" Sandy was promiscuous?"

" Sandy was a slut. Never stopped banging other guys the whole time we were married. Out at night all the time, I was a dumb-ass, believed those stories about Scrabble club, bridge, gardening."

"Same for Elise?"

"Elise once came on to me. Sandy was in the kitchen, Elise makes a grab for my you-know-what. I look at her like are you out of your mind, she pretends it never happened. They're both good at that. Pretending."

"What was their mother like?"

"Also dead by the time I met Sandy. Sandy never talked about her, like she didn't exist."

"At what school was the father principal?"

"Some black public school, I don't know."

"What was his name?"

"Cyrus Freeman," he said. "Ph.D., Sandy kept reminding me of that, how she'd lowered herself marrying a guy with only one year at Towson. Meanwhile, she's screwing half the population of Baltimore and spending my money like she's a member of Congress."

S. Freeman Stuehr was listed in the Santa Barbara book. Her voice-mail message was warm and friendly, offered in a voice as silky as her ex's was ragged.

"Hi there, whoever you are, this is Sandy. I'm sure I'd love to talk to you but either I'm out or just catching a little California sunshine. So please leave a message."

Tempting offer, but I resisted.

One hit for cyrus freeman: a tiny squib in the Baltimore Sun.

Plans to name the auditorium at Chancellor Middle School in West Baltimore after its former principal had been deferred due to "institutional and budgetary concerns, including the expense of new signage."

I got on the phone. Milo picked up.

"Found you some next of kin, Big Guy." I filled in the details.

"Nothing like bitter exes for filling in blanks. Thanks for taking the time, Alex. Two lying sluts, huh? There's a clinical diagnosis for you."

" Sandy lives ninety miles away but hasn't contacted you, so most likely she doesn't know Elise has been murdered. That suggests the sisters weren't close. That could make her a less useful informant. On the other, she may be willing to give up some interesting details."

"I love Santa Barbara. Give me her number."

After he copied it down, I said, "Frank Stuehr's judgment is clouded by animosity but he's right about the link between a sexually abusive father and promiscuity." I told him about the change in Chancellor School 's plans.

"The expense of signage," he said. "That's a new one. You're thinking something came out about Ol' Cyrus's past. A middle school, oh, man."

"Inner-city kids would be easy victims. Especially back then. Elise told Fidella her father was rough on her but she never said it was sexual. Clouding the truth is a common defense mechanism and that could've led to a lifelong pattern. Case in point: lying about where she attended college. I checked out Blessed Heart and it's a small, well-thought-of Catholic woman's college with high standards, by no means inferior to U. Maryland. So it's not like she was padding her resume."

"Lying for the hell of it?"

"That's possible," I said. "But I thought of something else: Turns out Blessed Heart's campus is two blocks from Chancellor Middle, so maybe she grew up in that neighborhood. That district is also close to the Pimlico racetrack. What if she developed an early affinity for gambling-and gamblers."

"Fidella," he said. "Yeah, blowing a jackpot in one day says he's probably got gaming issues. Maybe she did, too, and that's why one or both of them hatched up an extortion scheme. Then she changes her mind. My dear vic led a complicated life, talk about multitasking."

"Maybe just the opposite. She compartmentalized-divided her life into little boxes-trying to keep things simple."

"Esteemed teacher by day, wild girl by night. And somehow she ends up in the freezer compartment."

CHAPTER 16

Milo was at my house by nine the following morning. We took the Seville to Santa Barbara because "two hours on the road, pal, I like leather and functional A.C."

I said, "How'd the sister react to the news?"

"Gasped once, then she got calm pretty fast. Sexy voice. Like Elise's on the disc minus the depression."

As I drove up the Glen, he unwrapped the skirt-steak/baked-chicken/bacon/fried-potatoes-on-rye sandwich he'd constructed from leftovers scrounged in my fridge. Hydration came from slurps of Diet Dr Pepper in a half-liter bottle he'd brought with him.

By the time I reached Mulholland, he was phoning and eating, trying to find out why his priority request for Elise Freeman's phone records had received no response. Drones at her carrier kept transferring him, then cut him off. A second attempt produced "technical issues" as an excuse.

When he inquired about the subpoena of her financials at the D.A.'s office, he was informed of "transfer delays." He tried Deputy D.A. John Nguyen, who put him on hold.

One minute later, Milo clicked off, scowling. "John can't cut through the fog, either."

"Everything gets shunted to the chief's office."

"Hardening of the procedural arteries." Clutching his chest in mock horror, he buried his face in animal protein. Gulping fast, without taking a breath. More distraction than gustatory pleasure.

I picked up the 405 North at Sepulveda, merged to the 134 West, coasted through the western reaches of the Valley as it turned into the 101. Speeding past brown-felt hills and plugs of the heroic trees that gave Thousand Oaks its cachet, I cut through the widening gullies and ambitious peaks of Camarillo. A few exits north and plein-air ceded to concrete: one beige mall after another.

A razor-straight shot through the agricultural bounty of Oxnard and Ventura took us past Carpinteria, where the Pacific became a western neighbor. Flat, blue, breaking frothily, the water soft-sold peace of mind. Sea lions bobbed, surfers took advantage of swells, tankers big enough to merit a zip code floated on the horizon. A few miles before Santa Barbara, the rich green buffer formed by the old-growth vegetation of Montecito cooled and sweetened the air. Global warming on your mind? Plant a tree.

Santa Barbara announced itself with a glorious lagoon that rimmed Cabrillo Boulevard 's eastern edge. To the west, the ocean persisted. Tourists worked both sides of the sun-kissed thoroughfare on bikes and pedicabs. Sandra Freeman Stuehr lived a few miles past Stearn's Wharf, west of State, in a mint-green bungalow on a quiet, shady street. Three individual units on an eighth-acre lot. Hers faced the street.

Not that different in style from her sister's home, but none of the isolation.

She came to the door holding a coffee mug and flexing a bare foot. She wore a crisp, black linen mandarin-collar blouse, butter-yellow walking shorts, hoop earrings, half a dozen gold bangles. Her toenails were polished scarlet, her fingers glazed flesh pink. Honey-blond hair was clipped in a pageboy.

Thirty pounds heavier than Elise and two years younger, she had bone-china skin, clear blue eyes, and a way with makeup that widened the age gap; she could've passed for late twenties.

Milo made the introductions. Sandra Stuehr's handshake was topped by a quick little after-squeeze, the merest pressure of warm fingertip on knuckle. She beckoned us in, curling hair around an index finger, cocking a hip, and secreting Chanel No. 5. A perfect hourglass shape was enhanced by an even cushion of firm flesh. Back in Reubens's day, painters would've lined up for the privilege.

Milo said, "So sorry for your loss."

"Thank you. I'm ready to help you with whatever I can." Brief pout but no evidence of tear-tracks and her sapphire eyes sparkled. "Coffee? I'm having a refill."

"If it's no trouble."

"It's no trouble at all." Pivoting like a dancer, she crossed to a bright, open kitchen with a view of coral bougainvillea.