I fought my way down through the Cahuenga Pass into Hollywood, then up again through the soft hills surrounding the Hollywood Bowl, where Ivy Casik lived. The low apartment building was just as quiet as when I met her, the neighboring apartments locked tight against the world. I rang her bell and knocked, the knocking loud in the silent courtyard.

May I help you?

A bald man shaped like a pear had stepped into the courtyard. He was wearing oversize shorts and a baggy undershirt and holding a cocktail glass. A small sign beside his door identified him as the manager.

I'm here to see Ms. Casik.

He shook the glass. The courtyard magnified the tinkling ice.

She isn't home. Your knocking is quite loud, you know. You don't have to knock so loud.

He tinkled the ice again.

Sorry. I'll leave a note.

I took out a card and held it against the building to write a note asking Ivy to call.

The man said, Is this about the police? They were loud, too.

I stopped writing to look at him. When I looked, he tinkled the ice, then sipped his drink.

Was that Detective Bastilla?

I don't know her name.

Her. I put my hand at Bastilla's height.

This tall. Forties. Latina.

That's right. This morning.

Another sip. Tinkle.

You know if they spoke with her?

Ivy wasn't home.

He reached out his hand for the note.

If you'd like, I'll make sure she gets it.

Thanks anyway. I'll leave it in her box.

I dropped the card in Ivy's mailbox, then wound my way down out of the hills toward home. The drive home seemed long, maybe because there was so much to think about, and so little that made any sense.

I put the car in the carport, let myself into the kitchen, then drank a bottle of water. I had parked in the carport and opened the kitchen door and drank the same bottle of water ten thousand times. The cat wasn't home, but I put out new food for him exactly as I had another ten thousand times. Ten thousand fresh bowls of water. The patterns were reassuring.

I stripped off my shoes and clothes in the kitchen, threw them into the laundry room, then went upstairs to shower, which is what I did every time I came home after being with a body. My patterns continued, but Angel Tomaso did not have the same luxury. His pattern was a single event that could not be washed away.

I did my best in the shower, then put on fresh clothes, went downstairs, and found Pike in the living room. He was holding the cat in his arms like someone cradling a baby. The cat's eyes were closed. All four of his feet were straight up in the air as if he was drunk.

I said, I'm going to cook. You want a beer?

Sure.

I took two beers from the fridge, set them on the counter, then told him about Angel Tomaso.