“Sandwiches—Italian. Just consider me your official LAPD delivery boy.”

Robin was back in the garage, working under a funnel of fluorescence. The dog was there, too, and he charged us, heading straight for the bag.

Milo lifted it out of reach. “Sit. Stay—better yet, go away.”

The dog snorted once, turned his back on us, and sank to his haunches.

Milo said, “Well, one out of three ain't bad.” He waved at Robin. She raised a hand and put down her tools.

“She looks right at home,” he said. “How 'bout you, Nick Danger?”

“I'm fine. Anything on Gritz in the records?”

Before he could answer, Robin came over.

“He's brought us dinner,” I said.

“What a prince.” She kissed his cheek. “Are you hungry right now?”

“Not really,” he said, touching his gut and looking down at the ground. “Had a little appetizer while I waited.”

“Good for you,” she said. “Growing boy.”

“Growing the wrong way.”

“You're fine, Milo. You've got presence.” She patted his shoulder. From the way her fingers were flexing I knew she was eager to get back to her bench. I was itchy, too, thinking of the freeway people. The dog continued to sulk.

“How 'bout you, hon?” she said to me. The dog came over, thinking—or pretending—it was meant for him.

“I can wait.”

“Me, too. So let me stick this in the fridge and when you guys get back, we'll chow down.”

“Sounds good.” Milo gave her the bag. The dog tried to lick it and she said, “Relax, I've got a Milk-Bone for you.”

Above the roofline, the sky was black and empty. Lights from the houses across the canyon seemed a continent away.

“You'll be okay?” I said.

“I'll be fine. Go.” She gave me a quick kiss and a small shove.

Milo and I headed for the Fiat. The dog watched us drive away.

The sound of the gate clanking shut made me feel better about leaving her up there. Milo coasted to Benedict, shifted to first, then upward, squeezing as much speed as possible out of the little car. Shifting roughly, big hands nearly covering the top of the steering wheel. As we headed south, I said, “Anything on Gritz?”

“One possible citation—thank God it's an unusual name. Lyle Edward, male white, thirty-four years old, five six, one thirty, I forget the color of his eyes.”

“Coburg said he was shorter than Hewitt.”

He nodded. “Bunch of drunk and disorderlies from back when we still bothered with those, possession of narcotics, couple of shoplifting busts, nothing heavy.”

“When did he come to L.A.?”

“First arrest was fourteen years ago. The computer gives him no known address, no parole officer, either. He got probation for some of his naughties, lived at county jail for the others, and paid his debt in full.”

“Any mention of mental illness?”