“It doesn’t seem too bad,” Julie said doubtfully.
“It may not look like much, but you know how expensive body work is these days,” the man insisted.
“Well…”
“Listen, I want to make things right. By the way, my name’s Jeff Millford.” Without removing his leather driving gloves, the man pulled a ballpoint pen and a pad of paper from his pocket. “At first I was simply going to leave a note, but I decided the right thing to do would be to wait.”
“That was nice of you, Mr. Millford. A lot of people would have just taken off.”
“Call me Jeff. Are you a member here? I feel as if I’ve seen you before.”
“I belong to the club. I don’t think I’ve ever noticed you, though.”
“I usually do my workouts in the evening. Listen, this is sort of embarrassing, but I rushed out today without my wallet. I don’t have my license or insurance papers with me, but I can supply all the information you’ll need. That’s my car,” the man added, pointing to a blue Toyota in the adjacent space. “If you’ll give me your insurance details, I’ll report the accident to my carrier. They’ll get in touch with your company, or with you directly. Whichever you want.”
“My insurance company will be fine,” Julie sighed, realizing she would be late picking up the kids. She leaned into her car and spent several moments finding the insurance papers. “Here,” she said, handing the man a rectangular white card. “I’m in kind of a hurry.”
“Won’t take a minute.” The man glanced at the card and made a quick entry on his pad, then ripped off the sheet and passed the pen and notebook to Julie. “I’m with Continental Casualty, but I don’t know the policy number,” he said, removing his gloves. “By the way, I noticed on your insurance certificate that you live on Montecito Drive. I have friends up there on Spyglass Hill. Do you have a view of the bay?”
“A slice,” Julie answered, jotting the names “Jeff Millford” and “Continental Casualty” on the pad, then adding an address and phone number he gave her moments later. She walked to the front of the blue Toyota and copied down its license number, too. “Well, thanks for waiting, Mr. Millford. I mean Jeff. Perhaps I’ll see you around,” she said as she tore off the sheet and dropped it into her purse.
The man’s fingers brushed Julie’s as he retrieved his pad and pen. “Perhaps,” he said, his eyes crinkling with amusement. “You know how life is. We’ll probably meet again when you least expect it.”
12
After leaving headquarters, I made two quick calls on my way back across town. Although I realized it would take most of the afternoon to transfer my active cases to other members of the West LA homicide unit, I also realized that this might be my last chance for independent action on the Larson murders, and I wanted to make the most of it. My first call was to Philip Nostrant, a detective friend in Administrative Narcotics. He wasn’t in, so I left a message. The second call was to Graysha Hunt, the realtor whose name I had seen on the property listed for sale next to the Larsons’ house. Graysha was in, and although puzzled by my call, she agreed to meet me for lunch.
Forty minutes later, after parking on Twenty-Sixth Street in Santa Monica, I entered an open-air shopping mall with picnic tables and green umbrellas reading “Country Mart” on their canopies. I’d been there before and knew the food was great. Deciding to grab something to eat before finding the realtor, I crossed to a booth advertising deli sandwiches and barbecue. I squinted at a sign above the booth, briefly considering ordering a sandwich.
A leather-faced attendant wearing a “Grateful Dead” T-shirt scowled across the counter. “Made up your mind yet, bud? Sometime this century would be nice.”
“Chicken basket,” I said, deciding on my usual.
“You get fries or slaw with that.”
“Fries. And make ’em crispy.”
“You got it.”
Behind a glass shield, sizzling spits of whole chickens turned on a vertical roaster, one above the other, the juice from each spit dripping onto the next. The counterman removed the lowest spit and slid a well done bird from the metal rod onto a cutting board. After replacing the spit, he cut the bird lengthwise and sectioned one of the half-portions with shears, placing the pieces into a paper-lined basket brimming with French fries.
I paid for the chicken and picked up a quart of whole milk two stalls over. Food in hand, I started looking for Graysha. I finally spotted an attractive brunette in her late twenties sitting alone at a table near the back. As I approached, she looked up from her lunch. “Graysha Hunt?” I asked.
The woman nodded and extended a hand. “Detective Kane. I appreciate your meeting me here. I sometimes have to squeeze in lunch when I can.”
“No problem. I like this place, and I hadn’t eaten yet myself,” I said, briefly taking her hand in mine. Sliding onto a redwood bench across from Graysha, I glanced at her food, a tiny spinach salad with a parsimonious sprinkling of goat cheese. “That all you’re having?”
“It’s all I can afford.”
“Real estate market’s that bad?”
“You know what I mean,” Graysha laughed. Her voice sounded musical, like a tinkling of bells. “A girl has to watch her figure. What did you want to talk about, Detective?”
Direct. I liked that. “How long has that house you have listed on Michael Lane been on the market?” I asked.
Graysha withdrew a notebook from her purse and flipped through. “Over two months,” she answered, finding her place. “We haven’t had many showings, though.”
“Do you keep a record of prospective buyers who go through?”
“Every one of my clients. Other agents have shown it, too. They keep their own records.”
“But you could put together a list?”
“Why?”
“Your house looks similar to the Larson residence. They’re mirror images, right?”
Graysha nodded. “They were built by the same developer. Same floor plan, but reversed. Is that important?”
I took a bite of chicken, wiped my fingers on a napkin, and took a swig of milk from the carton. “Maybe, maybe not,” I answered. “I’d like your cooperation, so I’m going to tell you something we held back from the media, something I want you to keep to yourself. We think whoever killed the Larsons knew his way around their house a lot better than he should have. He was either in there before, or…”
“… in a house like it.”
“Right. What I want from you is a list of every real estate agent who’s shown your property.”
Graysha’s eyes widened. “You think an agent might be the killer?”
“Not really, but it’s a place to start. Mostly I want to find out whether anyone has seen anything suspicious-a client who acted strangely, a car they noticed cruising the area, a window mysteriously left open.”
“A window left open?”
I shrugged. “Maybe the guy came back after a showing and used the house as an observation post.”
“All right,” said Graysha reluctantly. “I don’t see how any of the agents could object to my giving their names.”
“Good. I would like a list of every client who’s been through there as well.”
Graysha shook her head. “That could be a problem. Giving out client names is against policy, at least without a warrant.”
In my experience, most people are willing to assist in a police investigation, especially a murder investigation. Sometimes they just need a little prodding. “I don’t think that’s the way you want to go,” I advised.
“What do you mean?”
Just then my cell phone beeped. “Excuse me,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”
I retreated to the privacy of a small alcove bordering the patio, flipping open my phone on the way. The call
