“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 is the secret? Lauren found out somehow, tried to profit from it. Talk about something worth killing for.”
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.
“Please . . . this is not. . . this is. . .”
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.
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.