The Murder Book

The nearest neighbor was to the south, well separated from the colonial by the broad lawns of both houses. A much smaller, meticulously maintained one-story ranch emblazoned with flower beds and fronted by dwarf junipers trimmed Japanese-style. The northern border of the Cossack property was marked by a ten-foot stone wall that went on for a good thousand feet up Stone Canyon. Probably some multiacre estate, a humongous chateau pushed back too far from the street to be visible.

Milo walked across the dry lawn and the colonial's empty driveway, up to the ranch house's front door. Teak door, with a shiny brass knocker shaped like a swan. Off to the right a small cement Shinto shrine presided over a tiny, babbling stream.

A very tall woman in her late sixties answered his ring. Stout and regal with puffy, rouged cheeks, she wore her silver hair tied back in a bun so tight it looked painful, had sheathed her impressive frame in a cream kimono hand-painted with herons and butterflies. In one liver-spotted hand was an ivory-handled brush with pointed bristles tipped with black ink. Even in black satin flat slippers she was nearly eye level with Milo. Heels would have made her a giantess.

"Ye-es?" Watchful eyes, deliberate contralto.

Out came the badge. "Detective Sturgis, Mrs…"

"Schwartzman. What brings a detective to Bel Air?"

"Well, ma'am, last Friday your neighbors had a party-"

"A party," she said, as if the description was absurd. She aimed the brush at the empty Colonial. "More like rooting at the trough. The aptly named Cossacks."

"Aptly named?"

"Barbarians," said Mrs. Schwartzman. "A scourge."

"You've had problems with them before."

"They lived there for less than two years, let the place go to seed. That's their pattern, apparently. Move in, degrade, move out."

"To something bigger."

"But of course. Bigger is better, right? They're vulgarians. No surprise, given what the father does."

"What does he do?"

"He destroys period architecture and substitutes grotesquerie. Packing cartons pretending to be office buildings, those drive-in monstrosities- strip malls. And she… desperately blond, the sweaty anxiety of an arriviste. Both of them gone all the time. No supervision for those brats."

"Mrs. Schwart-"

"If you'd care to be precise, it's Dr. Schwartzman."

"Pardon me, Doctor-"

"I'm an endocrinologist- retired. My husband is Professor Arnold Schwartzman, the orthopedic surgeon. We've lived here twenty-eight years, had wonderful neighbors for twenty-six- the Cantwells, he was in metals, she was the loveliest person. The two of them passed on within months of one another. The house went into probate, and they bought it."

"Who lives on the other side?" said Milo, indicating the stone walls.

"Officially, Gerhard Loetz."

Milo shot her a puzzled look.

"German industrialist." As if everyone should know. "Baron Loetz has homes all over the world. Palaces, I've been told. He's rarely here. Which is fine with me, keeps the neighborhood quiet. Baron Loetz's property extends to the mountains, the deer come down to graze. We get all sorts of wildlife in the canyon. We love it. Everything was perfect until they moved in. Why are you asking all these questions?"

"A girl went missing," said Milo. "There's a rumor she attended a party on the Westside Friday night."

Dr. Schwartzman shook her head. "Well, I wouldn't know about that. Didn't get a close look at those hoodlums, didn't want to. Never left the house. Afraid to, if you'd like to know. I was alone, Professor Schwartzman was in Chicago, lecturing. Usually, that doesn't bother me, we have an alarm, used to have an Akita." The hand around the brush tightened. Man-sized knuckles bulged. "But Friday night was alarming. So many of them, ru

"But they didn't."

"No."

"So you never got close enough to see any of the kids."

"That's correct."

Milo considered showing her the death photo anyway. Decided against it. Maybe the story hadn't hit the papers because someone upstairs wanted it that way. Dr. Schwartzman's hostility to the Cossacks might very well fuel another rumor. Working alone like this, he didn't want to screw up big-time.

"The patrol," he said, "not the police-"

"That's what we do in Bel Air, Detective. We pay the patrol, so they respond. Your department, on the other hand- there seems to be a belief among law enforcement types that the problems of the… fortunate are trivial. I learned that the hard way, when Sumi- my doggie- was murdered."

"When was this?"

"Last summer. Someone poisoned him. I found him right there." Indicating the front lawn. "They unlatched the gate and fed him meat laced with rat poison. That time, I did call your department, and they finally sent someone out. A detective. Allegedly."

"Do you remember his name?"

Dr. Schwartzman gave a violent headshake. "Why would I? He barely gave me the time of day, clearly didn't take me seriously. Didn't even bother to go over there, just referred it to Animal Control, and all they offered to do was dispose of Sumi's body, thank you very much for nothing."

"They?" said Milo.

Schwartzman's brush pointed at the party house.

"You suspect one of the Cossacks poisoned Sumi?"

"I don't suspect, I know," said Schwartzman. "But I can't prove it. The daughter. She's mad, quite definitely. Walks around talking to herself, a bizarre look in her eyes, all hunched over. Wears the same clothes for days on end. And she brings black boys home- clearly not right. Sumi despised her. Dogs have a nose for madness. Anytime that crazy girl walked by, poor Sumi would fly into a rage, throw himself against the gate, it was all I could do to calm him down. And let me tell you, Detective, the only time he responded that way was to stranger intrusion. Protective, Akitas are, that's the whole point of an Akita. But sweet and smart- he loved the Cantwells, even grew accustomed to the gardeners and the mailman. But never to that girl. He knew when someone was wrong. Simply despised her. I'm sure she poisoned him. The day I found his poor body, I spied her. Watching me through a second-story window. That pair of mad eyes. Staring. I stared right back and waved my fist, and you'd better believe that drapery snapped back into place. She knew that I knew. But soon after, she came out and walked past me- right past me, staring. She's a frightening thing, that girl. Hopefully that party was the last time we'll see them around here."

"She was at the party?" said Milo.

Dr. Schwartzman crossed her arms across her bosom. "Have you been listening to me, young man? I told you, I didn't get close enough to check."

"Sorry," said Milo. "How old is she?"

"Seventeen or eighteen."

"Younger than her brothers."

"Those two," said Schwartzman. "So arrogant."

"Ever have any problems with the brothers other than parties?"

"All the time. Their attitude."

"Attitude?"

"Entitled," said Schwartzman. "Smug. Just thinking about them makes me angry, and anger is bad for my health, so I'm going to resume my calligraphy. Good day."

Before Milo could utter another syllable, the door slammed shut and he was staring at teak. No sense pushing it; Frau Doktor Schwartzman could probably beat him in an arm wrestle. He returned to the car, sat there wondering if anything she'd said mattered.

The Cossack brothers had a bad attitude. Like every other rich kid in L.A.

The sister, on the other hand, sounded anything but typical- if Schwartzman could be believed. And if Schwartzman's suspicion about her dog was right, Sister Cossack's quirkiness was something to worry about.