“At this point nothing's ridiculous, Alex, but if someone was looking to hire a nighttime skulker, would they choose a homeless nutcase?”

“True. . . . Maybe what Gritz was hired for was to scream on tape—to imitate Hewitt because he knew what Hewitt sounded like.”

“Imitate?” he said. “Those voice tracks sounded identical to me, Alex. Though we may never be able to verify it. I talked to the voiceprint guy over at the sheriff's, and screams are useless, legally. In order to make a match that can be used in court, you need two samples, minimum of twenty words on each and the exact same phrases. Even then, it gets challenged a lot and thrown out.”

“What about for nonadmissible comparison?”

“Matching screams is still an iffy business. It's words that have unique characteristics. I asked the sheriff to give a listen anyway. He said he's backlogged but would try to get to it eventually. . . . Why would someone want to imitate Hewitt?”

“I don't know—I can't help but think the tape's part of a ritual. Something ceremonial that means something only to the killer.”

“What about the kid on the tape?”

“Could be a homeless kid—someone from Little Calcutta or some place like it. Living down there could explain the robot quality of the voice—despair. You should have seen it, Milo. The boy's teeth were rotting, he had a tubercular cough. The girl was naked, wrapped up in a sheet, trying to feed the baby. If I'd offered enough money, I probably could have bought the baby.”

“I've seen it,” he said softly.

“I know you have. I have too. It's all around. But I haven't really let it register for a while.”

“What're you gonna do, solve everyone's problems? Plenty of your own to deal with, for the time being. You get names on the freeway people?”

“Not the girl. He calls himself Terminator Three.”

He laughed. “No one else down there besides them and the baby?”

“No one I could see, and I was flashing ten-dollar bills.”

“Real smart, Alex.”

“I watched my back.”

“Yeah.”

“The kid said the place fills up at night. I could go back after dark and see if anyone else knows Gritz.”

“You're really in the mood to get your throat cut, aren't you?”

“If I had a macho cop with me I'd be safe, right?”

“Don't count on it. . . . Yeah, okay, it's probably a waste of time, but that makes me feel right at home.”

Robin was still working in the garage, hunched over her bench, wielding shiny sharp things that resembled dental picks. Her hair was tied up and her goggles were lodged in her curls. Under her overalls, her T-shirt was tightened by perspiration. She said, “Hi, doll,” as her hands continued to move. The dog was at her feet and he stood and licked my hand as I looked over Robin's shoulder.