“Anything you need me to do?”

“I need you to heal up and not be a foolish mummy. One other thing that came up is Peaty’s body just got claimed by a cousin from Nevada. She asked to speak to the D in charge, says she left a bunch of messages, thanks again, Idiot Tom. I’m squeezing her in tomorrow afternoon, to see if she can shed some light on Peaty’s psyche, D.A.’s orders. With the defense painting him as a psycho-brute, I’m supposed to learn his good points.”

“Speaking of Idiot Tom.” I recounted Beamish’s disgusted expression.

“Wouldn’t surprise me. Maybe Beamish remembers more stolen fruit...what else...oh, yeah, I called some taxidermy supply houses. No record of Nora or Meserve buying creepy accoutrements. Okay, here I am at Le Grande Lockup ready for Mr. Vasquez. Time to add a few more lies to my daily diet.”

* * *

Daybreak brought the worst headache of my life, stiff limbs, a cottony mouth. A palmful of Advils and three cups of black coffee later, I was moving fine. If I kept my breathing shallow.

I phoned Allison, thanked her message tape for its mistress’s presence of mind, apologized for getting her involved in serious ugliness.

I told Robin’s tape I was eager to see its mistress.

No listing for Albert Beamish. I tried his law firm. A crisp-voiced receptionist said, “Mr. Beamish rarely comes in. I think the last time I saw him was...has to be months.”

“Emeritus.”

“Some of the partners have professorships so we like the term.”

“Is Mr. Beamish a professor?”

“No,” she said, “he never liked teaching. His thing was litigation.”

* * *

I reached Beamish’s Tudor at eleven a.m. The same Indonesian maid answered.

“Yes!” She beamed. “Mister home!”

Moments later the old man came shuffling out, wearing a saggy white cardigan over a brown knit shirt, pink-striped seersucker pants, and the same house slippers with wolves’ heads on the toes.

His sneer was virtuoso. “The prodigal policeman arrives. What does it take to motivate you people?”

“There’ve been some problems with the phones,” I said.

He cackled with the joy of omniscience, cleared his throat four times, hacked up something wet and swallowed it. “My tax dollars put to good use.”

“What did you call about, sir?”

“You don’t know?”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“You still haven’t seen the message? Then how did you— ”

“I figured it out, Mr. Beamish, from the look of contempt on your face when I drove by.”

“The look of...” A puckered, lipless mouth curled ambiguously. “A veritable Sherlock.”

“What’s the message?” I said.

“When you talk you flinch, young man.”

“I’m a little sore, Mr. Beamish.”

“Carousing on my dollar?”

I unbuttoned my jacket, undid a couple of shirt buttons, and revealed the bandages around my middle.

“Broken ribs?”

“A few.”