“I'll be out of town tomorrow. You can leave a message with my service.”

“All day tomorrow?” A touch of panic in her voice.

I nodded. “Santa Barbara and back.”

“I love Santa Barbara. It's gorgeous. Taking some vacation time?”

“De Bosch used to have a clinic and a school up there. I'm going to try and find out if Hewitt or Gritz were ever patients.”

“I'll let you know if he was ours. Call me back, okay? Let me know what you find.”

“Sure.”

She looked at her salad again. “I can't eat.”

I waved Ear over and got the bill.

She said, “No, I invited you,” and tried to take it, but she didn't put up much of a fight and I ended up paying.

She stashed the notes in her purse and glanced at her watch. “Dick's not coming back for another half an hour.”

“I can wait.”

“No, I won't keep you. But I wouldn't mind some fresh air. I'll walk you to your car.”

Just outside the restaurant she paused to button her sweater and smooth her hair. The first time, the buttons were out of line and she had to redo them.

We walked to the city lot without speaking. She looked in shop windows but seemed uninterested in the wares they displayed. Waiting until I'd redeemed the keys from the attendant, she accompanied me to the Seville.

“Thanks,” I said, shaking her hand. I opened the driver's door.

She said, “What I said before still stands, right? About keeping all this quiet?”

“Of course.”

“It's nothing Detective Sturgis could ever use, anyway,” she said. “Legally speaking—what does it really prove?”

“Just that people are fallible.”

“Oh, boy, are they.”

I got into the car. She leaned in through the window.

“You're more than just a consultant on this, aren't you?”

“What makes you say that?”

“Your passion. Consultants don't go this far.”

I smiled. “I take my work seriously.”

She moved her head back, as if I'd blown garlic in her face.

“So do I,” she said. “Sometimes I wish I didn't.”

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER

20

Monday morning at nine, I set out for Ojai, taking the 405 to the 101 and making it to the strawberry fields of Camarillo in less than an hour. Migrant workers stooped in the stubby, green rows. The crop became blue cabbage and the air turned bitter. Kissy-face billboards boosted housing developments and home equity loans.

Just past the Ventura County Fairgrounds, I turned onto 33 north, speeding by an oil refinery that resembled a giant junkyard. Another few miles of trailer parks and mower rental sheds and things got pretty: two lanes draped by eucalyptus, black mountains off to the northwest, the peaks flesh colored where the sun hit.