“Take a Valium, Rover,” said Milo.

“Be nice to him,” said Robin, kneeling and holding her arms out. The dog charged her and she tussled with him for a second, then stood. “I'd better figure out what I'm going to need to take.”

She left for the bedroom, dog at heel.

“True love,” said Milo.

I said, “Is there anything more you want to tell me?”

“You mean, am I shielding her from gory details? No. Didn't figure I should.”

“No, of course not,” I said. “I just—I guess I still want to protect her.”

“Then you're doing the right thing by moving.”

I didn't answer.

“Nothing to be ashamed of,” he said. “The protective instinct. I keep my work out of Rick's face, he does the same for me.”

“If anything happened to her . . .” From the back of the house came Robin's footsteps, rapid and intermittent.

Pause and decision.

Dull sounds as clothing hit the bed. Soft, sweet words as she talked to the dog.

I paced some more, circling, trying to focus . . . what to take, what to leave . . . looking at things I wouldn't be seeing for a while.

“Ring around the rosy,” he said. “Now you're looking like me when I'm uptight.”

I ran my hand over my face. He laughed, unbuttoned his jacket, and pulled a notepad and pen out of an inner pocket. He was wearing his revolver in a brown cowhide hip holster.

“Do you have any more details for me?” he said. “Like about the psychiatrist—Stoumen?”

“Just the approximate date—early June—and the fact that the conference was the Northwest Symposium on Child Welfare. I'm pretty sure it's sponsored by the Child Welfare League, and they have an office here in town. Maybe you can pry an attendance roster out of them.”

“You have a go at the Western Pediatric roster yet?”

“No. I'll try right now.”

I called the hospital and asked for the Office of Continuing Education. The secretary told me records of past symposia were only kept for one year. I asked her to check anyway and she did.

“Nothing, doctor.”

“There're no archives or anything?”

“Archives? With our budget problems we're lucky to get bedpans, doctor.”

Milo was listening in. When I hung up, he said, “Okay, scratch that. Onward. I'm going to hook up with the FBI's violent crime data bank and see if “bad love' shows up on any out-of-town homicides.”

“What about Dorsey Hewitt?” I said. “Could he have killed Shipler and Paprock?”

“Let me try to find out if he was living in L.A. during their murders. I'm still trying to get hold of Jean Jeffers, the clinic director—see if Hewitt had clinic buddies.”