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“Sheila. My husband’s in Atlanta.”

  “Business?”

  “Jerry’s a metals dealer. He visits scrapyards and smelters and whatever.” She fooled with her hair. “Have one, please, they’re Pepperidge Farms.”

  Lifting a cookie from the plate, she dropped it, tried to pick it up, crushed it to crumbs on the carpet.

  “Now look what I did!” She threw up her hands and cried.

  *

  Milo was gentle, but he probed, and he and Sheila Quick fell into a routine: short questions from him, long, rambling answers from her. She seemed hypnotized by the sound of her own voice. I didn’t want to think about what it would be like when we left.

  Gavin Quick was the younger of two children. A twenty-three-year-old sister named Kelly attended law school at Boston University. Gavin was a very good boy. No drugs, no bad company. His mother couldn’t think of anyone who’d want to hurt him.

  “It’s really a pretty stupid question, Detective.”

  “It’s just something I have to ask, ma’am.”

  “Well it doesn’t apply here. No one would want to hurt Gavin, he’s been hurt enough.”

  Milo waited.

  She said, “He was in a terrible car crash.”

  “When was this, ma’am?”

  “Just under a year ago. He’s lucky he wasn’t—” Her voice choked. She lowered her head to her hands, and her back hunched and trembled.

  It took a while for her to show her face. “Gavin was with a bunch of friends— college friends, he was just finishing his second year at the U., was studying economics. He was interested in business— not Jerry’s business. Finance, real estate, big things.”

  “What happened?”

  “What— oh the crash? Pointless, absolutely pointless, but do kids listen? They denied it, but I’m sure drinking had something to do with it.”

  “They?”

  “The boy who was driving— his insurance company. They wanted to reduce their liability. Obviously. A kid from Whittier, Gavin knew him from school. He was killed, so we couldn’t very well harass his parents, but the time it took the insurance company to compensate us for Gavin’s medical was— you don’t need to hear this.”

  She grabbed a tissue and wiped her eyes.

  “What exactly happened, Mrs. Quick?”

  “What happened? Six of them piled into a stupid little Toyota and were speeding way too fast on Pacific Coast Highway. They’d been to a concert in Ventura and were heading back to L.A. The driver— the boy who died, Lance Hernandez— missed a turn and plowed right into the mountainside. He and the front-seat passenger were killed instantly. The two boys in the back next to Gavin were only injured slightly. Gav was sandwiched between them; he was the skinniest, so he got the middle spot, and there was no seat belt. The Highway Patrol told us it was lucky for him he was squished so tight between them because that prevented him from flying. As is, he was thrown forward and the front of his head hit the back of the driver’s seat. His shoulder was wrenched, and some small bones in his feet broke when they were bent back. The funny thing is, there was no blood, no bruising, just the smallest bump on his forehead. He wasn’t in a coma or anything, but they did tell us he’d suffered a severe concussion. He had a memory loss that was pretty bad for a few days, it really took weeks for his head to clear fully. Other than that, when the bump went down, there was nothing you could see from the outside. But I’m his mother, I knew he was different.”

  “Different how, Mrs. Quick?”

  “Quieter— does it matter? What does it have to do with this?”

  “Collecting background, ma’am.”

  “Well, I don’t see the point of it. First you come in here and tear my life to shreds, then you— I’m sorry, I’m just taking it out on you rather than kill myself.” Big smile. “First my baby gets thrown against a seat, now you’re telling me he was shot by some maniac— where did it happen?”

  “Off of Mulholland Drive, north of Beverly Glen.”

  “All the way up there? Well, I wouldn’t know what he’d be doing there.” She looked at us with newfound skepticism, as if hoping we were wrong about everything.

  “He was parked in his car with a young woman.”

  “A young—” Sheila Quick’s hand wadded the tissue. “Blond, good figure, pretty?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Kayla,” she said. “Oh my God, Gavin and Kayla, why didn’t you tell me it was both of them— now I have to tell Paula and Stan— oh God how am I going to—”

  “Kayla was Gavin’s girlfriend?”

  “Is— was. I don’t know, they were something.” Sheila Quick placed the tissue on the sofa cushion and sat immobile. The crushed paper began expanding, as if by its own volition, and she stared at it.

  “Mrs. Quick?” said Milo.

  “Gavin and Kayla were off and on,” she said. “They knew each other from Beverly High. After the accident, when Gavin . . .” She shook her head. “I can’t tell her parents, I’m sorry— will you tell them?”

  “Of course. What’s Kayla’s last name and where do her folks live?”

  “You can use my kitchen phone. I’m sure they’re up, at least Stan is. He’s a night person. He’s a musician, composes commercials, movie scores. He’s very successful. They live up in the flats.”

  “The last name, ma’am?”

  “Bartell. Used to be Bartelli or something Italian like that. Kayla’s a blondie, but she’s Italian. Must be northern Italian. At least on Stan’s side, I don’t know what Paula is. Do you think I should call my husband in Atlanta? It’s really late there, and I’m sure he’s had a busy day.”

