I cleaned up the mess, reflecting on the responsibilities of pet foster-parenthood, and phoned in for messages, wondering if anyone had responded to my ad. No one had. Nothing from Shirley Rosenblatt, Ph.D., either. Or Mr. Silk. The operator gave me a few business calls. I decided to put the tape out of my mind, but the child's chant stayed there and I couldn't sit still.

I fed the dog and was contemplating what to do about my own dinner when Milo called at eight-ten.

“No prints on the tape except yours. Any mail problems today?” He sounded tired.

“No, but I did get a call.” I told him about the giggling man.

“Silk, huh? Well, that's a pisser.”

“What is?”

“Sounds like you've got a nutcase on your hands.”

“You don't think it's serious?”

Pause. “Most of these guys are cowards, like to stay in the background. But to be honest, Alex, who knows?”

I said, “I think I may have found what “bad love' means,” and filled him in about the symposium.

“Seventy-nine,” he said. “Nut with a real long memory.”

“Think that's a bad sign?”

“I—let's put our heads together and hash it out. You eat yet?”

“Nope.”

“I'm over in Palms, got to finish up a few things. I could meet you at that place on Ocean in about half an hour.”

“Don't think I'd better,” I said. “Left my guest alone too long already.”

“What guest? Oh, him. Why can't you leave him? Is he lonely and depressed?”

“It's more of a gastrointestinal issue,” I said, rubbing the dog behind the ears. “He just ate and will be needing easy ingress and egress.”

“Ingr—oh . . . fun. Well, get a dog door, Alex. Then, get a life.”

“A dog door means sawing a hole. He's only a short-term lodger.”

“Suit yourself.”

“Fine,” I said. “I'll put a door in—Robin wants a dog anyway. How about you bring one over, I'll install it, and then we can go out.”

“Where the hell am I gonna find a dog door at this hour?”

“You're the detective.”

Slam.

He arrived at nine-fifteen, pulling an unmarked Ford into the carport. His tie was loose, he looked wilted, and he carried two bags—one from a pet store, the other from a Chinese restaurant.

The dog came up and nuzzled his cuffs and he gave the animal a grudging pat and said, “Ingress and egress.”

Removing a metal and plastic contraption from the pet store bag, he handed it to me. “Seeing as I don't feel like manual labor before dinner and the handy resident of this household is out of town, I figured we'd better do takeout.”

He went over to the fridge, dog following.

Watching his slow trudge, I said, “You look wiped. New blood buckets?”