I drove west, past Century City and south to Pico, continued half a mile past Rancho Park and the radar gun of a stone-faced motorcycle cop. Milo waved at the officer, but he didn’t return the gesture. McConnell was a lovely street, hilly and winding and, unlike the horticulturally regimented arteries of Beverly Hills, graced by an adventurous mix of street trees.
Koppel’s house was a two-story brick Tudor set high on a knoll above thirty stone steps. The steep driveway would have been a challenge for a car with a puny engine. No sign of the Mercedes, but the garage door was closed.
Milo said, “Maybe she was more scared of two murders in her practice than she let on and decided to take a little vacation.”
“With no advance notice to her patients?”
“Fear can do that to you.” He eyed the climb. “Okay, pass the pitons and let’s start the climb. How’re your CPR skills?”
*
He trudged up first, muttering, “At least there’s a view,” and I followed two steps behind. He was huffing and gasping by the time we got to the top.
“With . . . this,” he panted, “she . . . doesn’t need . . . a . . . damnhomegym.”
Up close, the house was beautifully kept, windows sparkling, copper gutters spotless, carved oak door freshly varnished. Plantings of ferns and elephant ear and papyrus and white roses softened the used-brick front. A stone pot of mixed herbs bathed the covered entrance in fragrance. A multitrunk jacaranda formed the centerpiece of the tiny, perfect lawn. Between its branches was an eastern panorama: the L.A. basin and the San Gabriel Mountains beyond. Despite the smog blanket, staggering. As Milo rang the bell, I stared out at miles of terrain and thought what I always think: way too big for one city.
No one answered. He tried again, knocked, said, “With her car gone, no big surprise, but let’s be thorough.”
We walked around the left side of the house to a small square of backyard dominated by a lap pool and more thick planting. High ficus hedging on three sides prevented scrutiny by the neighbors. The pool was gray-bottomed and immaculate. A covered patio covered a brick barbecue with a built-in chimney, outdoor furniture, potted flowers. A hummingbird feeder dangled from a crossbeam, and, off in a corner, a miniature fountain—a bamboo spout tipping into a tiny barrel—burbled prettily.
The rear wall was a bank of French doors. Three sets were blocked by drapes. One wasn’t and Milo went over and peered in.
“Oh my,” he said.
I went over to have a look.
The back room was set up with white leather sofas, glass side tables, an oak-and-granite wet bar, and a five-foot-wide plasma TV with accompanying stereo gizmos. The TV was tuned to a game show. Ecstatic contestants jumped as if on trampolines. Great color and definition.
Off to the left side, Mary Lou Koppel slumped on one of the sofas, facing us, her back to the screen. Her limbs were splayed, and her head was thrown back, mouth gaping, eyes staring at the vaulted ceiling.
Staring sightlessly. Something long and silver protruded from her chest, and her color belonged to nothing living.
All around her, white leather was blotched rusty red.
*
We remained outside as Milo called in the techies, the coroner, and two black-and-whites for sentry work. In twenty minutes, the scene was bustling.
The coroner was an Asian woman who spoke little English and slipped away without conferring. The coroner’s investigator, a heavy, gray-mustachioed man named Arnold Mattingly, emerged and said, “Cho says she’s all yours, Milo.”
Milo frowned. “She’s gone?”
“She’s busier than we’ll ever be,” said Mattingly. “Lots of bodies piled up at the morgue.”
“She give you any prelim?”
“Looks like stabbed in the chest with a letter opener, shot through the head. I know you like to draw your own DB chart, but if you want a copy of mine, I’ll xerox it.”
“Thanks, Arnie. Which came first, the stabbing or the shooting?”
“Not for me to guess, and Cho isn’t talking much today.” Mattingly cupped his hand but kept his voice loud. “Her husband left her.”