  *

  Milo asked a few more questions, learned nothing, got her to sip from one of the mugs of instant coffee, found out the name of her family physician, Barry Silver, and woke him up. The doctor lived in Beverly Hills and said he’d be over soon.

  Milo asked to see Gavin’s room and Sheila Quick took us up a maroon plush-carpeted staircase, flung the door open, flicked a light switch. The room was generous and painted pale blue and stank of body odor and rot. A queen-sized bed was unmade, rumpled clothes were piled on the floor, books and papers were strewn haphazardly, dirty dishes and fast-food cartons filled in the empty spaces. I’ve seen the police leave drug houses more composed after an evidence toss.

  Sheila Quick said, “Gavin used to be neat. Before the accident. I tried, I gave up.” She shrugged. Shame colored her face. She closed the door. “Some battles aren’t worth fighting. Do you have kids?”

  We shook our heads.

  “Maybe you’re the lucky ones.”

  *

  She insisted we leave before the doctor arrived, and when Milo tried to argue, she pressed a hand to her temple and grimaced, as if he was causing her great pain.

  “Let me be with my thoughts. Please.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He got the address for Stan and Paula Bartell. Same street, Camden Drive, but the eight hundred block, one mile north, on the other side of the business district.

  “The Flats,” Sheila Quick reiterated. “They’ve got some place.”

  *

  When you see stock footage of Beverly Hills in the movies, it’s almost always the Flats. Directors favor the sun-splotched, palm-lined drives like Foothill and Beverly, but any of the broad streets wedged between Santa Monica and Sunset will do when the connotation is primal California affluence. In the Flats, teardowns began at 2 million bucks and pumped-up piles of stucco can fetch more than triple that amount.

  Tourists from the East usually have the same impression of the area: so clean, so green, such miserly lots. Houses that would grace multiple acreage in Greenwich or Scarsdale or Shaker Heights are shoehorned onto half-acre rectangles. That doesn’t stop the residents from erecting thirteen-thousand-square-foot imitations of Newport mansions that elbow their neighbors.

  The Bartell house was one of those, a hulking, flat-faced wedding cake set behind a pitiful front yard that was mostly circular d
riveway. White fencing topped with gold finials shielded the property. A security sign promising ARMED RESPONSE hung near the electric gate. Through the fence, double doors with frosted-glass panes were backlit teal green. Above them, a giant porthole showcased a white-hot chandelier. No vehicles in front; a four-car garage provided ample shelter for automotive pets.

  Milo inhaled, and said, “Once more with feeling,” and we got out. Cars zipped by on Sunset, but North Camden Drive was still. Beverly Hills has a thing for trees, and the ones lining Camden were magnolias that would’ve loved South Carolina. Here they were stunted by drought and smog, but a few were flowering, and I could smell their fragrance.

  Milo punched a button on the squawk box. A man barked, “Yes?”

  “Mr. Bartell?”

  “Who is this?”

  “Police.”

  “About what?”

  “Could we come in please, sir?”

  “What’s this about?”

  Milo frowned. “Your daughter, sir.”

  “My— hold on.”

  Seconds later, lights flooded the front of the house. Now I saw that the glass doors were flanked by orange trees in pots. One was failing. The doors swung open, and a tall man walked across the driveway. He stopped fifteen feet from us, shaded his eyes with his hands, took three steps more, into the floodlights, like a performer.

  “What’s this all about?” said a deep, hoarse voice.

  Stan Bartell stepped up close. Late fifties, Palm Springs tan. A big man with powerful shoulders, a hawk nose, thin lips, a bulky chin. Waxy white hair was drawn back in a ponytail. He wore black-framed eyeglasses, a thin gold chain around his neck, and an iridescent burgundy velvet robe that brushed the ground.

  Milo produced his badge, but Bartell didn’t come any closer.

  “What about my daughter?”

  “Sir, it would really be better if we came in.”

  Bartell removed his glasses and studied us. His eyes were close-set, dark, analytic. “You’re Beverly Hills police?”

  “L.A.”

  “Then what are you doing here— I’m going to check you out, so if this is a scam, you’ve been warned.” He returned to the house, closed the doors behind him.

  We waited on the sidewalk. Headlights appeared at the south end of the block, followed by bass thumps as a Lincoln Navigator drove by slowly. Behind the wheel was a kid who looked no older than fifteen, baseball hat worn backwards, hip-hop music bellowing from the interior. The SUV continued to Sunset, cruising the Strip.

  Five minutes passed with no word or sign from Stan Bartell.

  I said, “How much detail will Beverly Hills PD give him?”

  “Who knows?”

  We waited another couple of minutes. Milo ran his hand along the white fence slats. Eyed the security sign. I knew what he was thinking: all the safety measures in the world.

