Jennifer Sheridan opened the large purse and took out a photo album that was so thick that it must’ve weighed three pounds. She opened the album and turned it so that I could see a 3 × 5 color snapshot of herself and a tall good-looking kid in a black LAPD summer-weight uniform leaning against a squad car. They were smiling. “His name is Mark Thurman. He doesn’t work uniform anymore. Last year he got chosen for a plainclothes REACT position at the Seventy-seventh Division in South Central Los Angeles. He was one of the youngest men chosen. He was very proud of that.” She seemed proud of it, too. “Everything was fine for the first few months, but then he seemed to change.”

“Change.” Like the Pod People.

She nodded, encouraged by my insightful response. “It happened almost overnight. He became anxious and scared and real secretive. We never kept secrets from each other and now there are things that he won’t talk about with me.” Pod People, all right.

I looked closer at the picture. Thurman had long forearms and a ropy neck and a country boy’s smile. He must’ve been fourteen inches taller than Jennifer Sheridan. I said, “I know a lot of police officers, Ms. Sheridan. Some of them are even my friends. I can tell you that it can be a hard job with unusual hours. You see too much of what’s wrong with people and you don’t want to go home and talk about it. It’s nothing to talk about with people you love.”

She shook her head, telling me that I didn’t get it. “It isn’t just him not talking about the job. He was in uniform for three years and I know to expect that. It’s the way he acts. We used to talk about getting married, and having children, but we don’t anymore. I ask him what’s wrong, he says nothing. I say tell me about your day, he says that there’s nothing to say. Mark was never like that before. He’s become very irritable and snappish.”

“Irritable.”

She nodded. “That’s right.”

“He’s irritable, and that’s why you think he’s involved in crime?”

She gave me an impatient, “Well, it isn’t just that.”

“Okay. Have you seen your fiancé perform a criminal act, or heard him speak of it, or seen the results of it?”

“No.”

“Has he exhibited signs of an income other than his police salary?”

“No.”

I spread my hands. “Sounds like you think he’s up to something because he’s irritable.”