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Same vote of confidence I’d gotten from Julie Beck. Coming from the woman I loved, it had more currency but I still saw no obvious solution.
Let it go, wait and see.
I kissed her again, longer, deeper.
She said, “Looks like euphemisms pay off.”
At two p.m. I drove to the Aggiunta/March murder house. The street was quiet but for one gardener watering a blood-red azalea hedge several properties north.
After dark this would be a ghost town. Nice for someone who craved bucolic privacy. Even better for someone out to end life.
The yellow tape had been removed and the driveway the killer had used to gain entry was now blocked by a chain-link rent-a-fence.
Barn door, horse.
I drove a few aimless blocks before heading toward grander digs.
A bit more activity in the estate section of Bel Air. Multiple gardeners, delivery trucks, and uniformed maids strolling, leashed to dogs.
At the house the Marches hadn’t bothered to pretend was home, a maid with no canine in tow walked along the stone wall engaged withher phone. When she reached the edge of the property, she reversed and continued, still talking.
The older domestic—Irma Ruiz.
I pulled up alongside her and rolled down the passenger window. She gave a start, turned, muttered something to the phone and slipped it into her pocket.
“Hi, Ms. Ruiz.”
“Hi.” She forced a smile with vibrating lips. Wide eyes blinked rapidly before settling on a point well to my left.
I said, “Everything okay?”
“You need to come in?”
“Not right now, thanks.”
My answer revved up her anxiety.Then why are you here!
I said, “Is Mr. March home?”
“No, no, sir.”
“Any idea where he is?”
“No.”
“He didn’t say where he was going?”
“A car pick him up.”
“To go to the airport?”
Nod.
“When was this?”
“Seven in the morning.”
“Any idea where Mr. March was flying?”
