He laughed again and wiped his forehead. “The only bars I ever passed, were the ones on my cell. For five years, I've been going up against yuppie careerist assholes from Harvard and Stanford and kicking their asses in court. I've had judges compliment my work.”

“Five years,” I said. “Right after Myra.”

“Right before.” He grinned. “The bitch was a gift to myself. I'd just gotten the gig at the center. Gave myself two gifts. The bitch and a new guitar—black Les Paul Special. You remember my guitar, don't you? All that rapport-building crap you slung at me in my office?”

The guitar-pick tiepin . . .

What do you do mostly, electric or acoustic?

Lately I've been getting into electric.

Special effects, too. Phase shifters . . .

He grinned and raised his free hand as if for a high-five. “Hey, bro, let's jam and cut a record.”

“Is that the offer you gave Lyle Gritz?”

The grin shrank.

“A human decoy,” I said. “To throw me off the track?”

He jabbed me hard with the gun and slapped my face with his free hand. “Shut up and stop controlling, or I'll do you right here and make your little friend in there clean it up. Keep those fucking hands up—up!”

I felt spit hit my cheek again and roll over my lips. Silence from the bedroom. The dog's struggles had become background noise.

“Say you're sorry,” he said, “for trying to control.”

“I'm sorry.”

He reached over and patted my cheek. Almost tenderly.

“The bitch,” he said wistfully. “She was given to me. Served on a plate with parsley and new potatoes.”

The gun wavered, then straightened. He crossed his legs. The soles of his shoes were unmarked except for a few bits of gravel stuck in the treads.

“Karma,” he said. “I was living out in the valley, nice little bachelor pad in Van Nuys. Driving home on a Sunday. These flags out at the curb. Open house for sale. When I was a kid, I liked other people's houses—anything better than my own. I got good at getting into other people's houses. This one looked like it might have a few souvenirs, so I stopped to check it out. I ring the bell. The real estate agent comes to the door and right away she's giving me her pitch. Da da, da da, da da, da da.

“But I'm not hearing a word she's saying. I'm looking at her face and it's the bitch. Some wrinkles, her boobs are sagging, but there's no doubt about it. She's shaking my hand, talking about pride of ownership, owner will carry. And it hits me: this is no accident. This is karma. All these years I'd been thinking about justice. All those nights I lay in bed thinking about getting Hitler, but the fuck beat me to it.”