“No, but don't get your hopes up. She's got a pretty good communication network, seems pretty sure she'll find his owner. She offered to come by and take him off our hands, but I said we'd care for him in the meantime.”

The dog was looking up at me expectantly. I rested my hand on his head and he made a low, satisfied noise.

Robin said, “Now I know how foster parents feel.” She grabbed a handful of soft chin and kissed it. Her shorts had rolled high on her thighs and she tugged them down. “Have you had dinner yet?”

“No.”

“I bought stuff—chilies rellenos, enchiladas. Even got a six-pack of Corona, so we could pretend we were party animals. It's a little late now to start a whole feast, but I can put something together if you're hungry.”

“Don't bother, I'll make a sandwich.”

“No, let me, Alex. I need something to do with my hands. Afterward we can get in bed with the crossword and some really bad TV and who knows what else.”

“Who knows?” I said, drawing her to me.

We turned off the lights around midnight. I fell away easily, but I woke up feeling as if I'd been drained of body fluids.

I endured breakfast, feeding the dog bits of scrambled egg and making conversation with Robin until the two of them went to the garage.

As soon as I was alone, I called Dr. Shirley Rosenblatt in Manhattan and got the same taped message. I repeated my pitch, told her it was more urgent than ever, and asked her to get in touch as soon as possible. When no callback had come in by the time I'd finished showering, shaving, and dressing, I phoned Jean Jeffers. She was out for the day—some kind of meeting downtown—and hadn't left word with her secretary about Lyle Gritz. Remembering her eagerness to look for him, I figured she'd come up empty.

Information had no listing for a Ramona or Rowena Basille, but there was a “Basille, R.” on 618 South Hauser Street. Right near Park LaBrea.

An older woman's voice answered, “Hello.”

“Mrs. Basille?”

“This is Rolanda, who're you?” Scratchy timbre, the midwestern tones I'd grown up with.

“My name's Alex Delaware. I'm a psychologist, consulting to the Los Angeles Police Department—”

“Yes?” Rise in pitch.

“Sorry to be bothering you—”

“What is it? What's happened?”

“Nothing, Mrs. Basille. I was just wondering if I could ask you a few questions.”

“About Becky?”

“About someone Becky might have known.”

“Who?”

“A friend of Dorsey Hewitt's.”

The name made her groan. “What friend? Who? I don't understand.”

“A man named Lyle Gritz—”

“What about him? What's going on?”

“Have you ever heard of him?”

“No, never. What's this got to do with Rebecca?”

“Nothing directly, Mrs. Basille, but Gritz may have been involved in some other crimes. He may also have used the names Silk or Merino.”

“What kind of crimes? Murders?”

“Yes.”