“With Shipler—he was the beating—it was scrawled on a wall at the crime scene. With Paprock, I'm not sure what the connection is yet. The computer just threw out “bad love' under “miscellaneous factors'—no explanation.”

“Did the same detectives work both cases?”

He shook his head. “Shipler was in Southwest Division, Paprock over in the valley. Far as I can tell, the cases were never cross-referenced—two years apart, different parts of the city. I'm going to try to get the actual case files this afternoon.”

“For what it's worth,” I said, “I spoke to Dr. Stoumen's associate last night. The accident was a hit-and-run. It happened in Seattle, in June of last year.”

Milo's eyebrows rose.

“It may have just been a hit-and-run,” I said. “Stoumen was almost ninety, couldn't see or hear well. Someone ran into him as he stepped off a curb.”

“At a psych conference.”

“Yes, but unless Shipler or Paprock were therapists, what link could there be?”

“Don't know what they were yet. The computer doesn't give out that level of detail.”

Robin's head had dropped, curls spilling onto the table. She looked up, clear eyed. “So what do we do?”

“Well,” said Milo, “you know I'm not Mr. Impulsive, but with everything we've got here—nut mail, nut call, dead fish, two cold-case homicides, hazardous conferences—” He looked at me. “Moving's not a bad idea. At least till we find out what the hell's going on. But I wouldn't go to the shop. Just in case whoever's bothering Alex has done enough research on him to know the location.”

She looked out the window and shook her head. He patted her shoulder.

She said, “I'm fine. Let's just figure out where we're going to live.” She looked around. “This place ain't shabby—too bad we're not oil sheiks.”

“As a matter of fact,” said Milo, “I think I've got an option for you. Private client of mine—investment banker I moonlighted for last year. He's in England for a year, put his house up for rent, and hired me to keep an eye on the premises. It's a nice size place and not that far from you. Beverly Hills PO, off Benedict Canyon. It's still empty—you know the real estate market—and he's coming back in three months, so he unlisted it. I'm sure I can get his permission for you to use it.”

“Benedict Canyon.” Robin smiled. “Close to the Sharon Tate house?”

“Not far, but the place is as safe as you're gonna get. The owner's security conscious—has a big art collection. Electric gates, closed-circuit TV, screaming siren alarm.”

It sounded like prison. I didn't say a thing.

“The alarm's hooked up to Beverly Hills PD,” he went on. “And their response time's averaging two minutes—maybe a little longer up in the hills, but still damn good. I'm not going to tell you it's home, chillun, but for temporary lodgings you could do worse.”