Milo said, "Tickets and hotel sound like a good start, Trey."

The young man slid off the sofa bed, retrieved his laptop from the floor, held the computer like a glockenspiel, and typed while standing.

Seconds later he showed us an online travel site screen.

Four-day stay at the Palo Alto Sojourner Inn, incoming and outgoing flights on Southwest.

"Satisfied?" said Franck.

"Four days," said Milo. "That's a lot of meetings."

"We made a side trip to Berkeley to confer with Professor Rosen."

Milo phoned the hotel, spoke with the desk, hung up. "Looks like you're cleared, Trey. Unless you've figured out how to be in two places simultaneously."

"Not yet, but maybe one of these days," said Franck.

"You're working on that?"

"Wait long enough, Lieutenant, and everything happens."

We left the shabby building, nearly collided with a helmeted student speeding up the footpath on a skateboard.

"Hey, watch it!"

Milo said, "Put more time into your physics homework."

"Huh?"

"Plotting trajectories, pal. Yours sucked."

The kid stared, waited until Milo 's back was turned before flipping us off. Back in the car, I said, "Fish-and-chips?"

"Something's off with Franck but I can't pinpoint it."

"There's a minuscule speech delay," I said. "Like a machine processing."

"That's it. Reminds me of a witness on the stand who's been coached. A four-year affair leaves plenty of room for rage. Too bad he's alibied tight."

"You're not buying the booty-call defense?"

"That's what it was to Elise. But young guy, experienced older woman? I'll bet Franck was a virgin when she seduced him and he grew a lot more emotionally involved than he's letting on."

The door to Franck's building opened. Franck stepped out and walked straight toward us.

"This should be interesting," said Milo, starting to roll down the window.

But Franck, staring down as he hurried, never saw us. Cutting across the lawn, he continued south.

We waited a few minutes before following him.

Two blocks south, he entered another apartment building. A whole different world from Franck's dump; this one was thirties Spanish architecture, immaculate upkeep, thoughtful landscaping. The right side of the building was a wide veranda arranged with wrought-iron furniture. Real estate ads would call the place charming and, for once, they wouldn't be lying.

We didn't sit long before Franck was out again, arm in arm with a petite dark-haired girl in jeans and a Brown sweatshirt.

Milo said, "Obviously, she went to Columbia."

Franck and the girl faced, pecked lips. Strolling to the veranda, they pushed a love seat toward the shadows, settled, held hands, kissed some more. The girl's head rested on Franck's shoulder.

Milo said, "Now I feel like a voyeur. And now it is fish-and-chips."

The pub was gone, replaced by half a storefront peddling vintage jeans, another serving fast-food Thai.

"Time to be geographically eclectic," he said. "What can I get you?"

"I'm fine."

"Don't think your discretion will shame me into fasting."

I idled by the curb as he loped into the Thai place. Something he told the counter girl made her smile. He got back in the car with bags full of takeout.

"Double order of pad to go, just in case you change your mind. Extra spice, extra shrimp, extra everything she could think of."

I cruised west on the 210 as he wielded a plastic fork and gobbled.

When he stopped to breathe, I said, "The daisy chain continues."

He wiped his mouth. "Meaning?"

"Another helpful witness. Winterthorn punted you to Hauer, Hauer to Fidella, now Franck gives you a twofer: Fidella and Martin Mendoza."

He flicked the prong of the fork. "Let's hear it for upright citizens doing their duty. Maybe two votes for Sal should put him square on my radar. If he did find out Elise was cutting him off sexually and financially, we're talking big-time hurt feelings. Which puts me right back where I started: the so-called boyfriend."

He poked noodles, wrapped up the bulk of the Thai food and bagged it.

"Not good?" I said.

"Good enough."

He appeared to doze off, but a few miles later, without opening his eyes, he said, "As far as young Master Mendoza with the temper, he's Latino, meaning he might know Spanish. Meaning he'd find it easy enough to pay Mr. Anteater for buying ice. On the other hand, murder's a pretty strong reaction to being tutored against your will and according to Franck, Mendoza had stopped showing up at Elise's place."

I said, "For tutoring."

His lids rose. "She was doing him, too?"

"Another younger man."

"Oh, boy… but with a young offender, something sexual gone bad, I'd expect disorganization, overkill. This was just the opposite, Alex. Antiseptic, staged. It doesn't feel right."

"It doesn't, unless Martin's one of those long-simmering types."

He called in an AutoTrack on Martin Mendoza. Plenty of registered drivers with that name but none in the age range. Same for a criminal record.

"Kid doesn't even have a license. Must love watching rich kids zoom into the student parking lot. Okay, gotta find him."

I said, "His father works at one of the country clubs. That narrows it down a bit."

"Hell with that." He bared teeth. "It's back-to-school for Uncle Milo."

CHAPTER 20

The Hotel Bel-Air sits on twelve of the most expensive acres on the planet, sharing precious dirt with eight-figure estates. No sidewalks in Old Bel Air discourages pedestrian riffraff. So do high walls and gates, closed-circuit cameras, guard dogs, and rent-a-cops.

Try building a hotel in Old Bel Air today and the Not-in-my-backyard roar will set off sonic booms. But when the foreign potentate who purchased the property several years ago proposed to convert the hotel to his private Xanadu, the avalanche of neighborly rage caused him to fly back home and become an absentee innkeeper.

Time can rot but it can also lay on patina, and people learn to love what they're used to. That, it occurred to me, might explain the pride north-of-Sunset Brentwood takes in hosting Windsor Preparatory Academy's sixteen-acre campus. A core belief in the value of education isn't the reason; the merest suggestion of constructing a public school in the district can bring down a city councilman.

Prep occupies a remote pocket of Brentwood, at the end of a northern cul-de-sac. No signage advertises its presence. A thousand feet of two-way, cobbled drive heralded by fifteen-foot gateposts winds its way toward a guardhouse equipped with a yardarm. Beyond the barrier, a generous roundabout leads to baroque iron gates offering a glimpse of the rarefied world beyond.

Sixteen acres is ample space, per the school's website, for a dozen buildings fashioned in classic Monterey Colonial style, an Olympic pool, an indoor gym complete with yoga room and full-court basketball, a regulation football field, ditto baseball diamond. The nine-hole golf course is a recent addition in response to student interest. Even with all that, when season and air quality permit, expansive lawns and drought-tolerant plantings provide the opportunity for outdoor seminars, or simply for gaining an appreciation of environmental integrity during moments of contemplation.

The Prep day begins at eight thirty a.m. By eight, Milo and I were watching the motor traffic that streamed in and out of the entry road. Long queue but well mannered, no one fussing. The slow pace gave us plenty of time to scan vehicles for the face that matched Martin Mendoza's MySpace page.

It also allowed drivers and passengers to study us, but Milo didn't seem to care.

Mendoza 's social networking seemed halfhearted: some underplayed baseball triumph, no list of friends, not a word on the career-killing injury. The few photos provided depicted a tall, husky, dark-eyed, crew-cut boy with muscular shoulders, thick eyebrows, and full, downturned lips. Even while posing with a middle school MVP trophy Martin Mendoza came across grim.