WE RAN TO the front door. I tried the knob. Bolted. Milo pounded, rang the bell. "Mr. Abbot! It's the police!"

No answer. The space to the right of the house was blocked by a ficus hedge. To the left was an azalea-lined flagstone pathway that led to the kitchen door. Also locked, but a ground-floor window was half open.

"Alarm screen's in place," said Milo. "Doesn't look like it's been breached. Wait here." Unholstering his gun, he ran around to the back, returned moments later. "No obvious forced entry, but something's wrong." Replacing the weapon and snapping the holster cover, he flipped the screen on the partially open window, shouted in: "Mr. Abbot? Anyone home?" Silence.

"There's the alarm register," he said, glancing at a side wall. "System's off. Okay, boost me." I cupped my hands, felt the crush of his weight for a second, then he hoisted himself in and disappeared. "You stay put, I'm going to check it out."

I waited, listening to suburban quiet, taking in what I could see of the backyard: a blue corner of swimming pool, teak furniture, old-growth trees screening out the neighboring property, pretty olive green shadows patching a lawn skinned in preparation for fertilizer. . . . Someone had plans for a verdant spring. Eight minutes passed, ten, twelve. Why was he taking so long? Should I return to the car and call for help? What would I tell the dispatcher?

As I thought about it, the kitchen door opened and Milo beckoned me in. Sweat stains had leaked through the armpits of his jacket. His face was white.

"What's going on?" I said.

Instead of answering he showed me his back and led me through the kitchen. Blue granite counters were bare but for a carton of orange juice. We hurried through a floral-papered breakfast nook, a butler's pantry, the dining room, past all that art, and Milo ran past the elevator into the living room, where Melville Abbot's trophies were gloomed by blackout drapes.

He vaulted up the stairs, and I followed.

When I was halfway up, I heard the whimpering.

Abbot sat propped in bed, cushioned by a blue velvet bed husband, hairless skull reflecting light from an overhead chandelier, slack lips shellacked with drool.

The room was huge, stale, someone's vision of Versailles. Gold plush carpeting, mustard-and-crimson tapestry curtains tied back elaborately and topped by fringed valances, French Provincial replica furniture arranged haphazardly.

The bed was king-sized and seemed to swallow Abbot. The bed husband had slipped low against a massive swirl of rococo headboard of tufted yellow silk. Lots of satin pillows on the bed, several more on the carpet. The chandelier was Murano g............