The road drew the unmarked into a gray-green fringe of eucalyptus maybe seventy trees deep that blessed us with mentholated shade before we reemerged into the August sun and a white glare so piercing it rendered my sunglasses useless.

Up ahead was the high fencing. Electric cables thick and black as water snakes. A collection of English and Spanish warning signs in approved state colors presaged a glassed-in booth and a steel gate arm. The guard was a chunky young man of indeterminate mood who slid open a window, listened to Milo's explanation, took his time coming out. He examined our I.D. with what seemed like pain, took all the papers back to his glass closet, returned, asked how many firearms or knives we were carrying, and confiscated Milo's service revolver and my Swiss Army knife.

Several minutes later, the gate opened very slowly and Milo drove through. He'd been unusually quiet during the trip. Now he looked uneasy.

"Don't worry," I said. "You're not wearing khaki, they'll let you out. If you don't say too much."

He snorted. What he was wearing was an old maroon hop-sack blazer, gray wide-wale cords, gray shirt, wrinkled black poly tie, scuffed beige desert boots with soles the color of pencil erasers. He needed a haircut. Black cowlicks danced atop his big head. The contrast with the now-white sideburns was too strong. Yesterday, he'd made some comment about being Mr. Skunk.

The road tilted upward before flattening. We came to an outdoor parking lot, nearly full. Then more chain link, broad stretches of earth, yellow-tinged and sulfurous. Behind the fence stood a solid-looking man in a plaid sport shirt and jeans. The sound of the unmarked made him turn and study us.

Milo said, "Our welcoming party," and began searching for a spot. "Why the hell would anyone want to work here?"

"Are you asking in general or about Dr. Argent?"

"Both. But yeah, her. What would make her choose this?"

It was the day after he'd called me, and I hadn't yet seen the Argent file. "There's something for everyone," I said. "Also, managed care's tightened things up. Could be she had no choice."

"She had plenty of choice. She quit a research position at County General, neuro-something."

"Maybe she was doing research here, too."

"Maybe," he said, "but her job title was Psychologist II, pure civil service, and the director-some guy named Swig- didn't mention research. Why would she quit County for this?"

"You're sure she wasn't fired?"

"Her ex-boss at County told me she quit. Dr. Theobold."

"Myron Theobold."

"Him you know?"

"Met him a few times at faculty meetings. What else did he say?"

"Not much. Like he didn't know her well. Or maybe he was holding back. Maybe you should talk to him."

"Sure."