rubber-matted area set up with four trampolines, a moon-bounce, a tetherball pole, two Ping-Pong tables, and a sand pit that hosted a plastic slide, a swing-set, a seesaw, and a yellow vinyl tunnel-maze.
Milo said, “Kid-Heaven, courtesy Super Mom. What’s that, making up for her own shitty childhood?”
“Could be, if you’re in an analytical mood.”
“You’re not?”
“Let’s find the maids and the cook.”
The interior of the house was what you’d expect: the requisite vaulted rooms, quarry-emptying expanses of marble, enough polished wood to threaten a rain forest. The art on the walls was professionally spaced, perfectly framed and lit: oil paintings biased toward women and children as subjects and the kind of pastel landscape that combats insomnia.
The maids were easy to find. Imelda Rojas polished silver in the dining room, Lupe Soto folded laundry in a white-tiled utility room the size of some New York apartments, Maria Elena Miramonte tidied up a playroom that would thrill a preschool class. All three women were in their sixties, solidly built and well groomed, wearing impeccable powder-blue uniforms.
Milo spoke to them individually.
Easy consensus: Senora Prema was wonderful.
Senor Donny was never here.
Despite that, Rader’s name elicited tension but when Milo asked Imelda Rojas what she thought of him she insisted she didn’t know. He kept up the questioning but stepped aside early on and punted to me. My doctorate wasn’t any help, at first; Maria and Imelda were unable, or unwilling, to articulate their feelings about Rader. Then Lupe Soto opined that he was “a sinner,” and when pressed, specified the nature of Rader’s iniquities.
“
“Lots of girls.”
“No girls, senor,
“He used to bring
Lupe said, “You kidding? Always there.”
“His place.”
“Yeah, but we know.”
“How?”
“The TV in the kitchen.”
“Could you show me, please?”
