We drove up a black stone drive bisected by a strip of flawless grass and ended a quarter mile later at a motor court. Parking for thirty vehicles but only two in sight, a black Range Rover and a battered brown four-door pickup with gardening gear in the bed.
Behind the court was a vast assemblage of white, flat-topped cubes. The kind of architecture that makes the covers of L.A. magazines.
This house dwarfed the manor across the street. Place it downtown and you’d have the latest concert venue.
Milo parked next to the gardeners’ truck and we got out. Lawnmower buzz filtered from somewhere behind all the stucco. Before us was already mowed rolling green, acres of it. Four-story trees formed the borders, not a blossom in sight.
He said, “What’s that say, psychologically?”
“Maybe ‘We don’t like flowers.’ ”
He cracked up. “Please remind me why I brought you.”
We headed for the front door. It opened before we arrived.
A man in his thirties stood illuminated by a skylight. His hair was a cap of pale stubble, his beard downy and a shade lighter. Beneath him was white marble. Floor-to-ceiling glass formed a rear wall. Every other surface was white, as were the furniture, the abstract sculpture on pedestals, the huge unframed paintings. The theme continued with the man’s white shirt, skinny jeans, and loafers. Ditto the band and face of his Rolex.
His hair and bronze face broke it up, as did gray eyes.
Small guy but toned. “Guess you really are the police.”
Milo said, “We are, Mr. Clegg—”
“Man.”
“Pardon—”
“I’m not Mr. Clegg, I’m Mr. Stoeller. Manfred, they call me Man.” Smiling at what had to be an oft-used line.
“You work with Mr. Clegg.”
“I’m Jason’s assistant. I’d ask you to come inside but I’m under strict orders. What’s your interest?”
“A woman who worked here has gone missing.”
“Oh, dear,” said Stoeller. “Who would that be?”
“Imelda Soriano. She was employed for nearly three months, came to you from the Madeleine Agency.”
“I’m sure she did,” said Stoeller. “We’ve used them for years. But that’s the thing with agencies: They vet the staff and we don’t have to get up close and personal.”
“No fraternizing with the help.”
“I know that sounds snobby, guys, but given the complexity...”
“Would Jason Clegg be more familiar with the staff?”
Stoeller stepped outside. Sunlight dimmed him; he’d been livened by some sort of gizmo in the skylight. “Technically, Jason manages this property, but in reality, he’s all over the place and I’m the one who handles day-to-day.”
“All over the place meaning...”
“He travels to and from the family’s other residences. There’s an assistant at each but Jason oversees everyone.”
“How many residences are we talking about?”
“Seven.”
“Where?”
Stoeller ticked a finger. “Besides here, we’ve got Aspen, Kona, Manhattan, London, Lake Como, and Singapore.”
He smiled. Not sheepish, smug. “I know it sounds insane, guys, but we’re talking a different world. Three G5s — private planes — hangared on three continents and a pair of Oceanco yachts, one for the Northern Hemisphere, one for the Southern.”
“Time for a third boat,” said Milo. “Keeping it synchronous.”
Manfred Stoeller said, “I wouldn’t be surprised if that has been discussed.”
“The Azizes have edged past middle-class.”
Stoeller laughed. “You could say that. Don’t ask me how, I’m not at liberty to get into details. Let’s just say they’ve invested wisely.”
I said, “Everything on a need-to-know basis.”
“And what I need to know is how to keep this place humming in case the family wants to use it on short notice.”
“When’s the last time that happened?”
“Six, seven months ago. Lately, they’ve been preferring Europe.”
Movement coursed on the other side of the glass wall. Three men in khaki driving mowers across an area that looked larger than the front acreage. Pool, tennis court, the same austere layout of lawn and trees.
Milo said, “How much notice does the family give before showing up?”
“Usually none,” said Stoeller. “Sometimes they let Jason know so he can stock the fridge and he texts me. Six months ago they wanted McDonald’s.”
“So they’re basically absentee.”
“But maintenance needs to be maintained constantly. The biggest chunk of my time is spent here, letting people in and out, handling service calls. I also look into the family’s commercial and industrial properties. Not the business end. Cleaning, repairs.”
“Got your hands full.”
“It’s like the Golden Gate Bridge. The moment they finish painting it, they need to start again. But no worries, I like my job, no two days are the same.”
I said, “A place this size needs a sizable crew. Who did Imelda Soriano work with?”
“Actually,” said Stoeller, “we only employ one cleaner at a time.”
Milo said, “How big is the house?”
“Thirty-two-thousand square feet, give or take, but our experience has been that one person’s enough. I know that sounds skimpy but the family prides itself on thrift.” He rolled his eyes. “Actually it works out okay. There’s an automatic vacuum system, HEPA filters and other advancements attached to the HVAC system, and most of the rooms are unused.”
“So no one we can talk to about Ms. Soriano?”
“Sorry, no.”
“Except you,” said Milo. “You’d see her regularly.”
Even white teeth bounced atop Stoeller’s lower lip. “I feel like I’m being tested. I’m cooperating, guys. But I can’t help you.”
“See it from our perspective, Man. A mother and a grandmother’s been gone for over a week and her family’s going through hell. She worked here, you still work here.”
“I remember an older woman who stopped showing up, guys. Apart from possibly ‘hello,’ we had no contact. I can tell you she was a good worker. If she hadn’t been, we’d have had contact, all right.”
Milo showed Stoeller the photo.
Stoeller nodded. “So she’s missing? How worrisome. When she didn’t show up on schedule, I assumed she’d flaked and complained to the agency.”
“How soon after she didn’t show up?”
“When she was two hours late.”
“A Detective Mendez spoke to Mr. Clegg and informed him Ms. Soriano was missing.”
“That may be true, but Jason never informed me,” said Stoeller. “Now, if there’s nothing else—”
“Bear with us a bit longer,” said Milo. “How do people get admitted to the property?”
“The same way you did. I check them out and if they qualify, I push a button.”
“What about exiting?”
“There’s a button inside the gate that can be used. But policy is not to inform everyone so generally I’m in charge of egress.” From his pocket, he pulled a tiny white remote studded with red buttons.
“What about the gardeners?”
“Same process for everyone. And when operations are disrupted, as with Ms. Soriano’s discontinuation, I change the gate code.”
“Meticulous.”
“Better safe than sorry.”
“So Ms. Soriano was able to leave at will but would have to beep in.”
Same setup as BrightMornings.
“Well, yes,” said Stoeller. “Unless I place the gate on hold-open. Which I do when trash bins are wheeled to the street or there’s a prolonged delivery.”
“I assume your cameras feed to a computer.”
“More than one computer.”
“Including your laptop.”
“No. To the house’s central system.”
“What about gate openings and closings? Are they coded separately?”