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“Anything on the canvass, kid?”
She said, “I wish. The properties are spread out and maybe twenty percent of the houses seem to actually be occupied. Of the people I did make contact with, no one heard a thing. What’s with the ghost-town atmosphere, Loo?”
“These are second- and third-home people. Did you get to the neighbors directly behind the scene?”
“Yup. Ginormous place, older couple with three German shepherds. They had no clue, were totally freaked out. It’s like two acres from their house to the fence line and the back is like a forest so I can see them not hearing the shots.”
“The dogs didn’t bark?”
“These dogs, Loo, are about the same vintage as their owners. One had filmy eyes and just sat there, another licked my hand and rolled over for a tummy scratch, and the third dragged around looking totally out of it. Also, they sleep in the bedroom and there’s a noise machine going.”
“Everyone comfy, cozy, and unaware.”
“You got it,” said Alicia. “I felt bad having to tell them, they really got spooked. But better to be prepared, no? Not that they’re likely to be targeted, this feels focused, don’t you think? Not some maniac on the prowl.”
“Agreed,” he said. “Learned something about the male victim.” He told her about the shoes.
She said, “Aggiunta? Never heard of them.”
“Maybe they only make men’s stuff.”
“Probably,” she said. “Women’s, I’m an expert.”
“That so.”
“Believe it or not, Loo, off the job I can get girlie. Scored myself a pair of Jimmy Choos at the Nordstrom sale last year. Big heels, you know how tall Al is. Want me to look into the company?”
“Appreciate it. Where are Moe and Sean?”
“Moe was canvassing with me and Sean was on his way but both of them got called in, don’t know for what.”
“Not you.”
“Well,” she said, “sometimes I getsomuch static on my radio.”
When we got to the staff lot, Milo said, “You up for checking out Meagin’s place? If I get lucky, Dougie-with-two-esses will be sitting there with a guilty look on his face, on the verge of confessing. It’s right on the way back to your place so we’ll take separate cars.”
“Makes sense.”
“Also,” he said, “God forbid my lead-foot should cause anxiety.”
—
The residence of Meagin and Douglass March was a two-hundred-foot-wide, Palladian Revival manor. Three stories of cream-colored limestone were lidded by a stout slate roof. A columned entry sheltered a massive glass-and-brass door. On either side of the structure were wide passageways angling around the house.
Stained stone and darkening at the seams created a patina youcouldn’t fake. This was one of the original Bel Air dream palaces erected during the twenties. The decade had started off grandly only to be murdered by the Great Depression.
The front of the property was walled with ten feet of piled rock that, combined with an even higher iron gate, discouraged drop-ins. Through the slats of the gate, a park-like stretch of lawn was centered by a sinuous driveway lined with topiary balls.
Milo was parked, reading his notepad. I slipped behind him and the two of us walked to the gate where he stabbed the call-box button.
Five phone rings before a woman’s voice said, “Yes?”
“Police, ma’am. Please let us in.”
Most people hearing that ask questions. This time the line went dead. Seconds later, the front door swung open and a woman in a pale-blue maid’s uniform stepped between the columns and peered out.
Milo gave a small wave and held up his badge.
