I thought I heard her sigh. “I've got some . . . I think it would be best if we met personally.”

“Something about Hewitt?”

“Somethi—I'm sorry, I'd rather just talk about it in person, if you don't mind.”

“Sure. Where and when would you like to meet?”

“Tomorrow would be okay for me.”

“Tomorrow's fine.”

“Great,” she said. “Where do you live?”

“West L.A.”

“I'm in Studio City, but I don't mind coming over the hill on the weekend.”

“I can come out to the valley.”

“No, actually, I like to come out when it's not for work. Never get a chance to enjoy the city. Whereabouts in West L.A.?”

“Near Beverly Hills.”

“Okay . . . how about Amanda's, it's a little place on Beverly Drive.”

“What time?”

“Say one p.m.?”

“One it is.”

Nervous laughter. “I know this must seem strange coming out of the blue, but maybe . . . oh, let's just talk about it tomorrow.”

I gave the dog a few bites of steak, wrapped the rest in plastic, and pocketed it. Then we drove to the pet store, where I let him sniff around the food bags. He lingered at some stuff that claimed to be scientifically formulated. Organic ingredients. Twice the cost of any of the others.

“You earned it,” I said, and I purchased ten pounds along with several packets of assorted canine snacks.

Going home, he munched happily on a bacon-flavored pretzel.

“Bon appetit, Spike,” I said. “Your real name's probably something like Pierre de Cordon Bleu.”

Back at the house on Benedict Canyon, I found Robin reading in the living room. I told her what had happened with Hurley Keffler and she listened, quiet and resigned, as if I were a delinquent child with no hope of rehabilitation.

“What a good friend you turned out to be,” she said to the dog. He jumped up on the couch and put his head in her lap.

“So what are they going to do with him—this Keffler?”

“He'll be in jail for a while.”

“How long's a while?”

“Probably not long. His gang's likely to make his bail.”

“And then?”

“And then he'll be out, but he won't know this address.”

“Okay.”

“Want to take a drive up to Ojai and Santa Barbara, next couple of days?”

“Business or pleasure?”

“Both.” I told her about Lerner and Harrison, my wanting to speak to the Corrective School's neighbors.

“Love to, but I really shouldn't, Alex. Too much work down here.”

“Sure?”

“I am, hon. Sorry.” She touched my face. “There's so much piled up, and even though I've got all my gear set up, it feels different here—I'm working slower, need to get back on the track.”

“I'm really putting you through it, aren't I?”

“No,” she said, smiling and mussing my hair. “You're the one being put through.”

The smile lingered and grew into a soft laugh.

“What's funny?” I said.