quick right south of the boulevard. We were close to the murder street. By L.A. terms, Hope had been my neighbor. Robin had probably been thinking about that.
We sailed through the cold, black privacy of Holmby Hills, past high walls and old trees; small, hostile signs reminding us of the presence of an armed patrol. Milo rolled through a boulevard stop and continued south. The estates gave way to houses as we entered residential Westwood.
“I'll follow up on Storm Junior,” he said. “On all three of them. Going to be making a lot of people who thought they'd put the committee behind them very unhappy.”
We sat parked near the big elm for a while, talking about the murder and other things before sinking into an aspic of silence. No movement behind the amber-lit curtains. No signs of life.
“Ready to meet him?”
“Thrilled.”
“Yeah, he's a thrilling guy.”
Just as we were about to get out, headlights came at us and a car stopped in front of the Devane/Seacrest house, turned up the driveway, and parked behind the Volvo.
Red Mustang.
“There you go,” I said. “He does go out. Took a spin in the sports car.”
“Her sports car.” Milo stared, mouth tight, eyes tuned.
The headlights shut off and a man got out of the red car and walked up to the front door.
“That's not Seacrest. Seacrest is taller.”
The man rang the bell. It was too dark to make out details but he was short- maybe five seven- and wore a long coat. Hands in pockets, his back to us.
A house light went on downstairs and the door opened partially. The man slipped inside.
“A pal?” I said. “Someone Seacrest lent the car to?”
“Long as he's being hospitable, let's partake.”
It took a lot longer for our ring to be answered. Finally from behind the door came a “Yes?”
“It's Detective Sturgis, Professor.”
Another partial opening. Philip Seacrest was indeed taller than the man in the coat. Close to Milo's six-three but sixty pounds lighter, with narrow shoulders and a drawn, squarish face turned grubby by a poorly trimmed gray beard. His nose was small and wide and might have been broken once. His hair was gray and unruly, puffing over his ears but skimpy on top. He wore a gray-and-green plaid shirt, gray twill slacks that had once been expensive but were shiny at the knees, felt bedroom slippers. The shirt was rolled to his elbows, exposing hairless, soft-looking arms.
One incongruity: a small anchor tattoo on his left forearm, pale blue, crudely done, probably a Navy souvenir. I knew he was fifty-five but he looked older. Maybe it was grief. Or bad genes. Or going to work every day and doing the same thing over and over without distinction.
“Detective.” He took hold of the doorpost. Quiet voice, just above a mumble. If he lectured that way the back rows wouldn't hear him.
Behind him I could see old, clumsy furniture, floral wallpaper, a grandfather clock in the crook of a narrow staircase. Small brass chandelier. I smelled the not-quite-cooked odor of microwaved food.
On the far wall of the entry, a colonial eagle mirror's convex lens stared back like a giant eye. No sight of the Mustang driver.
“Professor,” said Milo.
Seacrest's eyes were big, brown, two shades darker than those of his dead wife, soft as a child's. “What can I do for you, Mr. Sturgis?”
“Are we interrupting something, sir?”
The “we” made him notice me, but not for long.
“No.”
“May we come in?”
Seacrest hesitated for a second. “All right.” Saying it louder- warning the other man? He stayed in the doorway, then stepped aside.
No eye contact. I was already picking up the evasiveness that had alerted Milo.
Then he did look at us. But not with affection.
Sometimes cops and victims' families bond, but there was none of that here. Quite the opposite. A coldness.
Maybe it was because he didn't like being dropped in on.
Or because he'd been treated as a suspect from the beginning.
Maybe he deserved that.
He remained in the entry hall, licking his lips and touching his Adam's apple, then he looked over his shoulder at the staircase. The shorter man up there?
Milo stepped closer and Seacrest retreated a step. It took him nearer the convex mirror and he became a gray smear in the silvered glass.
“So,” he repeated. “What can I do for you?”
“Just checking in,” said Milo.
“No progress.”
“I'm afraid not, sir.”
Seacrest nodded, as if bad news were to be expected.
I took in the house. Center hall plan, the entry modest, floored in vinyl tiles that simulated white marble, the staircase carpeted in faded green.
Living room to the right, dining room to the left. More fusty furniture, not quite old enough to be antique. He'd inherited the house from his parents. Probably the stuff he'd grown up with. Disparate throw rugs spread limply over brown wall-to-wall plush. Beyond the stairs was a small pine-paneled room lined with books. Books on the floor, too. A plaid couch. The grandfather clock hadn't been set and its pendulum hung inertly.
Footsteps thumped from the second floor.
“One of Hope's students,” Seacrest said, fingering his beard. “Retrieving some research material Hope left behind. I finally had the gumption to go through Hope's things after the police took everything apart, and repack them. Those first two detectives just threw everything around- one second.”
He climbed halfway up the stairs. “Almost through?” he called. “The police are here.”
A voice from above said something. Seacrest came back down slowly, like an unwilling bride.
“Research material,” said Milo. “It belongs to the student?”
“They were working together. It's the norm at the doctoral level.”
I said, “How many students did she have?”
“I don't believe many.”
“Because of the book?” said Milo.
“Pardon?”
“The time demands.”
“Yes, I suppose so. But also because Hope was particular.” Seacrest glanced toward the stairs. “It's still a mess- Hope's approach to things was… she wasn't overly… compulsive. Which is not to say her mind wasn't organized. It
“What was, Professor?”
Seacrest pointed up the stairs, as if at a chalkboard. “What I mean to say is I always wondered if the reason she could afford to work in disorder was because she was so
He sniffed. “She was much smarter than I.” His eyes got wet.
“You're not getting much solitude tonight,” said Milo.
Seacrest tried to smile. His mouth wouldn't go along and it came out a pig's-tail of ambivalence.
