We got back in the unmarked. On the way to the station, we passed the spot where Richard Dada's VW had been abandoned. Small factories, auto mechanics, spare-parts yards. Just another industrial park-a cleaner, more compact version of the desolate stretch presaging Starkweather.

Comfort zones ...

We sat, parked at the curb, not talking, watching men with rolled-up sleeves hauling and driving, loafing and smoking.

No gates around the enclosure. Easy entry after hours. Empty, dark acres: the perfect dump site. A flatbed full of aluminum pipe rumbled past. A catering truck with rust-specked white sides sounded a clarion and men marched forward for burritos of dubious composition.

The noise had never abated, but now I heard it for the first time. Compressors snapping and popping, metal clanging against cement, whining triumph as saw blades devoured wood...

I accompanied Milo as he visited shop after shop, asking questions, encountering boredom, confusion, distrust, occasional overt hostility.

Asking about a tall, thin, bald man with a bird face who did woodwork. Maybe a wig, black or brown, curly or straight. A yellow Corvette or an old VW. Two hours, and all the effort bought were lungfuls of chemical air.

Milo drove me back to the station and I headed home, thinking, suddenly and inexplicably, of a missing dog with a nice smile.

Nighttime can be so many things.

Shortly after eight P.M., Robin and I were eating pizza on the deck, tented by a starless purple sky. Just enough dry heat had lingered to be soothing. The quiet was merciful.

Robin had driven up an hour before. Feeling guilty about returning to Starkweather without informing her, I'd filled her in.

"No need for confession. You're here in one piece."

She'd looked tired, soaked in the tub while I drove into Westwood to get the pizza. I took the truck, playing Joe Satri-ani very loud. Not minding the traffic, not minding much of anything at all. A couple of beers when I got back didn't raise my anxiety. The bath had refreshed Robin, and staring at her across the table as she worked on a second slice seemed a great way to pass the time.

I'd allowed myself to feel pretty good by the time the unmarked zoomed up in front of the house.

The headlights made my head hurt. Tonight, Marie Sinclair and I were kindred spirits.

The car stopped. Spike barked. Robin waved. I didn't budge.

Milo stuck his head out the passenger's window. "Oh. Sorry. Nothing earth-shattering. Call me tomorrow, Alex."

Spike had cranked up the volume, and now he was baying like an insulted hound. Robin got up and leaned over the railing. "Don't be silly. Come up and eat something."

"Nah," he said. "You lovebirds deserve some quality time."

"Up, young man. Now."

Spike hurled himself down the stairs, sped to the car, stationed himself at Milo's door and began jumping up and down.

"How do I interpret this?" said Milo. "Friend or foe?"

"Friend," I said.