“Yeah, they start 'em young. Automatics in the diapers. Speaking of which, I caught my little truant bastards on the Palms robbery—thirteen and fifteen. No doubt they'll get referred for some kind of therapy. Want a referral?”

“No, thanks.”

“Cynic.”

“Was there gang activity where Paprock was killed?”

“A little, on the fringes. It's mostly working-class tough—north end of Van Nuys. No one made the gang assumption in that one, but maybe if Van Nuys had talked to Southwest, they would have. Neither of them knew about the other case—still don't.”

“Going to tell them?” I said.

“First I'm gonna read Shipler's file thoroughly, see what I can pull out of it. Then, yeah, I'll have to tell them, do the old network blah blah. Both cases are real cold—be interesting to see what kind of responses I get. Hopefully the whole thing won't deteriorate into endless memories. Though if “bad love' shows up anywhere in Stoumen's file, we've got interstate blah blah.”

“Hear from Seattle, yet?”

“Very briefly. They're sending down records—it'll probably take a week or so. Both detectives on that one are retired and unavailable. Probable translation: burnouts gone fishing. If anything provocative comes up in the file, I'll bug 'em anyway.”

“What about the FBI records on other “bad love' murders?”

“Not yet. Them gears grind slowly.”

“A real estate agent, a janitor, and “bad love,' ” I said. “I still think it has something to do with that conference. Or de Bosch himself—Paprock and Shipler could have been his patients.”

“So why would someone kill them?”

“Maybe it's another patient, mad about something.”

“Then what's your connection?”

“I don't know. . . . Nothing makes sense, dammit.”

“You learn anything from Jeffers?”

“No one at the center remembers Hewitt having any friends. But she referred me to Hewitt's lawyer and he gave me a name and possible address.” I described my encounter with the people under the freeway.

“Gritz,” he said. “As in hominy.”

“With a “z.' Could be a first name or a last, or just a nickname.”

“I'll run it through.”

“The kid I spoke to said he's been gone about a week. He also said Gritz was talking and singing about getting rich.”

“Singing?”

“That's what he said.”

“Oh those romantic hoboes, strumming around the campfire.”

“Maybe Gritz had some kind of job lined up, or maybe it's baloney. The kid could very well have been putting me on. For what it's worth, he said he'd ask around, I should come back later.”

“Getting rich,” he said. “Everyone talks and sings about it. That Calcutta place might be the dregs, but it's still L.A.”

“True,” I said. “But wouldn't it be interesting if Gritz really did expect to get paid for something—like killing my koi, and other nasties.”

“Hitman on a fish? So who's doing the hiring?”

“The anonymous bad guy—I know, it's a ridiculous idea.”