Lauren's apartment on Hauser sat midway between Sixth and Wilshire, a putty-colored six-unit box old enough for fire escapes. I made my way up a chunky cement path to a glass door fronted by wrought-iron fettuccine. Through the glass: dim hallway and dark carpeting. A column of name slots and call buttons listed TEAGUE/SALANDER in apartment 4.

I pressed the button, was surprised to be buzzed in immediately. The hallway smelled of beef stew and laundry detergent. The carpeting was an ancient wool— flamingo-colored leaf forms over mud brown, once pricey, now heeled and toed to the burlap. Mahogany doors had been restained streaky and lacquered too thickly. No music or conversation leaked from behind any of them. A flight of chipped terra-cotta steps at the rear of the building took me upstairs.

Unit 4 faced the street. I knocked, and the door opened before my fist lowered. A young man holding a white washcloth stared out at me.

Five-six, one-thirty, fair-haired and frail-looking, wearing a sleeveless white undershirt, very blue jeans cinched by a black leather belt, black lace-up boots. A heavy silver chain looped a front jeans pocket.

“Oh. I thought you were . . .” Breathy-voiced, pitched high.

“Someone else,” I said. “Sorry if I'm interrupting. My name's Alex Delaware.”

No recognition in the wide, hazel eyes, just residual surprise. The fair hair was dun tipped with yellow, clipped nearly to the skull. Zero body fat, but what was left was string, not bulk. Tiny gold ring in his right earlobe. A tattoo—“Don't Panic” in elaborate blue-black script— capped his left shoulder. A band of thorns in the same hue circled his right biceps. He looked to be around Lauren's age, had the round, unlined face, pink cheeks, and arched brows of an indulged child. As he looked me up and down, surprise began to give way to suspicion. He clenched the washcloth, and his head drew back.

“I'm an old acquaintance of Lauren's,” I said. “One of her doctors, actually. Her mother called me, concerned because she hasn't heard from Lauren for a week—”

“One of her doctors? Oh . . . the psychologist— yes, she told me about you. I remember your name was one of the states— are you Native American?”

“Kind of a mongrel.”

He smiled, pulled at the silver chain, produced a saucer-sized pocket watch. “My God, it's two-forty!” Another eye rub. “I was catching a nap, heard the bell, thought it was three-forty, and jolted up.”

“Sorry for waking you.”

He let the washcloth unfurl, waved it in a tight little arc. “Oh, don't apologize, you did me a favor. I have . . . an old friend dropping by, need the time to pull myself together.” A hip cocked. “Now, why are we having this conversation out in the hall?” A bony arm shot forward. His grip was iron. “Andrew Salander— I'm Lauren's roomie.”