“I asked the asshole. He didn't answer, just smiled that creepy smile. I started to walk out and then he said, “Look it up.' So I did. In the dictionary. “Coburg' is an old English word for imitation silk or wool. . . . Enough of this, my head's splitting. . . . How are you and Robin doing?”

“We've been able to go back to the house.”

“Anything left?”

“Mostly ashes.”

He shook his head. “I'm sorry, Alex.”

I said, “We'll survive—we're surviving. And living in the shop's not bad—the smallness is actually kind of comforting.”

“Insurance company jerking you around?”

“As predicted.”

“Let me know if I can do anything.”

“I will.”

“And when you're ready for a contractor, I've got a possible for you—ex-cop, does nice work relatively cheap.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Thanks for everything—and sorry about the rental house. I'm sure your banker didn't expect bullet holes in his walls. Tell him to send me the bill.”

“Don't worry about it. It's the most exciting thing's ever happened to him.”

I smiled. He looked away.

“Shootout at the Beverly Hills corral,” he said. “I should have been there.”

“How could you have known?”

“Knowing's my job.”

“You offered to drive us home, I turned you down.”

“I shouldn't have listened to you.”

“Come on, Milo. You did everything you could. To paraphrase a friend of mine: “Don't flog yourself.' ”

He frowned, tilted his glass, poured ice down his gullet, and crunched. “How's Rov—Spike?”

“A few surface cuts. The vet said bulldogs have high pain thresholds. A throwback to when they were used for baiting.”

“Right through the glass.” He shook his head. “Little maniac must have taken a running start and gone ballistic. Talk about devotion.”

“You see it from time to time,” I said. Then I ordered him another Coke.

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER

34

I drove back to Venice. The shop was empty and Robin had left a note on her workbench:

11:45 a.m. Had to run to the lumberyard. Back at 2. Pls. call Mrs. Braithwaite. Says she's Spike's owner.

Pacific Palisades exchange. I phoned it before the disappointment could sink in.

A middle-aged female voice said, “Hello?”

“Mrs. Braithwaite? Dr. Delaware returning your call.”

“Oh, doctor! Thank you for calling, and thank you for caring for our little Barry! Is he all right?”

“Perfect. He's a great dog,” I said.

“Yes, he is. We were so worried, starting to give up hope.”

“Well, he's in the pink.”

“That's wonderful!”

“I guess you'd like to come by to get him. He should be back by two.”

Hesitation. “Oh, certainly. Two it is.”

I busied myself with the phone. Calling Shirley Rosenblatt and having a half-hour talk with her. Calling Bert Harrison, then the insurance company, where I dealt with some truly vile individuals.