"What's easier to clean than lacquered hardwood?" I said.

"True," he said. "Carpet would have yielded something."

"Stargill said she took the carpeting out."

He rubbed his face. "Ex-patient or ex-con, some bad boy she thinks she can control."

"Both would fit with the fact that she was found in her own car. Someone without his own wheels."

"Putting her in the driver's seat, again." Faint smile. "A late-night pickup-we know from Stargill that she wasn't opposed to being picked up. They go somewhere, things go bad. No semen in her, so it never got to hanky-panky.... Bad Boy cuts her, puts her in the trash bag, stashes her in the trunk and drives her over to West L.A. Doesn't steal the car, because that's a sure way to get busted. Smart. Meticulous. Not a Starkweather fellow." He grimaced. "Meaning I'm wasting my time over there. Back to square one."

His cell phone chirped. Snapping it off his belt, he said, "Sturgis-... Oh, hi.... Yes, thank you- Oh? How so? Why don't you just tell- Okay, sure, that would be fine, give me directions."

Cradling the phone under his chin, he produced his pad, wrote something down, clicked off.

"That," he said, "was young Miss Ott. She does the night shift today at Starkweather, wants to talk before work."

"Talk about what?"

"She wouldn't say, but I know scared when I hear it."

She'd asked to meet at Plummer Park in West Hollywood. I followed Milo, connecting to Laurel, turning east on Mel-rose. On the way, I passed a billboard advertising a kick-boxing gym: terrific-looking woman in a sports bra drawing back a glove for a roundhouse. The ad line was "You can rest when you're dead." Theology everywhere.

The park was scrubby, crowded, more Russian spoken than English. Most of the inhabitants were old people on benches, heavily garbed despite the heat. A sprinkle of kids on bicycles circled a dry oval of grass in the center, sleepy-looking dog walkers were led by the leash, a few scruffy types in designer T-shirts and cheap shoes hung out near the pay phones trying to radiate Moscow Mafia.

Heidi Ott stood by herself under a sad-looking carrotwood tree, arms crossing her chest, checking out the terrain in all directions. When she spotted us, she gave a small wave and headed for the only vacant bench in sight. A pile of fresh dog turd nearby explained the vacancy. Wrinkling her nose, she moved on and we followed her to a shady spot near the swing set, under an old Chinese elm. The surrounding grass was bruised and matted. A lone young woman pushed her toddler in a gently repeating arc. Both she and the child seemed hypnotized by the motion.