Milo said, “Ladies.”

Madeleine folded her arms across her bosom and nodded. The other two women stared.

Melissa said, “We’re waiting for Sabino- the gardener. He lives in Pasadena. It shouldn’t take long.” To us: “They were waiting in their rooms. I couldn’t see any reason why they shouldn’t be able to come out. Or even why you shouldn’t get started right now. I already asked them-”

The doorbell cut her short.

She said, “One sec,” and ran down the stairs. I watched her from the top of the landing, followed her descent to the front door. Before she got there, Ramp was opening it. Sabino Hernandez walked in, trailed by his five sons. All six men had on short-sleeved sports shirts and slacks and stood at parade rest. One wore a bolo tie; a couple had on sparkling white guayaberas. They began glancing around- awestruck by circumstances or the scale of the house. I wondered how many times, after all these years, they’d actually been inside.

We assembled in the front room. Milo standing, note pad and pen out, everyone else sitting on the edges of the overstuffed chairs. Nine years had turned Hernandez into a very old man- white-haired, hunched, and loose-jawed. His hands had a permanent tremor. He looked too frail for physical labor. His sons, transformed from boys to men by the same stretch of time, surrounded him like stakeposts protecting an ailing tree.

Milo asked his questions, told them to search their memories very carefully. Got wet eyes from the women, bright stares from the men.

The only new development was an eyewitness account of Gina’s departure. Two of the Hernandez sons had been working in the front of the house at the time Gina Ramp had driven out. One of them, Guillermo, had been pruning a tree near the driveway and had actually seen her drive by. Seen her clearly, because he’d been standing to the right of the right-hand drive Rolls-Royce, and the tinted window had been rolled down.

The seÑora hadn’t been smiling or frowning- just a serious look.

Both hands on the steering wheel.

Driving very slowly.

She hadn’t noticed him or said goodbye.

That was a little unusual- the seÑora was usually very friendly. But no, she hadn’t looked frightened or upset. Not angry, either. Something else- he searched for the word in English. Conferred with his brother. Hernandez Senior looked straight ahead, seemed cut off from the proceedings.

Thinking, said Guillermo. She looked as if she’d been thinking about something.

“Any idea what?” Milo asked.

Guillermo shook his head.

Milo addressed the question to all of them.

Blank faces.

One of the Hispanic maids began crying again.

Madeleine prodded her and stared straight ahead.

Milo asked the Frenchwoman if she had something to add.

She said Madame was a wonderful person.

Non. She had no idea where Madame had gone.

Non, Madame hadn’t taken anything with her other than her purse. Her Judith Leiber black calfskin purse. The only one she owned. Madame didn’t like a lot of different things but what she had was excellent. Madame was… trÈs classique.

More tears from Lupe and Rebecca.

The Hernandezes shifted in their seats.

Lost looks from all of them. Ramp stared at his knuckles. Even Melissa seemed drained of fight.

Milo probed gently, then more insistently. Doing as deft a job as I’d ever seen.

Coming up with nothing.

A tangible sense of helplessness settled over the room.

During the course of Milo’s questions, no pecking order had emerged, no one stepping forth to speak for the group.

Once upon a time it had been different.

Looks like Jacob’s a good friend.

He takes care of everything.

Dutchy had never been replaced.

Now this.

As if the big house were being assaulted by destiny, allowed to crumble, piece by piece.

17

Milo dismissed the staff and asked for a place to work. Ramp said, “Anywhere’s okay.”

Melissa said, “The downstairs study,” and led us to the windowless room with the Goya painting. The desk at the center was white and French and much too small for Milo. He sat behind it, tried to get comfortable, gave up, and swung his glance from wall to book-lined wall.

“Nice view.”

Melissa said, “Father used it as his study. He designed it without windows for maximum concentration.”

Milo said, “Uh-huh.” He opened desk drawers and closed them. Took out his note pad and placed it on the desk. “Got any phone books?”

Melissa said, “Here,” and opened a cabinet beneath the shelves. Removing an armful of directories, she piled them in front of Milo, obscuring the bottom half of his face. “The black one on top’s a San Labrador private directory. Even people who don’t list their numbers in the regular phone book put them in here.”

Milo divided the books into two short stacks. “Let’s start with her credit-card numbers.”

“She has all the major ones,” said Ramp, “but I don’t know the numbers offhand.”

“Where does she keep her statements?”

“At the bank. First Fiduciary, here in San Labrador. The bills go straight there and the bank pays them.”

Milo turned to Melissa. “Know any numbers?” She shook her head and gave a guilty look, like a student caught unprepared.

Milo scribbled. “What about her driver’s license number?”

Silence.

“Easy enough to get from the DMV,” said Milo, still writing. “Let’s go for vital statistics- height, weight, birthdate, maiden name.”

“Five eight and a half,” said Melissa. “Around a hundred and twenty-five pounds. Her birthday’s March twenty-third. Her maiden name’s Paddock. Regina Marie Paddock.” She spelled it.

Milo said, “Year of birth?”

“Nineteen forty-six.”

“Social security number?”

“I don’t know.”

Ramp said, “I’ve never seen her card- I’m sure Glenn Anger can get you the number from her tax returns.”

Milo said, “She doesn’t keep any papers around the house?”

“Not as far as I know.”

“The San Labrador police didn’t ask you for any of those things?”

“No,” said Ramp. “Maybe they figured on getting the information elsewhere- from the city rolls.”

Melissa said, “Right.”

Milo put down his pen. “Okay, time to get to work.” He reached for the phone.

Neither Ramp nor Melissa budged.

Milo said, “Feel free to stick around for the show, but if you’re drowsy, I promise this will finish you off.”

Melissa frowned and left the room quickly.

Ramp said, “I’ll leave you to your duties, Mr. Sturgis,” and turned heel.

Milo picked up the phone.

I went looking for Melissa and found her in the kitchen, looking in one of the wall lockers. She pulled out a bottle of orange soda, twisted the cap, got a glass from an upper cabinet, and poured. Carelessly. Some of the soda spilled on the counter. She didn’t attempt to clean it.

Still unaware of my presence, she raised the glass to her lips and gulped so quickly it made her cough. Sputtering, she slapped her chest. Saw me and slapped harder. When the paroxysms died, she said, “Oh, that was attractive.” In a smaller voice: “Can’t do anything right.”

I came closer, ripped a piece of paper towel from a roll impaled upon a wooden holder, and mopped up the spill.

She said, “Let me do that,” and took the towel. Wiped spots that were already dry.

“I know how rough this has been for you,” I said. “Two days ago we were talking about Harvard.”

“Harvard,” she said. “Big damned deal.”

“Hopefully it’ll return to being a big deal soon.”

“Yeah, right. As if I could ever leave now.”

Wadding up the towel, she tossed it onto the counter. Lifted her head and looked straight at me, inviting debate.