I got home at six, cleared a tapeful of junk messages, listened to one from Robin that had come in ten minutes ago.

“I could tell you this is about shared grief for our late pooch but it’s really...a booty call. I guess. Hopefully, you’re the only one listening to this. Please erase it. Bye.”

I called her back. “I erased it.”

“I’m lonely,” she said.

“Me, too.”

“Should we do something about it?”

“I think so.”

“That’s not exactly rabid desire, but I’ll take what I can get.”

* * *

I was at her house in Venice by seven. We spent the next hour in bed, the rest of the evening reading the paper and watching the last third of Humoresque on The Movie Channel.

When the film was over, she got up without a word and left for her studio.

I tried to sleep, didn’t have much success until she returned to bed. I was up just after seven when western light streaming through her curtains couldn’t be denied.

She stood naked, by the window, holding a cup of tea. She’d always been a coffee drinker.

I croaked something that approximated “Morning.”

“You dreamed a lot.”

“I was noisy?”

“Active. I’ll get you some coffee.”

“Come back to bed, I’ll get it.”

“No, relax.” She padded out and returned with a mug, stood by the bed.

I drank and cleared my throat. “Thanks. You’re into tea, now?”

“Sometimes.”

“How long have you been awake?”

“Couple of hours.”

“My activity?”

“No, I’ve turned into an early riser.”

“Cows to milk, eggs to collect.”

She smiled, put on a robe, sat on the bed.

I said, “Come back in.”

“No, once I’m up, I’m up.” She forced a smile. I could smell the effort.

“Want me to leave?”

“Of course not,” she said too quickly. “Stay as long as you like. I don’t have much for breakfast.”

“Not hungry,” I said. “You’ve got work to do.”

“Eventually.”

She kissed my forehead, got up, and moved to her closet and began getting dressed. I went to shower. By the time I was out and dried and dressed, her band saw was humming.

* * *

I had breakfast at John O’Groats on Pico, going out of my way because I was in the mood for Irish oatmeal, and the company of strangers seemed like a good idea. I sat at the counter and read the paper. Nothing on Michaela. No reason for there to be.

Back home, I did some paperwork and thought about Nora Dowd’s flat responses to Milo’s questions.

Not bothering to fake sympathy or interest in Michaela’s murder. The same for Tori Giacomo’s disappearance.

But Dylan Meserve’s name had pulled out some emotion and Brother Brad didn’t want to talk about Dylan in front of the most vulnerable Dowd sib.