“The taper,” I said. “You know, that second session could have taken place the day of the murder—someone taping Hewitt right after he killed Becky. Before he ran out and the TV mikes picked him up. That's pretty damn cold—almost premeditated. Same kind of mind who could turn a child's voice robotic. What if the taper knew exactly what Hewitt was going to do and was ready to tape him?”

“An accomplice?”

“Or at least a knowing confederate. Someone who knew Becky was going to die, but didn't stop it.”

He stared at me. Grimaced. Wrote something down. Said, “Ready to start packing now?”

It took an hour or so for Robin and me to throw together suitcases, plastic shopping bags, and cardboard cartons. A smaller collection than I would have expected.

Milo and I carried all of it into the living room, then I called my pond maintenance people and arranged for them to collect the fish.

When I returned to the pile, Milo and Robin were staring at it. She said, “I'm going to go over to the shop and get the small tools and the breakable things together—if that's okay.”

“Sure, just be careful,” said Milo. “Anyone weird hanging around, just turn around and come back.”

“Weird? This is Venice we're talking about.”

“Relatively speaking.”

“Gotcha.” She took the dog with her. I walked her down to her truck and watched as they drove away. Milo and I had a couple of Cokes, then the doorbell rang and he went to get it. After looking through the peephole, he opened the door and let in three men—boys, really, around nineteen or twenty.

They were thick faced and had power lifters' rhino physiques. Two white, one black. One of the white ones was tall. They wore perforated tank tops, knee-length baggies in nauseating color combinations, and black lace-up boots that barely closed around their tree-stump calves. The white boys had their hair cut very short, except at the back, where it fringed around their excessive shoulders. The black's head was shaved clean. Despite their bulk, all three seemed awkward—intimidated.

Milo said, “Morning, campers, this is Dr. Delaware. He's a psychologist, so he knows how to read your minds. Doctor, this is Keenan, Chuck, and DeLongpre. They haven't figured out what to do with their lives yet, so they abuse themselves over at Silver's Gym and spend Keenan's money. Right, boys?”

The three of them smiled and cuffed one another. Through the open door I saw a black van parked near the carport. Jacked-up suspension, black-matte reversed hubcaps, darkened windows, diamond-shaped bulb of black plastic set into the side panel, a skull-and-crossbones decal just below that.

“Tasteful, huh?” said Milo. “Tell Dr. Delaware who recovered your wheels for you, after a miscreant scumbag junkie made off with it because you left it on Santa Monica Boulevard with the key in the ignition.”