I thought about the Wallace girls for a while, then remembered another little girl, the one who'd lost her boxer—Karen Alnord. I had no record of her number. All my papers were gone. Where had she lived—Reseda. On Cohasset.

I got the number from information. A woman answered and I asked for Karen.

“She's at school.” Brilliant, Delaware. “Who's this?”

I gave her my name. “She called me about her boxer. I was just wondering if you found him.”

“Yes, we have,” she said edgily.

“Great. Thanks.”

“For what?”

“Good news.”

Mrs. Braithwaite showed up at one forty-five. She was short, thin, and sixtyish, with an upswept, tightly waved, tapioca-colored hairdo, sun wrinkles, and narrow brown eyes behind pearloid-framed glasses. Her maroon I. Magnin suit would have fetched top dollar at a vintage boutique, and her pearls were real. She carried a bag that matched the suit and wore a bejeweled American flag lapel pin.

She looked around the shop, confused.

“Robin's place of business,” I said. “We're in between houses—planning some construction.”

“Well, good luck on that. I've been through it, and one meets such an unsavory element.”

“Can I offer you something to drink?”

“No, thank you.”

I pulled up a chair for her. She remained standing and opened her handbag. Taking out a check, she tried to give it to me.

Ten dollars.

“No, no,” I said.

“Oh, doctor, I insist.”

“It's not necessary.”

“But the expenses—I know how Barry eats.”

“He's earned his way.” I smiled. “Charming fellow.”

“Yes, isn't he?” she said, but with a curious lack of passion. “Are you sure I can't reimburse you?”

“Give it to charity.”

She thought. “All right, that's a good idea. Planned Parenthood always needs help.”

She sat down. I repeated my drink offer and she said, “It's really not necessary, but iced tea would be fine if you have it.”

As I fixed the drink, she inspected the shop some more.

When I gave her the glass, she thanked me again and sipped daintily.

“Does your wife fix violins?”

“A few. Mostly guitars and mandolins. She fixes and makes them.”

“My father played the violin—quite well, actually. We went to the Bowl every summer to hear Jascha Heifetz play. Back when you could still enjoy a civilized drive through Hollywood. He taught at USC—Heifetz did, not Father. Though Father was an alumnus. So is my son. He's in marketing.”

I smiled.

“May I ask what kind of doctor you are?”

“Psychologist.”

Sip. “And where did you find Barry?”

“He showed up at my house.”

“Where's that, doctor?”

“Just off Beverly Glen.”

“South of Sunset, or north?”

“A mile and a half north.”

“How odd . . . well, thank heavens for good samaritans. It's so nice to have one's faith in human nature restored.”

“How did you find me, Mrs. Braithwaite?”

“From Mae Josephs at Frenchie Rescue—we were in Palm Desert and didn't get her message until today.”