I shook my head. “But he's not exactly unobtrusive with those purple clothes.”

“Purple clothes?” said Robin.

“He says it's the only color he can see.”

“Another weird one,” said Milo. “What is it about your profession?”

“Ask the killer,” I said. “He's got strong opinions on the subject.”

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER

29

We spent the night at Milo's. After he left for work, I stayed and listened to the tape another dozen times.

The chanting man sounded like an accountant tallying up a sum.

That maddening hint of familiarity, but nothing jelled.

We returned to Benedict Canyon, where Robin took the dog to the garage and I called in for messages. One from Jean Jeffers—No record of Mr. G—and a request to phone Judge Stephen Huff.

I reached him in his chambers.

“Hi, Alex. I assume you heard.”

“Is there anything I should know other than what's been on the news?”

“They're pretty positive who did it, but can't prove it yet. Two Mexican gang members—they're figuring some kind of drug war.”

“That's probably it,” I said.

“Well, that's one way to settle a case. Any word from the grandmother?”

“Not a one.”

“Better off—the kids, I mean. Away from all of this—don't you think?”

“Depends on what environment they've been placed into.”

“Oh, sure. Absolutely. Well, thanks for your help. Onward toward justice.”

Several more tries at the tape, then I left for the Beverly Hills library.

I scoured four- and five-year-old editions of New York dailies all morning, reading very slowly and carefully, but finding no record of any “East Side Burglar.”

No great surprise: the 19th Precinct serviced a high-priced zip code, and its inhabitants probably despised getting their names anywhere in the paper other than the society pages. The people who owned the papers and broadcast the news probably lived in the 19th. The rest of the city would know exactly what they wanted it to.

Lack of coverage still didn't mean Rosenblatt's killer had committed the earlier break-ins. Local residents might be aware of the burglaries, and a local could know who was on vacation and for how long. But the idea of a 19th Precinct resident owning burglary tools and robbing from his neighbors seemed less than likely. So Mr. Silk probably had burgled before. Ritualistically.

The same attempt to use what was at hand, to master and dominate the victim.

Bad love.

Myra Evans Paprock.

Rodney Shipler.

Katarina.

Only at those three scenes had the words been left behind.

Three bloody, undisguised murders. No attempt made to present them as anything else.

Stoumen, Lerner, and Rosenblatt, on the other hand, had been dispatched as phony accidents.

Two classes of victims . . . two kinds of revenge?

Butchery for the laypeople, falls for the therapists.

But Katarina had been a therapist . . .