I beat the wakeup call by more than an hour. After showering, shaving, and dressing, I drew open the drapes on a view of the red-brick building across the street. Men in white shirts and ties were framed in its windows, sitting at desks, talking into phones, and stabbing the air with pens. Down below, the streets were clogged with double-parked cars. Horns blatted. Someone was using a compression drill. Even through the sealed windows I could smell the city.

I phoned Robin at just past nine L.A. time. We told each other we were fine and chatted for a while before she put Milo on.

“Talk about bicoastal,” he said. “Expedition or escape?”

“Bit of both, I guess. Thanks for taking care of the lady and the tramp.”

“Pleasure. Got a little more info on Mr. Gritz. Traced him to a small town in Georgia and just got finished talking to the police chief. Seems Lyle was a weird kid. Acted goofy, walked funny, mumbled a lot, didn't have any friends. Out of school more than he was in, never learned to read properly or speak clearly. His home life was predictably bad, too. No father on the scene, and he and his mother lived in a trailer on the outskirts of town. He started drinking, slid straight into trouble. Shoplifting, theft, vandalism. Once in a while he'd get into a fight with someone bigger and stronger than himself and come out the loser. Chief said he locked him up plenty, but he didn't seem to care, jail was as good as his home, or better. He used to sit in his cell and rock and talk to himself, as if he was in his own world.”

“Sounds more like the early signs of schizophrenia than a developing psychopath,” I said. “Onset during adolescence fits the schizophrenic pattern, too. What doesn't fit is the kind of calculated thing we're dealing with. Does this sound like a guy who could blend in at medical conferences? Delay gratification long enough to plot murders years in advance?”

“Not really. But maybe he changed when he grew up, got smoother.”

“Mr. Silk,” I said.

“Maybe he's a good faker. Always was. Faked looking nuts, even back then—psychopaths do that all the time, right?”

“They do,” I said. “But did this police chief sound like someone easily fooled?”

“No. He said the kid was nuts but had one thing going for him. Musical talent. Taught himself to play guitar and mandolin and banjo and a bunch of other instruments.”

“The next Elvis.”

“Yeah. And for a while people thought he might actually make something of himself. Then one day, he just left town and no one heard from him again.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Nineteen-seventy.”

“So he was only twelve. Any idea why he left?”