fighting Hitler’s war, and I came back without a scratch. My boy flies over to Vietnam, two weeks later he steps on a mine. Things happen, right?”
“They do, sir,” said Milo.
“They do, indeed.”
We drove to Crescent Heights, crossed Sunset as the street shifted to Laurel Canyon, and headed for the Valley.
“Woman with a heart condition,” said Milo. “I’m gonna kick her off the ledge?”
“What do you think about what she told Perdue?”
“About Shawna being wild?”
“Wild because she had no father in her life,” I said. “Wild in a specific way. I think her mother knew of Shawna’s attraction to older men. Meaning maybe Shawna had older boyfriends back home.”
“Maybe,” he said. “But that could also mean that Shawna’s story about heading home for the weekend was true. She got dolled up for some Santo Leon Lothario, it went bad, he killed her, dumped her somewhere out in the boonies. That’s why she’s never been found. If so, there goes the Lauren connection.”
“No,” I said. “Agnes might’ve been aware of Shawna’s tendencies, but I doubt she knew about a specific hometown boyfriend. If she had, wouldn’t she have given his name to the police? Even if the police weren’t listening.”
“Leo Riley,” he said. “SOB still hasn’t called back.”
“He probably couldn’t tell you much anyway. Milo, I think Agnes Yeager knew Shawna’s pattern and suspected history had repeated itself in L.A., but she didn’t know the specifics.”
“Could be… The thing that bothers me is that whoever made Shawna dead really didn’t want her to be found. But just the opposite’s true of Lauren, and Michelle and Lance. We’re talking bodies left out in the open, someone flaunting – maybe wanting to set an example, or scare someone off. Something professional. None of that fits with a sex crime.”
“So the motives were different,” I said. “Shawna was a lust killing, the others were eliminated to shut them up.”
We passed the Laurel Canyon market, and the road took on a steep grade. Milo’s foot bore down on the accelerator, and the unmarked shuddered. As the trees zipped by my heart began racing.
“Oh, man.”
“What?”
“What if Shawna’s death
He was silent till Mulholland. “How would Lauren find out?”
I had no answer for that. He began pulling on his earlobe. Took out a panatella. Asked me to light it and blew foul smoke out the window.
“Well,” he finally said, “maybe Jane can elucidate for us. Glad you’re here.” Angry smile. “This might require psychological sensitivity.”
We drove up to the gates of the Abbot house just before four P.M. Both the blue Mustang convertible and the big white Cadillac were parked in front, but no one answered Milo’s bell push. He tried again. The digital code sounded, four rings. Broken connection.
“Last time it was hooked up to the answering machine,” he said. “Cars in the driveway but no one’s home?”
“Probably just as we thought,” I said. “They went away, took a taxi.”
He jabbed the bell a third time, said, “Let’s talk to some neighbors,” and turned to leave as the third ring sounded. We were nearly at the car when Mel Abbot’s voice broke in.
Then a dial tone.
Milo studied the gate, hiked his trousers, and had taken hold of an iron slat. But I’d already gotten a toehold, and I made it over first.
CHAPTER 22
WE RAN TO the front door. I tried the knob. Bolted. Milo pounded, rang the bell. “Mr. Abbot! It’s the police!”
No answer. The space to the right of the house was blocked by a ficus hedge. To the left was an azalea-lined flagstone pathway that led to the kitchen door. Also locked, but a ground-floor window was half open.
“Alarm screen’s in place,” said Milo. “Doesn’t look like it’s been breached. Wait here.” Unholstering his gun, he ran around to the back, returned moments later. “No obvious forced entry, but something’s wrong.” Replacing the weapon and snapping the holster cover, he flipped the screen on the partially open window, shouted in: “Mr. Abbot? Anyone home?”
Silence.
“There’s the alarm register,” he said, glancing at a side wall. “System’s off. Okay, boost me.” I cupped my hands, felt the crush of his weight for a second, then he hoisted himself in and disappeared.
“You stay put, I’m going to check it out.”
I waited, listening to suburban quiet, taking in what I could see of the backyard: a blue corner of swimming pool, teak furniture, old-growth trees screening out the neighboring property, pretty olive green shadows patching a lawn skinned in preparation for fertilizer… Someone had plans for a verdant spring.
Eight minutes passed, ten, twelve. Why was he taking so long? Should I return to the car and call for help? What would I tell the dispatcher?
As I thought about it, the kitchen door opened and Milo beckoned me in. Sweat stains had leaked through the armpits of his jacket. His face was white.
“What’s going on?” I said.
Instead of answering he showed me his back and led me through the kitchen. Blue granite counters were bare but for a carton of orange juice. We hurried through a floral-papered breakfast nook, a butler’s pantry, the dining room, past all that art, and Milo ran past the elevator into the living room, where Melville Abbot’s trophies were gloomed by blackout drapes.
He vaulted up the stairs, and I followed.
When I was halfway up, I heard the whimpering.
Abbot sat propped in bed, cushioned by a blue velvet bed husband, hairless skull reflecting light from an overhead chandelier, slack lips shellacked with drool.
The room was huge, stale, someone’s vision of Versailles. Gold plush carpeting, mustard-and-crimson tapestry curtains tied back elaborately and topped by fringed valances, French Provincial replica furniture arranged haphazardly.
The bed was king-sized and seemed to swallow Abbot. The bed husband had slipped low against a massive swirl of rococo headboard of tufted yellow silk. Lots of satin pillows on the bed, several more on the carpet. The chandelier was Murano glass, a snarl of yellow tendrils crowned by multicolored glass birds. A small Picasso hung askew above the crest of the headboard, next to a dark landscape that could’ve been a Corot. A folded wheelchair filled one corner.
The straggling white puffs of Melville Abbot’s hair had been battened down by sweat. The old man’s eyes were vacant and frightened, lashes encrusted with greenish scum. He wore maroon silk pajamas with white piping and LAPD-issue handcuffs around his wrists.
To his left, a few feet from the bed, red-brown splotches Rorschached the gold carpet. The largest stain spread from under Jane Abbot’s body.
She lay on her left side, left arm stretched forward, legs drawn upward, ash hair loose and fanned across the
