Repeat call to Bradley Maisonette’s parole officer, same voice mail, same message. St. Xavier High informed him that Mr. Good was out ill. Rather than try to wheedle Good’s personal data out of the receptionist, he ran a vehicle check.

“Two-year-old gray Ford Explorer, address on North Broadmoor Terrace.” He thumbed through his Thomas Guide. “Up in the hills, near the Bowl. Time to pay a sick call.”

His desk phone jangled. What he heard on the other end made him button his jacket and tighten the knot of his tie. Checked his shoelaces, rolled his shoulders, gave off the tiniest wince, stood.

I said, “Sudden meeting downtown?”

He stared at me.

“You went all appearance-conscious.”

“Mr. Wizard. Yeah, yeah, the chief wants to schmooze, I’m to be at his office before it’s physically feasible.”

“What’s the topic?”

“Pending cases,” he said. “His Righteousness probably got media calls on Mancusi or Beverly or both, doesn’t want to sound uninformed.”

“Have fun,” I said.

“Real chuckle-fest… you have a problem talking to Wilson Good by yourself?”

“Not unless it violates procedure.”

“Psychologically sensitive case like Antoine?” he said. “A shrink’s deft touch is clearly called for. Also, the chief likes you, so he’d approve.”

“When did that come up?”

“Last time he summoned me. Seems he read that paper you published last spring, agrees that most profiling is bullshit.”

“The chief reads psych journals?”

“The chief has a master’s in psych. He suggested you should be on the payroll. I told him the department wasn’t economically competitive.”

He quoted the pay scale.

I said, “Thank you, sir.”

“Always looking out for your interests. Say hi to Coach Good. Maybe you can get tips on passing and rushing.”

“I played baseball in high school.”

“What position?”

“Utility outfielder,” I said. “Wherever they needed me.”

Wilson Good’s house was one of five crisp one-stories edging a dead-end street above the Hollywood Bowl’s cheap seats. What brokers call “midcentury architectural,” as if the fifties is a leper decade.

Close enough to the amphitheater to hear music on warm summer nights. The rest of the view was trees and brush and ozone-depleted sky.

Good’s house was peach stucco where it wasn’t redwood siding. The gray Explorer and a green VW Passat sat on a pebble-grain slab behind a full-width electric mesh gate.

I pushed the button on the call box, listened to the doorbell chime the first few notes of Pachelbel’s Canon. A mockingbird hopped from a bottlebrush tree onto a honeysuckle hedge. Off in the distance, ravens played politics. And always, the auto hum; the freeway was the real L.A. philharmonic.

Before setting out I’d found a picture of Wilson Good on the Web. Victory party after a title game. Thick-necked, good-looking man with sad eyes that seemed at odds with the celebration.