  *

  The electric gate slid open. Stan Bartell stepped out of his house and stood on his front steps and waved us in. When we got to the door, he said, “The only thing they know about LAPD being here is something called a notification on a kid my daughter knows. Let me see your badge just to be safe.”

  Milo showed it to him.

  “You’re the one,” said Bartell. “So what’s with Gavin Quick?”

  “You know him?”

  “Like I said, my daughter knows him.” Bartell shoved his hands in the pockets of his robe. “Does notification mean what I think it does?”

  “Gavin Quick was murdered,” said Milo.

  “What does my daughter have to do with it?”

  “A girl was found with Gavin. Young, blond—”

  “Bullshit,” said Bartell. “Not Kayla.”

  “Where is Kayla?”

  “Out. I’ll call her on my cell phone. C’mon, I’ll show you.”

  We followed him inside. The entry hall was twenty feet high, marble-floored, a lot larger than the Quick’s living room. The house was an orgy of beige, except for amethyst-colored glass flowers everywhere. Huge, frameless, abstract canvases were all painted in variations upon that same noncommittal earth tone.

  Wordlessly, Stan Bartell led us past several other huge rooms to a studio at the rear. Wood floors and a beamed ceiling. A couch, two folding chairs, a grand piano, an electric organ, synthesizers, mixers, tape decks, an alto sax on a stand, and a gorgeous archtop guitar that I recognized as a fifty-thousand-dollar D’Aquisto in an open case.

  On the walls were framed gold records.

  Bartell slumped onto the couch, pointed an accusing finger at Milo, and pulled a phone out of his pocket. He dialed, put the phone to his ear, waited.

  No answer.

  “Doesn’t mean a thing,” he said. Then his bronze face crumpled, and he broke into wracking sobs.

  *

  Milo and I stood by helplessly.

  Finally, Bartell said, “What did that fucking little bastard do to her?”

  “Gavin?”

  “I told Kaylie he was weird, stay away. Especially since the accident— you know about his fucking accident, right? Must’ve had some kind of brain damage the little fu—”

  “His mother—”

  “Her. Crazy bitch.”

  “You’ve had problems with them.”

  “She’s nuts,” said Bartell.

  “In what way?”

  “Just weird. Never leaves the house. The problem was their son going after my angel.” Bartell’s fists were huge. He raised his eyes to the ceiling and rocked. “Oh, Jesus, this is bad, this is so fucking bad!” His eyes sparked with panic. “My wife— she’s in Aspen. She doesn’t ski, but she goes there in the summer. For shopping, the air. Oh shit, she’ll die, she’ll just crumple up and fucking die.”

  Bartell bent and grasped his knees and rocked some more. “How could this happen?”

  Milo said, “Why do you think Gavin Quick would’ve hurt Kayla?”

  “Because he was— the kid was weird. Kaylie knew him from high school. She broke up with him a bunch of times, but he kept coming back, and she kept letting him down too easy. Little bastard would show up, sniff around even when Kaylie wasn’t in. Bugging me— like kissing up to the old man would help. I work at home, I’m trying to get some work done, and the little fucker is bullshitting me about music, trying to have a conversation like he knows something. I do a lot of jingles, have deadlines, you think I want to discuss alternative punk with some stupid kid? He’d sit himself down, never want to leave. Finally, I told the maid to stop letting him in.”

  “Obsessive,” I said.

  Bartell hung his head.

  “Was he more obsessive since the accident?” said Milo.

  Bartell looked up. “So he did it.”

  “Unlikely, Mr. Bartell. No weapon was found at the scene, so my instinct is he was just a victim.”

  “What are you saying? What the fuck are you—”

  Footsteps— light footsteps— made all three of us turn.

  A pretty young girl in low-riding, skintight jeans that looked oiled and a black midriff blouse exposing a flat, tan abdomen stood in the doorway. Two belly-button pierces, one studded with turquoise. Over her shoulder was a black silk bag embroidered with silk flowers. She wore too much makeup, had a beak nose and a strong chin. Her hair was long, straight, the color of new hay. The blouse revealed luminous cleavage. A big gold “K” on a chain rested in the cleft.

  Stan Bartell’s tan faded to blotchy beige. “What the—” He slapped his hand over his heart, then reached out toward the girl with both hands. “Baby, baby!”

  The girl frowned, and said, “What, Dad?”

  CHAPTER 3

  Stan Bartell said, “Where the hell have you been?”

  Kayla Bartell stared at her father as if he’d gone mad. “Out.”

  “With who?”

  “Friends.”

  “I called your cell.”

  Kayla shrugged. “I switched it off. The club was loud, I couldn’t have heard it anyway.”
r />   Bartell started to say something, then drew her near and hugged her. She glanced at us, as if seeking rescue.

  “Da-ad.”

  “Thank God,” said Bartell. “Thank almighty God.”

  “Who are these people, Daddy?”

  Bartell let go of his daughter and glowered at us. “Leave.”

  Milo said, “Ms. Bartell—”