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outside
threat. Maybe I was wrong about Jane Doe being the target. What if the goal was
to eliminate Backer, after all, and Jane was collateral damage?”
    “Or,”
he said, “Jane was more than a fling for Backer. Or both she and Marjie
thought they were number one, meaning a woman scorned.” Grimacing. “Just what I
need, a bigger suspect pool… freshening the poor guy up . Why wouldn’t she design him an elevator or something?”
    “Plus,”
I said, “her alibi for last night is meaningless. She went to sleep, got up.
The same goes for Ned’s physical limitations because he could’ve paid to get
the job done. Either of them could’ve. A pro job would also be consistent with
careful planning, positioning the bodies just so.”
    He
worried a pendulous earlobe. “Stunningly Shakespearean, Alex. Now all I need is
something remotely close to evidence, say documentation of a torrid romance
between Marjie and Backer and either one of the Holmans paying a killer for
hire. Hell, long as we’re dreaming,I wouldn’t mind a
warm spot in Warren Buffett’s heart. Right now, I’ll settle for finding out who
Jane Doe is.”
    As I
drove away, he phoned the crypt, learned the bodies were still in the delivery
bay waiting processing. He squinted at his Timex. “Damn numerals keep getting
smaller … two fifteen, let’s see if we can find Bettina Sanfelice and Sheryl
Passant. If they’re working as well as living in the Valley, there’s time to
make it over the hill before the rush. Also, I know an Italian place. You up
for it?”
    “Sure.”
    As we
rolled out of the canal district, he said, “Some victim I’ve got. That mix of
glands and charisma, he shoulda run for office.”
    The
clown-show that poses as the California legislature had finally bucked
phone-company lobbyists long enough to pass a hands-free law. The system I’d
installed delighted Milo, because he can sit back and smoke and grunt and
stretch and scan the streets for bad guys while he chats.
    As I
approached Lincoln Avenue, he began punching in numbers. No one picked up at
Sheryl Passant’s Van Nuys apartment, but Bettina Sanfelice’s North Hollywood
landline was answered by a slurry-voiced woman who said, “Yeah?”
    “Is
this Bettina?”
    “No.”
    “Does
Bettina live there?”
    “Who’s
this?”
    “L.A.
police lieutenant Milo Sturgis.”
    “Who?”
    He
repeated, taking pains to go slow.
    “Police?”
    “Yes,
ma’am.”
    “Tina’s
okay?”
    “I
need to talk to her about a case.”
    “A
case? What case?”
    “Someone
she worked with was murdered.”
    “Who?”
    “Desmond
Backer.”
    “Don’t
know him.”
    “Ma’am—”
    “I’m
her mother. She’s out.”
    “Could
you please tell me where?”
    “How
do I know you’re not some maniac?”
    “I’ll
give you my number at the police station and you can verify.”
    “How
do I know you’re not giving me some phony number?”
    “Feel
free to look it up. West L.A. Division, on Butler—”
    “I
should do all the work?”
    “Ma’am,”
said Milo, “I appreciate your caution but I need to talk to Bettina.”
    Silence.
    “Mrs.
Sanfelice—”
    “She
went to T.G.I. Friday’s.”
    “Which
one?”
    “All
the way in Woodland Hills, I don’t know the address. She likes the burgers,
you’d never catch me wasting gas for that.”
    “What
was she wearing?”
    “How
would I know?”
    “She
doesn’t live with you?”
    “She
sure does, ’cause she still don’t have no job. That don’t mean I pay attention
to her clothes.”
    Click.
    He
phoned Detective Moe Reed, asked for DMV statistics on the intern.
    The
young cop said, “I was just about to call you, Loo. Prints on Backer and the
female vic got run through AFIS but unfortunately nothing kicked back …”
    “I
already knew that.”
    “You
did?”
    “It’s
been that kind of day.” He spelled Sanfelice’s name.
    Seconds
later Reed said, “Sanfelice, Bettina Morgana, thirty yearsold,
five five, hundred and ten,