He shrugged. “I never saw bruises, but he had a vicious temper. Finally, they got divorced, and a couple of months later he came over to her place, raising a ruckus, and ended up shooting himself in the foot and losing a toe.” Smile. “Whole big investigation. Afterward, Sally moved up here and the asshole retired on disability and packed out to Idaho.”

“In the foot,” I said. “Not exactly a marksman.”

He smiled again. “Actually, he was a crack shot, had once been a range instructor. A lot of people found it hard to believe he'd done it to himself, but you know how it is with chronic alcohol abuse. All that loss of muscle control. No telling.”

We reached the street. Santa Barbara police cars were parked at the curb, sandwiching the Seville. Neighbors were pressing up against the crime scene tape, and a TV van was driving up. I looked in vain for Milo's Fiat or an unmarked.

“Where's your car?”

“Back in L.A. I took a chopper.”

“To where?”

“The airport.”

“How'd you get here from there?”

“Santa Barb uniform picked me up.”

“Status,” I said. “Hoo-hah.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Sally used to live in Mar Vista. I was the detective on her ex's toe job.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh. Now you drive me. Let's split before the press leeches start sucking.”

I headed down Cabrillo. He said, “Are you too wiped out or grossed out to eat?”

“I haven't eaten since breakfast. I can probably hold something down, or at least watch you.”

“Voyeur—this looks okay, pull in.” He pointed to a small seafood place tucked next to one of the beach motels. Inside was a scattering of oilcloth-draped tables with abalone-shell ashtrays, sawdust floors, netted walls, a live bar, and a self-order counter. The special of the day was salmon and chips. Both Milo and I ordered it, took a number, and sat down at a window table. We tried to look through the traffic at the water. A young waitress inquired if we wanted anything to drink, brought us two beers, and left us alone.

I called Robin again, using a phone at the back, next to a cigarette machine. Still out. When I got back to the table, Milo was wiping foam from his upper lip.

“Katarina was pregnant,” he said. “Coroner actually found the fetus hanging out of her.”

“God,” I said, remembering the mess and the bloated abdomen. “How far along was she?”

“Five to six months. Coroner could tell it was a boy.”

I tried to push aside my revulsion. “Harrison said she never married and she lived alone. Who could the father have been?”

“Probably some med student with a Mensa membership. SDI stands for Seminal Depository and Inventory.”

“A sperm bank?”

“This particular one claims to screen its donors for both brains and brawn.”