CHAPTER
24

The freeway at one a.m. was slick black tape.

I said, "Chief's in his office this late?"

"He's home."

"You do house calls?"

"Now I do."

I said, "Anyone in the office notices a meeting at this hour, it arouses suspicion and documents his meddling. Meaning where he lives, no one'll notice. Last time, he met us in Calabasas. My guess is he's got one of those secluded West Valley spreads."

"Now you know why he likes you, Sherlock."

The chief's spread in Agoura backed up against horse farms, undeveloped pasture, the umber mass of the Santa Monica Mountains.

Getting close took us half an hour beyond the freeway, past the point where streets were identified by signs. Early on we'd sped past desperately cute strip malls, a Porsche dealership, a gas station charging ten percent more than in the city. Now we hurtled through dark, unfocused space.

Milo had trouble navigating the increasingly complex web of trails barely wide enough for a vehicle. Several wrong turns into frustration, he flipped on the dome light, read his own hand-scrawled directions while coasting. By the time we arrived at a small wooden sign he was sweating and cursing. Burned into rough plank: