Reed left his Cadillac at the pizza joint and we piled into Milo ’s unmarked.
Breakthorne Wood was a steep, carelessly paved road above Benedict Canyon. The curves, width, and flavor of an old bridle path; I felt right at home.
One thing Simone Vander shared with her father was a taste for dead ends. Her property was marked by a simple iron gate flanked by used-brick posts. The same masonry faced the shake-roof cottage visible through the slats. Dark-stained pine planks graced the facade where brick hadn’t been applied. Diamond-pane windows, a hand-carved oak door, and a witch-on-a-broomstick weather vane added up to neorustic adorable.
A tomato-colored 335i convertible was parked in the flagstone motor court. Pine needles littered the car and the ground. Huge Aleppos shadowing the property, darkening most of the roof. Beyond the branches was a patchwork of brighter green and beige: ivy-colored hills.
Reed had been antsy during the ride over. Justifying the surveillance of his brother repeatedly though Milo never challenged him.
“Maybe it’ll be nothing, but at least we can find out what she knows about Huck.”
“Maybe she once lived at the house. Or she visits-even if she doesn’t come out and tell us anything about Huck or parties or whatever, maybe we can still get a feel for whether or not weird stuff went on there.”
“At the very least, we’ll find out there’s nothing to find out and won’t have to spin any more wheels. Not that I’m saying there isn’t something hinky about Huck, I still think there is. Otherwise why would she pay to dig up dirt on him?”
Now, facing Simone Vander’s gate-call button, the young detective jammed his hands in his pockets and chewed his cheek.
“Go ahead, this is your time to shine,” said Milo, jabbing air with his finger.
“Anything you want me to concentrate on?” said Reed.
“Follow your gut,” said Milo.
Reed frowned.
“That’s a reward, not a punishment, Moses.”
Reed pushed the button.
Milo said, “You get good grades, I’ll let you spin the steering wheel. But only when the car’s in the driveway.”
A young-sounding female voice said, “Yes?” Another female voice sang sweetly in the background.
“Ms. Vander? Detective Reed, L.A. police.”
“Is something wrong?”
“We’d like a few minutes of your time, ma’am. Regarding Travis Huck.”
“Oh.” The music receded. “Okay, one sec.”
Several minutes passed before the carved door opened. The woman in the opening was medium height, pale, stick-thin and leggy, with a gamin face under a layered mass of long black hair. She wore a white-and-pink-striped boat-neck top, white knee-length cargo pants fastened with bows at the patella, backless pink sandals with stilt heels. Gold hoop earrings large enough to be visible across the motor court caught sunlight.
She studied us. Waved.
Moe Reed waved back. She clicked the gate open.
“I’m Simone. What’s going on?” Soft, melodic voice, a vibrato that made each word sound tentative. She was one of those people who look better upon close inspection. Porcelain skin, gray-blue capillary mesh at the temples, fine features, graceful posture. Her eyes were brown and round with enormous irises. Dilated pupils implied curiosity. Her brows had been artfully plucked.
An ivory hand cradled the remote module. She smiled and looked younger.
Moe Reed reintroduced himself, identified Milo, then me. Leaving out my title. No sense complicating matters.
Simone Vander said, “So many people. I guess it’s pretty important.”
Before Reed could respond, an engine growled behind us.
A silver Porsche cabriolet idled behind the gate. The top was down, revealing terra-cotta leather. Behind the wheel sat Aaron Fox, wearing mirrored sunshades, a beige linen jacket, a black shirt.
“Oh, good,” said Simone Vander as she clicked him in.
Fox got out of his car buttoning his jacket. Perfectly cut linen pants made the outfit a suit. Black snakeskin loafers were cut low, revealing mocha shins.
“P.I. Fox,” said Milo.
“Lieutenant Sturgis. In the neighborhood, so I thought I’d drop by.”
He headed for Simone Vander. Moe Reed blocked his way.
Fox said, “Excuse me?”
“Not a good time.”
Simone said, “I called Aaron. Right after you rang in. Boy, you got here fast.”
Milo said, “Why’d you call him, ma’am?”
“I don’t know-I guess I thought he should be here. He’s the one who knows all about Travis.”
Reed half turned to face her. Next to his lifter’s bulk, she looked like dry twigs. “You paid him to learn.”
Simone Vander didn’t reply.
Aaron Fox said, “Ms. Vander has a perfect right to hire me to do anything legal. And as she just said, whatever she knows about Mr. Huck, I told her. So why don’t we just-”
“We’ll do what we need to do,” said Reed, shoulders spreading as he tried to enlarge himself. He was wider than Fox but shorter by a couple of inches. Fox stood straight, aiming to widen the disparity.
Simone Vander stared at both of them.
Dominance duel.
Toss-up.
Milo said, “Aaron, we appreciate your loyalty to your client-”
Reed said, “Not to mention billing by the hour-”
“-but right now we need to talk to her alone.”
Fox’s smooth brown face betrayed no emotion.
Reed said, “
Fox’s grin was too sudden and wide to imply anything close to cheer. Tugging linen lapels, he shrugged. “I’ll stay close, Simone. Call me when you’re through.”
“Okay-thanks.”
Still smiling, Fox clapped his brother on the shoulder, hard enough to echo. Reed’s meaty hands rolled tight.
“Always great seeing you, bro.”
Climbing back in the Porsche, Fox revved, shifted into gear. Twisted his head clear of the windshield. Gave the thumbs-up, focused on Reed.
“Nice touch, the Caddy.”
Simone Vander’s living room was cheerful and cozy and overfurnished, with chintz chairs, oak pieces that might’ve been old, floral prints in white distressed frames. A collection of Japanese dolls filled a hutch that bordered a bright red tile kitchen. Warming our feet was a lavender-and-cream Aubusson rug. The music wafting from a Bang & Olufsen entertainment center was Tori Amos, singing about a black dove.
A Chinese camphor-wood trunk served as a coffee table. Three gilt-framed photos stood on the top, along with flowers and candles.
Two shots were of Simone Vander: straddling a beautiful brown horse, and a close-up that had her holding a coffee cup, backed by the ocean.
The largest photo, positioned dead center, was a formal portrait: a tall, stooped, sixtyish bearded man with thin gray hair brushed forward in an awkward comb-over, a tiny, pretty Asian woman at least twenty years his
