"You're sure?"

"Psychologists are never sure," I said. "We just make probability judgments."

"Meaning?"

"If he pees on your shoes, I was wrong."

He claimed to have grabbed a sandwich, but one and a half beers later, he started to observe the pizza with interest. I slid it over to him. He got down four slices, said, "Maybe it's good for me-the spice, cleanses the body."

"Sure," I said. "It's health food. Detoxify yourself."

He got to work on a fifth slice, Spike curled at his feet, lapping the scraps that fell from his dangling left hand, Milo maintaining a poker face, thinking Robin and I weren't noticing the covert donations.

Robin said, "Dessert?"

"Don't put yourself out-"

She patted his head and went into the house.

I said, "So what's not earth-shattering?"

"Found four more George Orson bank accounts. Glendale, Sylmar, Northridge, downtown. All the same pattern: he plants cash for a week, withdraws right after writing checks."

"Checks for what?"

"Haven't been able to look at them yet. After a certain amount of time-no one seems to know how long-bad paper's destroyed and the data's sent to some computer in the home office."

"In Minnesota," I said.

"No doubt. These guys are addicted to paperwork, don't seem to wanna help themselves."

"Glendale, Sylmar, Northridge, downtown," I said. "Orson's spreading himself all over the city. It might also mean he's a restless driver. Consistent with a fun-killer. Anyone remember him?"

"Not a one. The crimes were duly documented, police reports were filed, but no one bothered to check for similars, no one spent much energy following up. Next item: the lab has complete HLA typing from the stains in the garage. I sent over samples of Richard's blood for comparison. Nothing showed up in the rest of the house. Too many cleanings by Mr. Itatani-where are negligent slumlords when you need them?"

Spike emitted a pulsating, froglike croak. Milo's left hand slid across the table. Slurp, munch.

"Finally: the lovely and outgoing Ms. Sinclair did indeed report the nighttime traffic at the house. A dozen complaints, cruisers were sent out seven times, but all the blues saw were some cars in the driveway, no dope transactions. I spoke to one of the sergeants. He considers Sinclair a crank. I have cleaned up his language. Apparently, bitching's her main hobby. One time she called in at two A.M. about a mockingbird in a tree she claimed was singing off-key intentionally- some bird plot to throw off her piano playing. In the warrant application I thought it best not to describe her psychological status in too much detail, called her a 'neighborhood observer.' But what a whack job; you guys will never be out of work."

"Too bad Mrs. Leiber didn't notice anything," I said.

"Who's Mrs. Leiber?"

"The lady with the lost dog."

"Oh, her. All she cared about was the dog."

"I keep thinking about the dog."

"What do you mean?"