He looked at his watch. “You go on home, I’m gonna do my own walk-through of the grounds, stick around until Ramos-Martinez brings the lock and chain.”

“Keeping Doyle Bryczinski out.”

“Keeping everyone the hell out,” he said. “Besides, I’m a prince among men. Why not pretend to have a castle?”

Robin was waiting for me in the living room, all sixty-three inches of her curled on the couch, listening to Stefano Grondona play Bach on old guitars. A white silk dress played off against her olive skin. Auburn curls fanned on the cushion. Blanche snuggled against Robin’s chest, knobby blond head resting near Robin’s left hand.

Both of them smiled. It can be jarring when a French bulldog’s flat face takes on an unmistakably human expression, and some people startle when Blanche switches on the charm. I’m used to it, but it still makes me wonder about the standard evolutionary charts.

I said, “Hey, girls,” and kissed them both. Lips for Robin, top of the head for Blanche. Unlike our previous dog, a feisty brindle male Frenchie named Spike, Blanche has no jealousy issues. I gave her bat-ears a scratch.

“You look tired, baby.”

“I’m fine.”

“Do you mind going out?”

I was still stuffed with Italian, said, “Not at all.”

We drove to a place at the top of the Glen where good jazz was mixed with decent food and a generous bar. The band was offset and the stand-in sound track was low-volume sax, something Brazilian-tinged, maybe Stan Getz. We drank wine, settled in.

Robin said, “What’s the case?”

I told her.

“Holmby. That’s close.”

“No danger, Rob. This was personal.”

I summed up Backer’s proclivities, the interviews of Holman, Sanfelice, and Passant.

She said, “They all sound like soap opera characters.”

“Don Juan and his fan club.”

“If he was a woman, he’d be labeled a slut.”

“Or a courtesan,” I said. “Or ambassador to a major ally. It’s always a matter of pay grade.”

“Borodi Lane is serious pay grade, Alex. Maybe he took Jane there because she was a rich girl.”

“Her clothes didn’t say that. I was wondering about someone who worked in the neighborhood. Anyone who spent time there knew the job was inactive and security was lax.”

The food came. The band approached the stage.

Robin took hold of my hand. “Guess I should give you credit.”

“For what?”

“Not being a Don Juan.”

“That deserves a prize? Fine, I’ll take what I can get.”

“Hey,” she said, stroking my cheek. “Handsome dude with a fancy degree and no mortgage? Not to mention other … ahem … attributes. You could be partying like it’s 1999.”

“Bring on the platform shoes.”

“That’s the seventies, dear.”

“See,” I said. “I’m out of touch, would never survive the meat market.”