I played guitar and read psych journals and hung with Blanche and listened to a disk of Anat Cohen wailing on her clarinet and saxophones. Replaying “Cry Me a River” a couple of times because that was a great song, period. Robin and I ate chicken and mashed potatoes, took a long bath, did lots of nothing. When she yawned at midnight, I joined her and managed to stay asleep until seven a.m.

I found her eating a bagel and drinking coffee in the kitchen. The TV was tuned to a local affiliate morning show. Pretty faces prattling about celebrities and recipes and the latest trends in downloadable music.

She said, “You just missed that girl’s face in the news.”

“Good rendition?”

“I don’t know what she actually looks like but the overall draftsmanship was okay. In that sidewalk-artist way.”

I surfed channels, finally found an end-of-broadcast segment. Henry Gallegos wouldn’t be giving up his day job but the resemblance was good enough.

I tried Milo’s desk phone. He’d installed the recorded message that thanked tipsters in an appropriately professional tone and promised to get back as soon as possible.

The onslaught had apparently begun.

I finished a couple of reports, e-mailed invoices to attorneys, took a run, showered. Milo called just as I was getting dressed.

“Tip-storm?”

“Forty-eight helpful citizens in the first hour. Including twenty-two flagrant psychotics and five psychics posing as helpful citizens.”

“Hey,” I said, “politicians rely on the psychotic vote.”

He laughed. “Binchy and Reed and I have been talking to a slew of well-meaning folk absolutely convinced Brigid is someone they know. Unfortunately, none of the facts fit and they’re all wrong. The only decent bit of possible is a you-guessed-it anonymous tip from a pay phone. Listen.”

A burst of static was followed by ambient hum. Rising traffic noise drowned out the first few words:

“… that girl. At that unbuilt house.” Shaky male voice. Old or trying to sound old. Ten-second gap, then: “She been with Monte.”

I said, “Those hesitations sound like fear. It could be real.”

“Too scared to use his own phone and leave a name, gee thanks. And just to keep you current, my most weak-willed judge said nyet to subpoenaing the Holmans’ financials so it’s air sandwich for brunch.”

“Could you play the message again?”

When the tape ended, I said, “He knows this Monte well enough to use a name, has seen her with Monte but doesn’t know her well enough to use her name. Maybe I’ve been wrong, the two of them had no relationship and this’ll turn out to be one of those wrong-time, wrong-placers.”

“Bite your tongue, right now I’m going with Mr. Tipster being too freaked to give me everything he knows. Damn pay phone—guy was lucky to find one that works.”

“Where is it?”

“Venice Boulevard near Centinela. Lots of apartments all around.”