The Wedding Guest (Alex Delaware #34) - Jonathan Kellerman Page 0,72
Milo had picked me up five to nine, mumbling something that might’ve been “Good morning,” and handing me a photograph.
The same crowd shot near the bar where we’d spotted Suzanne DaCosta in her red dress. Lots of small heads. Milo had used a black grease pencil to circle one of them.
A man standing to her right, a few feet behind. Nondescript, Caucasian, middle-aged, clean-shaven, wearing a dark suit, white shirt, and dark tie.
Mr. Blend-In. A face you’d never notice unless you knew who you were looking for.
The same went for the trajectory of Michael Lotz’s droopy eyes. Objectively, it was impossible to peg him as watching his victim. But given what he’d done, impossible to think otherwise.
Milo said, “That clinches it, as if it needed clinching,” gunned the unmarked’s engine, and raced toward my gate. I clicked it open just in time for him to speed through. As we sped north on the Glen, I studied the photo some more then put it aside.
A woman, unmindful.
Prey. Predator.
* * *
—
Twenty-eight minutes later, we were exiting the freeway at Los Virgenes Road and driving through a swath of luxury car dealerships, upscale coffee bars and restaurants, plastic surgery practices, day spas, faux-western-wear boutiques, and realtors peddling gated enclaves. Also fast-food joints and gas stations; everyone needs quick fuel from time to time.
It took several miles of climbing the southern foothills to get past that.
First came clumps of the type of house you get near the freeway. Then the terrain unfolded and began to breathe and we were coursing past pastures and soft hills studded with ranch houses, outbuildings, and corrals.
Milo said, “No pumpkins in sight.”
I knew what he was talking about. “So much for the Halloween trade.”
Some people believe Calabasas was named to commemorate a two-hundred-year-old accidental dumping of squash seeds from a Basque farmer’s horse cart. Others are convinced the name honors a Chumash Indian word describing the flight plan of geese. No one really knows the truth but like most California controversies, that doesn’t inhibit strong opinions and the shaming of dissidence.
Currently, squash was winning out.
We rode a ribbon of two-lane highway into the mountains for another quarter hour before reaching the Wagon Lane address of Sandra and Wilbur Burdette.
Easy to spot because a sign on a post featured their name over large reflective numbers. No house visible, just a copse of California oaks and a sinuous dusty drive.
The oaks, gnarled and evergreen, are survivors adapted to drought that predate anyone’s settlement by millennia. During the boom days of West Valley development, entire groves were destroyed without a blink. Nowadays, master planners transplant the trees to golf courses.
Milo said, “Here goes,” and turned onto the snaky road. The curves kept his speed low. A second sign twenty feet in proclaimed: Wilbur A. Burdette, DVM. Ride-ins Welcome.
I said, “No gate. Friendly folk.”
Milo said, “At least for the next couple of minutes.”
* * *
—
Four twists of asphalt later we arrived at a flat pad housing three burgundy clapboard structures, an empty corral, and a smaller fenced-in area holding miniature goats and sheep. More oaks to the left, fencing a grove of olive and citrus trees in full fruit. The tail end of the drive was lined with yucca, aloe, and ground-hugging thatches of creeping bougainvillea.
All of that backed by two or three acres of tall grass followed by pink and gray granite mountainside.
The front structure was a one-story house. To the right stood a cabin of the same style and composition. Abutting the corral and the pen was the largest building, low-pitched and windowless. Bringing a knowing smile to Milo’s glare-ravaged face.
The barn.
I said, “You’re looking like a narc.”
“Whatever it takes.”
He rolled toward a carport created by screwing together steel pipes, covered by white canvas, and housing a white Ford F-150 pickup, a coffee-colored Mercedes diesel station wagon, and a white Toyota Supra.
I kept up with Milo’s eager lope. A rubber welcome mat said Welcome!!!!
Another staked sign to the left of the door: For patient calls, please ring in at Dr. Burdette’s office right behind the house.
The cabin.
Milo said, “I’ve been called beastly but let’s start with being human.”
His bell-ring caused a dog to bark. Then another. Then, a canine chorus.
From within came a whooshing noise. Paws scratching the other side of the door, an opera of howls, growls, yips.
A woman called out, “Quiet, guys!”
Immediate silence.
The same voice said, “It’s open, come in.”
Milo turned the knob and we faced a convocation of dogs self-arranged in height order, like schoolkids in