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The temperature dropped very quickly once the sun went down, this being the desert. They had joined Robert for dinner at the club, and after a surprisingly good meal, they climbed into his golf cart and headed away from the clubhouse.

“There are eighty properties on club grounds, and many of them have been in the same families since the opening of the club in 1951. It is rare these properties go onto the open market, as there are always people looking out for an opportunity to acquire one.” Robert skillfully navigated the smoothly paved paths of the golf course, heading across a wooden bridge that xylophoned flatly in the cool, dark evening. The golf course itself was a dark green ocean in the moonlight, the occasional immaculately manicured sand traps like miniature islands. It was beautiful.

Robert slowed down as they approached the house the women had seen earlier from the gate. “Just want to make sure we’re able to visit…unobserved,” he said. The houses nearby were in darkness, despite there being cars parked outside. Mason looked at her watch: ten thirty p.m. She thought of her own grandma, hitting the sack at nine every night, and getting up at five. Old people were strange. Then she looked at Julia, who was calmly lying her head off in order to fight crime. Old people were strange in a variety of ways.

Jack Simon’s house was insanely beautiful, and Mason made a note to ask Will how he had afforded it. One level, it curved around in a lazy S shape, fronted mostly in glass, interspersed with cream-colored rough rock walls that doubtless harbored countless scorpions. A pool gleamed out front, its lights on despite the owner no longer being home. Mason could hear a hot tub bubbling somewhere close.

Robert pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked the kitchen door. “The front door is actually on the other side,” he explained, “but this is a more private entrance.” The kitchen was smaller than Mason had expected, but perfectly appointed, with a large central island she managed to bang her hip into. Twice.

They turned into the main room and Mason further upgraded her opinion of Jack Simon: The room was very elegant without being cold. A large and beautiful photograph showing women sunbathing beside a home much like this one hung on the facing wall, adjacent to an enormous rough stone wall with a fireplace she could have stood in. Maple doors covered what was presumably a screen, and the low sofa formed an L around a coffee table. It was a lovely room, and Julia commented enthusiastically.

“Yes,” replied Robert, “wait until you see the master bedroom.” He winked at Mason. “You ladies are going to love it!”

As he and Julia headed across the room to go investigate the rest of the house, Mason hung back. Once they were out of sight, she went back to the kitchen. The living room had no drawers to speak of, but the kitchen did, and she wanted to start there.

She pulled on a pair of kitchen gloves, and began opening drawers. The top one contained the usual kitchen drawer crap: bills, crumpled receipts, pens with no caps. She smoothed out a few bills: Mr. Simon had apparently paid on time and carried no balance on his credit card. A fat lot of good that did him. Mason scanned the bill, hoping to see a charge for a vintage gun store, or purchases in Los Angeles, but no luck. Jack Simon enjoyed Netflix, supported several animal charities every month, spent a small fortune somewhere called “Eddie’s,” and nothing more interesting than that. She took a photo and kept rustling. She found a phone bill and pounced hopefully, but it was useless. Very few calls at all, and none to Los Angeles. Of course, it didn’t list incoming calls; Tony could have been blowing up his phone every day. Who knows? She kept looking, but there was nothing more. Bank statements must be elsewhere, or on his computer, assuming he had one.

A movement outside caught her eye, and she looked up in time to see something small skirting the pool. Mason frowned—what deadly things lurked in the desert? Scorpions, but this was bigger than that, she fervently hoped. Rabbits? Maybe. Coyotes? Yes, this did look more doglike. But it was gone anyway.

She moved into the living room and through to a hallway that started behind the far wall. She opened several doors, all of which led to clean, clearly unused guest rooms. She followed the sound of voices and wound up at the end of the hall, in the master bedroom. It was roomy and reminded her of the large guest room she was sleeping in at Julia’s. Julia and Robert were sitting on the bed trading war stories about crazy people.

“Did you guys go check out the pool yet?” Mason asked, startling them.

“Ooh,” said Julia. “Let’s do that!” She slid open the large glass doors and stepped out, with Robert close behind. “That reminds me of a story I heard once about Esther Williams.”

Mason started poking about. She didn’t know how much the police would dig around in a suicide, but it was worth a look. No one was infallible.

Bookshelves lined one wall. Mr. Simon had enjoyed classic American literature, Golden Age mysteries and books about people stranded in dangerous places. Disaster porn. Spines were all facing out, the books looked well-read but taken care of, and Mason thought about the quiet life Jack Simon had enjoyed, so far from Hollywood.

She moved to the bedside table, opening the drawers. Lube, condoms, a couple of pre-rolled joints in fancy packaging. Not so quiet a life, then.

