“There wouldn't be unless he was classified as a mentally disordered sex offender or committed some other kind of violent psycho crime.”

“I'll call Jean Jeffers Monday, see if I can find out if he ever got treated at the center.”

“Meanwhile, we can talk to the offrampers, for what it's worth. All he is is a name, so far.”

“Robin suggested we should bring them food. Increase the rapport.”

He shrugged. “Why not. There's a minimarket over on Olympic.”

We drove a bit more. He frowned and rubbed his face with one hand.

“Something the matter?” I said.

“Nah . . . just the usual. Justice got raped again—my truant scumbags. The old lady died this afternoon.”

“I'm sorry. Does that make it murder?”

He pumped his gas pedal leg. “It makes it shit. She had badly clogged arteries and a big tumor growing in her colon. Autopsy said it was just a matter of time. That, her age, and the fact that the kids never actually touched her means the DA's office doesn't want to bother to prove it was an unnatural death. Once they hospitalized her, she was never well enough to get even a deathbed declaration, and without her testimony, there's not much of a case against the little bastards even for robbery. So they probably get a stern lecture and walk. Wanna make a bet by the time they start shaving, someone else'll be dead?”

He got to Sunset and joined the smooth, fast traffic flowing west from Beverly Hills. Amid the Teutonic tanks and cigarillo sports jobs, the Fiat looked like a mistake. A Mercedes cut in front of us and Milo swore viciously.

I said, “You could give him a ticket.”

“Don't tempt me.”

A mile later, I said, “Robin came up with a possible link between Paprock and Shipler. Both could have been in group therapy with de Bosch. Treatment for themselves, or some kind of parent's group to talk about problem kids. The killer could also have been in the group, gotten treated roughly—or thought he had—and developed a grudge.”

“Group therapy . . .”

“Some kind of common problem—what else would draw two people from such different backgrounds to de Bosch?”

“Interesting . . . but if it was a parent's group, de Bosch didn't run it. He died in eighty, and Paprock's kids are six and seven years old now. So they weren't alive when he was. In fact, at the time Myra died, they were only babies. So what kind of problems could they have had?”

“Maybe it was a child-rearing program. Or some kind of chronic illness support group. And are you sure Paprock was only married once?”

“According to her file she was.”

“Okay,” I said. “So maybe Katarina was the therapist. Or someone else at the school—maybe the killer believes in collective guilt. Or it could have been an adult treatment group. Child therapists don't always limit themselves to kids.”