"Trying to sell her a guitar."

"Drums, their oldest plays the drums, you can hear it a mile away when he practices. One day he catches Karen as she's driving up, tells her doesn't sound like Ryan's drum kit's any good. She says it's fine. He says it's really not, he can get her a better one, cheap. Karen says no thanks, we're fine, he gets pushy the same way he did with Dara. Karen's tougher than Dara, she yells at him to back off."

"Did he?"

"Yeah. But he had a foot in her door, that's weird, no?"

"Anything else about him we should know, Mr…"

"Roland Staubach," said the man. "I go by Rolly. This is a nice family block, he lives by himself, never goes to work. So tell me, how'd he get that Corvette? And that ginormous flat-screen?"

"You've been inside his house?"

"Me? Why should I?"

"You saw his flat-screen."

"It's right in front and sometimes he opens those sheets he uses for curtains. I'll be walking Rufus and he's right there for the whole world to see. Sitting on the couch in his underwear drinking and watching his flat-screen. When I saw you drive up in that unmarked, I said finally, someone I can talk to."

"You know about unmarkeds," said Milo.

"I used to drive for one of the tow-yard services used by your department. Van Bruggen's, over in Silverlake? Once in a while I hooked up an unmarked. So what'd he do?"

"Nothing," said Milo.

"Nothing? You knocked on his door."

"He's a potential witness, Mr. Staubach."

"To what?"

"Nothing that concerns the neighborhood. Is there anything else you want to tell me about him?"

"He gives me a bad feeling," said Staubach. "Anytime he gets in that Corvette, guns the engine like he does, Rufus is at the front window, all tense." Rubbing the dog's neck. "Also, he never goes to a regular job, this is a working block. I drive for UPS, work weekends at Mack's Aquarium in Tarzana. Dara's a teacher's aide at the kids' school, for tuition. Doug and Karen are both at Con Edison. The Millers down the block are respiratory therapists, everyone's working like crazy except him."

"How long has he lived here?" said Milo.

"He was already here when we moved in, that's a year and a half ago."

"Thanks, Mr. Staubach. We'll be back to talk to him."

"You could talk to him now, Officer."

"He's home?"

"I saw him pulling that Corvette into the driveway around four thirty, never saw him leave. Gunning it, like he always does, Rufus was up at the window, all tense. Then an hour ago the Corvette starts up again only this time no gunning and Rufus is relaxed so I go check it out. Some other guy's driving it away. Some kid."

"How old of a kid?" said Milo.

"Didn't get a long look at him but I could see him through the open window and it sure wasn't Fidella."

"We talking teenager?"

"Could be. I really didn't see that good."

"Caucasian?"

"Not black, that's for sure," said Staubach.

"Hair color?"

"Couldn't tell you."

"Could he have been Hispanic?"

"All I can say is light enough so he wasn't black. Or maybe he was black but a light black. I figured maybe he's Fidella's kid, a divorce situation, Fidella never sees him, that would fit. With his character, you know?"

"You figured Fidella loaned him his car."

"I guess… you're thinking the car got stolen?"

"Was the kid inside Fidella's house?"

"That I can't tell you. You're thinking this kid hot-wired it or something?"

"You're sure Fidella wasn't in the passenger seat?"

"I guess he could've been. All I saw was someone at the wheel."

Milo looked up and down the block. "There was enough light?"

Staubach pointed. "He passed right under that street lamp, Officer. I wouldn't tell you something I saw when I didn't."

"What was the kid wearing?"

"All I saw was his head," said Staubach. "That's my point, I'm not gonna make stuff up."

"Have there been any other car thefts in the neighborhood?"

"You know, last year, Mr. Feldman-he's an old man, his wife just died, that blue house with all the flowers. Last year, someone drove off in Mr. Feldman's Cadillac, middle of the night, rolled it right out of his driveway. It got found in East L.A., tires gone, the moonroof cut out. That's why you asked about Hispanic? Some kind of East L.A. gangbangers? Yeah, sure, he could've been."

"You saw this kid drive off an hour ago."

"What time is it now?"

"Nine fifteen."

"Then it's an hour and a quarter. So what's next, Officer?"

"I'll give Mr. Fidella another try."

"Great idea."

Milo said, "Looks like Rufus is itching for his walk."

"Already walked him," said Staubach.

"Then I guess he deserves a nice rest."

"Wha-oh, sure, I'll stay out of your way. But keep in touch, okay? We're a block likes to know what's going on."

Another try at Fidella's front door brought the same result.

He peered across the street at Staubach's house. Neatly pleated drapes ruffled as someone moved.

I said, "Your year for helpful citizens."

"Must be El Nino."

We continued up Fidella's cracked driveway. The yard was an unlit patch of dirt or grass-too dark to tell which. High hedges loomed on three sides. The rear door was wood set with a glass panel. The single garage was bolted shut.

No illumination. Milo pulled out his little fiber-optic flashlight, held it high, the way cops are trained to do, aimed at a rusty light fixture over the rear door. "Empty socket, lots of rust. Sal's behind in his maintenance." A rap on the panel was followed by silence. He cast a cool white beam over the property.

Mostly dirt, some weeds, a single struggling orange tree. The hedge was ficus, worn bare in spots by disease and backed by cement block.

A second go-round, closer to the rear of the property, picked up something lying near the hedge.

What looked to be a roll of carpeting. Closer inspection showed it to be a cloth tube, fattened by substantial content.

Giant sausage.

Person-sized sausage.

Milo held me back instinctively, inched forward, scanned. Stopped.

Clamping the flashlight in one armpit, he gloved up. Lit up the dirt separating him from the package. Bent at the knees.

"Footprints… looks like some sort of sneaker."

Shifting to the left, he skirted the prints, checked the ground for other signs of disruption, inched his way toward the roll of cloth. Stooping, he held the flashlight in his teeth, peeled back a corner of sheeting.

"Bald head," he announced. "Cracked like an egg, lots of blood."

He got up, walked backward. "Can't move anything until the C.I. gets here but anyone taking bets this ain't Sal?"

I said, "No good odds on that one."

Three hours later, Fidella's body had been taken to the crypt. Blood spatter freckled the kitchen of the house, including some fairly heavy ceiling castoff. A pool cue coated with skin and brain matter stood propped in a corner, bloody sneaker prints trailed through the hallway near the linen closet. Under strong light, red specks darkening the dirt outside grew visible.

Despite all the blood, no sign of a struggle. Milo's working hypothesis was a blunt-force blitz near the kitchen sink, followed by wrapping of the body in a blanket and three fitted sheets taken from the linen closet and a dump in a corner of the yard. No argument from the C.I. or anyone else.

Techs dusted and processed. Van Nuys uniforms guarded the yellow tape out front. A gray-haired, stoop-shouldered Van Nuys detective named Wally Fishell showed up after the body was gone, looking sleepy and put-upon. After getting the facts from Milo, he said, "I'm happy to work with you, Lieutenant, but if you see this as fruit from the tree you planted, that's fine with me."

"Meaning farewell and good luck."