"There you go," he said. "Bus-riding lunatics. You said he wouldn't look crazy. How do you feel about that, now?"

"Pretty much the same," I said. "All four murders were planned and meticulous. Whoever killed Richard and Claire had the sense not to steal their cars. And murdering the Beattys on the same night adds another level of calculation. Choreography. So if Pelley is involved, he's probably not actively psychotic. At least not externally. Don't forget, they let him out. He must've appeared coherent."

"When he kills, he's neat. That makes me feel a whole lot better." Shaking his head, Milo reached for the car door.

I said, "So theTreadway thing's off the table, completely?"

"You don't want to let go of it?"

"Those clippings bother me, Milo. Whatever Pelley's role in all this, something went on between Claire and Peake. She sought him out, made him a project. He predicted her murder. Sixteen years ago, he took out Brittany Ardullo's eyes. Claire's eyes were also targeted. It's almost as if he'd been trying to connect the two crimes-somehow relive his past, using a surrogate."

"The Beattys' eyes weren't messed with."

"But Richard's eyes were taken. Too much variation, too much that doesn't fit. Peake's the only link. If we understand more about him-his history-it may get us closer to Pelley. And whoever else is involved."

He swung the door open. "I just don't have the time, Alex. But if you want to go out there, fine. I appreciate the effort- I'll even phone Bunker Protection, see if I can get them to be cooperative. Meanwhile, I go nut-hunting right here on the streets."

"Good luck," I said.

"Luck doesn't seem to be cutting it." He withdrew his hand from the door and placed it on my shoulder. "I'm being a cranky bastard, aren't I? Sorry. Not enough sleep, too much futility."

"Don't sweat it."

"Let me apologize anyway. Contrition's good for the soul. And thanks for all your time on this. I mean it."

"My thanks will be your getting good grades and cleaning your room."

He laughed. Much too loudly. But maybe it helped.

Chapter 21

Twenty miles North of L.A., everything empties.

I'd stopped at home long enough to pick up and scan the articles I'd photocopied at the library, gulp down some coffee, and get back on the freeway. The 405 took me to the 101 and finally Interstate 5, this time headed north. The last fast-food signs had been five miles back and I shared the freeway with flatbeds hauling hay, long-distance movers, the odd car, a few Winnebagos lumbering in the slow lane.

I had a heavy foot, speeding past brown, rumpled-blanket mountains, groves of scrub oak and pine and California pepper trees, the occasional grazing horse. The heat hadn't let up, but the sky was awash with pretty clouds-lavender-gray swirls, satin-shiny, as if an old wedding dress had been draped over the world.