His laughter was sudden. I thought of a mastiff's warn- ing bark. He fanned himself with the notepad. The air was cool, stale, still inert. He was sweating. "Forgive the peckishness. I need sleep." Yet another glance at the Timex.

"Expecting company?" I said.

"The yuppie hikers. Mr. Paul Ulrich and Ms. Tanya Stratton. Interviewed them the day of the murder, but they didn't give me much. Too upset— especially the girl. The boyfriend spent his time trying to calm her down. Given what she saw, can't blame her, but she seemed . . . delicate. Like if I pressed too hard she'd dis- integrate. I've been trying all week to arrange the re- interview. Phone tag, excuses. Finally reached them last night, figured I'd go to their house, but they said they'd rather meet up here, which I thought was gutsy. But maybe they're thinking some kind of self-therapy— whatchamacallit— working it through." He grinned. "See, it does rub off, all those years with you."

"A few more and you'll be ready to see patients."

"People tell me their troubles, they get locked up."

"When are they due to show up?"

"Fifteen minutes ago. Stopping by on their way to work— both have jobs in Century City." He kicked dust. "Maybe they chickened out. Even if they do show, I'm not sure what I'm hoping to get out of them. But got to be thorough, right? So what's your take on Mate? Do-gooder or serial killer?"

"Maybe both," I said. "He came across arrogant, with a low view of humanity, so it's hard to believe his altruism was pure. Nothing else in his life points to exceptional compassion. Just the opposite: instead of taking care of patients, he spent his medical career as a paper pusher. And he never amounted to much as a doctor until he started helping people die. If I had to bet on a primary motive, I'd say he craved attention. On the other hand, there's a reason the families you've talked to support him. He alleviated a lot of suffering. Most of the people who pulled the trigger of that machine were in torment."

"So you condone what he did even if his reasons for doing it were less than pure."

"I haven't decided how I feel about what he did," I said.

"Ah." He fiddled with the turquoise clasp.

There was plenty more I could've said and I felt low, evasive. Another burst of engine hum rescued me from self-examination. This time, the car approached from the east and Milo turned.

Dark-blue BMW sedan, 300 model, a few years old. Two people inside. The car stopped, the driver's window lowered and a man with a huge, spreading mustache looked out at us. Next to him sat a young woman, gazing straight ahead.

"The yuppies show up," said Milo. "Finally, someone respects the rule of law."

3

MILO WAVED THE BMW up, the mustachioed man turned the wheel and parked behind the Seville. "Here okay, Detective?"