Bowker’s reply was too quick, a well-trained dog responding to a hand signal.

“He knew because he saw them leaving and talked to Chet. Chet was bragging. As usual.”

“Bragging about what?”

“About how they were driving all the way to Restaurant Row even though no one but him wanted to.”

“Another controlling guy.”

“I sometimes don’t make the best choices,” said Trisha Bowker.

Wilde cleared his throat.

Bowker said, “I’m no expert, that’s for sure.”

“On men,” said Milo.

“On life.” She pouted, strained for tears, produced a droplet and gave up. “I don’t know how it got so messed up.”

Milo nodded, spent more time with his notes. “Okay... if the Corvins had stayed closer to home, what was the plan?”

Bowker’s eyes left-shifted. Her body echoed the same route as she turned to her lawyer.

Wilde said, “If you know, sure.”

Bowker said, “I don’t. The plan was Paul’s.”

“Did Paul have a contingency plan for what to do with the body?”

Wilde said, “She already answered that.”

Bowker said, “I really don’t know.”

“Got it,” said Milo, “but could you take a guess? Seeing as you knew Paul better than probably anyone.”

“Hmm,” said Trisha Bowker. “He could just wait.”

“For?”

“Another time.”

“To bring the body to the Corvins.”

“Yup.”

“Putting the body in Chet’s den was important to Paul.”

“Chet demeaned him all the time. Paul decided to get him. He watched him. All of them.”

Sudden passion in her voice. Shared anger.

She realized she’d overstepped and drew her head back. “Look, I can’t tell you anything factual, just that Paul was a monster. He hated Chet but basically he hated everyone, he’s a hateful, hateful person, always... planning.” To Wilde: “Can I tell them about the alarm?”

“Please do.”

“Here’s an example of how premeditative he was, sir. He learned their alarm code by watching her punch the keypad and memorizing. He’s got a great memory. A long memory, he gets vengeful.”

“Her, being...”

“Felice. He was always playing up to her. Being Mr. Softie. Different from Chet, that was the key. He even stole a key from their kitchen.”

The beginnings of a smirk. Slyly collaborative.

Again, Trisha Bowker caught herself and turned theatrically grave. “It wasn’t even necessary. They didn’t even put the alarm on. Paul told me. He bragged about the whole thing.”

“The Corvins made Paul’s job easier.”

“Sure did.” She shifted in her chair. Working hard not to gloat.

Milo shuffled papers. Without looking up, he said, “Another thing that made Paul’s job easier was your wrapping up the body and helping him load it into the truck.”

Wilde’s mouth opened.

Bowker said, “No, no way, sir. I never did any of those things.”

“What did you do when Paul was wrapping and loading?”

“Nothing, I was just in the house.”

“Which house?”

“The little one.”

“On Marquette.”

Her face had lost color. “He made me stay. I was terrified, went to the bedroom and waited until he was done. It was horrible. I was paralyzed by anxiety.”

“Stockholm syndrome.”

“It’s mental torture,” she said. “I’ve had a severely chronic case for a long, long time. Even before I met Paul, men were abusing me.”

Hollick Wilde looked at me again. “Some people think of it as a particularly severe variant of PTSD.”

Milo said, “How long have you been afflicted, Trisha?”

“Since I was a girl,” she said. “I was abused. A lot more since Paul.”

“Paul scared you.”

“He scared me out of my mind.”

“Because of what he did to Jackie?”

Trisha Bowker blinked and folded her lips inward.

Hollick Wilde said, “Let’s stay away from that, Milo.”

“Can I ask if there were other victims besides Jackie?”

Bowker’s eye shift was the answer. The search would continue.

Wilde said, “Sorry, please no. I’d rather we stick to the case at hand.”

“Fair enough,” said Milo. He shuffled papers. “All these rules, you may need to guide me as I proceed.”

“Happy to.”

Trisha Bowker’s posture relaxed. Everyone getting along so well.

Milo had her go over the details again. She produced a nearly word-for-word version of her first account.

“Got the picture,” he said. “Hmmm... here’s something relevant to the case at hand, Mr. Wilde.”

Smiling at the lawyer. Wilde said, “Relevant’s always good.”

Stupidest thing I’ve heard from the lips of a defense attorney. He gave Bowker a go-ahead nod.

Milo said, “Trish, if I told you we found Mr. Braun’s hands buried in the backyard of the Marquette house, under an oleander bush, what would you say?”

Multiple blinks. Rightward roll of her body, a sailor accommodating a big wave.

“Trish?”

“I’d say that’s good. I’d say I’m glad, now, you see what Paul’s capable of.”

“Scary guy.”

“Terrifying.”

“Stockholm syndrome... okay, now if I told you, Trish, that the skin on top of the hands we found buried in the Marquette backyard had your DNA on it, what would you say?”

She half rose, sank back down. “That’s impossible.”

“I’m afraid it’s more than possible, Trish, it’s actual. The pathologist found your DNA in little half-moon indentations on the top of the hand. Most likely from nails being dug in.”

“No way,” she said. “Paul must’ve put them there.”

“He took the time to put your hand on top of Mr. Braun’s hand and dug you in?”

“No, no, no, I never. He figured out a way...” Her head shook hard enough to inflict whiplash.

Wilde said, “I think we should—”

Bowker shot out of her chair. “He made me! He would’ve killed me!”

“Those nail marks, Trisha, tells me you were angry.”

“No! Terrified. He would’ve cut me up, too!”

Milo said, “Speaking of cutting, we also found your fingerprints on the band saw in the garage.”

“That’s ’cause he made me use it!”

“To cut off Hargis Braun’s hands—”

“It wasn’t — he was already dead—”

Hollick Wilde said, “Sorry, guys, interview terminated.”

Trisha Bowker pretended to cry.

Wilde said, “Hang in.”

“How can I? They don’t understand.”

“We’ll get them to see the light,” said Wilde. But his face was dark.

By nightfall, Wilde had come up with an offer: In return for revealing where Jacqueline Mearsheim’s body was buried, Bowker would plead to accessory to manslaughter after the fact and a three-year sentence.

John Nguyen laughed.

The following morning, Wilde proposed accessory to second-degree murder before the fact and a ten-year sentence.

John Nguyen proposed twenty-five to life. Wilde tried fifteen.

Nguyen said, “I can go with fifteen to twenty-five but in the end it’ll be up to the judge.”

Wilde said, “Okay.”

To Milo Nguyen confided, “I’ll get Friedman. She’ll get life.”

Even with Trisha Bowker’s hand-drawn map, it took a while.

After two days of searching, Jacqueline Mearsheim’s partial skeleton was found under four feet of rich agricultural soil in the Santa Ynez Mountains above Santa Barbara. Private land, the failed vineyard of a music industry honcho who’d long given up on Pinot Noir. Getting his permission had involved calling the Cayman Islands.