The room had a desk, with a laptop sitting on it and file drawers underneath. The laptop was dead and the file drawers were locked. Awesome. Mason took a quick peek outside; Julia and Robert were standing by the pool chatting, and seemed pretty comfortable. Mason popped into the bathroom, which did indeed have an enormous tub, and looked for something to break the drawer open. The vanity drawers offered up a nail file, which was classic, so Mason went to try that. In the movies, people just inserted the nail file above the lock and wiggled it, but sadly, that achieved precisely nothing. She pulled open the other drawers of the desk and was slightly chagrined to find what was obviously the key to the file drawer, just sitting there. Guess they didn’t get a lot of burglars at the country club. She also wondered if a trained private investigator wouldn’t have just looked in the drawers first, and sighed as she fitted the key in the lock.

The drawer was full, folders bulging with newspaper clippings, headshots, correspondence of all kinds.

Tony.

She fingered open the hanging file and discovered a bundle of letters, elastic banded together. On some the ink was faded and pale; on a few others it was fresh and sharp. A minor internal struggle ensued. Private letters, in a locked drawer. Probably important letters. Mason started opening the first one, ready to put her own morals about privacy to one side, but just as she was drawing the first letter out, Julia called her from outside. Mason hesitated, then quickly stuffed the bundle of letters down the back of her jeans.

Julia and Robert were standing next to the pool, pointing at something. It was the small thing Mason had seen before, and now she recognized it was a dog. Possibly the ugliest dog she’d ever seen, but a dog nonetheless.

She knelt down and put her hand out, feeling the bundle of letters rustling against her skin. The dog wagged its tail but didn’t move. She looked up at Robert.

“Do you know this dog? Did it belong to Jack Simon?”

He nodded. “I thought someone had already taken it away, but apparently not.” He made a face. “Its name is Lorre, after the actor.”

Mason tried again. “Lorre? Come here, boy. Come on, Lorre.” The dog took a few steps but was still unsure.

Julia sighed. “Oh, let me do it.” She bent over and, in the sweetest voice Mason had ever heard, called the dog. The dog ran straight to her and let her pick him up. Mason gazed in surprise at Julia, who just shrugged.

“Dogs like me. I don’t know why.”

Up close the dog was even uglier. He had a foxy little head, but with the bulging eyes of a pug, which did give him a resemblance to Peter Lorre, and the body of a dachshund. Which would have been OK, except he also had long, skinny legs like an Italian greyhound, and an enormous plumy tail, like a golden retriever. He didn’t seem to care about it, and was licking Julia’s face enthusiastically.

“Are you thirsty, little man? Are you hungry?” Julia continued to murmur endearments as she carried the little dog into the kitchen. Robert and Mason followed, somewhat bemused.

“So, what do you think of the house?” Robert leaned carefully against the kitchen island as Julia fed and watered the little dog.

Julia looked at Mason, who subtly nodded. “It’s lovely, Bobby, but not what we’re looking for right now.” She looked down at Lorre. “Are you going to take him back to the clubhouse?”

Since a sale didn’t seem to be imminent, Robert lost some of his bonhomie. “The dog? No, I shall call the dogcatcher in the morning. Mr. Simon didn’t have any relatives that I know of, and there’s no way I’m taking that ugly hound anywhere.” He made a face at it. “I am not someone who enjoys animals.”

“But maybe one of Mr. Simon’s friends would take him?” Mason asked.

Robert shook his head. “I doubt it. Mr. Simon kept to himself, largely. I don’t think he had any close friends at all.”

Mason frowned. “He lived here for decades. He must have had friends somewhere.”

Robert shrugged and started moving toward the door. “Not as far as I know.”

Mason looked at him. “So you’re just going to leave the dog here?”

“Sure,” replied Robert. “He seems quite happy. She fed him, the catcher will be here tomorrow, there’s no issue.” Indeed, Lorre had curled up in a basket under the kitchen table, and seemed to be already asleep. Julia frowned, hesitated and looked at Mason. Mason raised her eyebrows and herded her out. The dog was not their problem.

Back at the hotel, Mason told Julia about the letters. She held out her hand for them, but Mason hesitated. “Don’t you think we should give them to the police first?”

“Nope. Which police? The LAPD has no jurisdiction down here, and the Palm Springs Police Department isn’t investigating Jack’s death at all. Besides, you already got your mucky fingerprints all over them and took them out of the house, so their origin is hearsay.” She took the letters and opened one at random. “This is from several years ago.” She read, frowning. “This is insanely boring. Literally just gossip and news from LA. People they know in common, people…” She paused. “Huh…‘ Julia’s drinking again, it’s amazing she stays as beautiful as she does… ’ That’s nice, for a backhander.” She folded the letter, tucked it back in the envelope and reached for another. “Yes, this one’s the same. What the hell. Why keep these at all, let alone in a private place?” She yawned, suddenly. “Right, time for bed. Tomorrow we dig a little deeper.” She started piling pillows at the top of one of the beds. “Hand me a pillow. I need to sleep on my back to keep my nose intact. Ah, the challenges of deception.” Then she giggled.

“You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?” said Mason.

Julia thought about it for a moment. “Yes,” she said. “I like to play dress-up from time to time.” She paused, “Do you think that dog is OK?”

Mason nodded. “He’ll be fine. Worry about your nose.”