"Generous to the nth," Rob Ray agreed. "Back in high school, she was always the first to volunteer to help others. Old people at the hospital, animals at the shelter-didn't matter, she was there at the head of the line. She loved animals especially. We used to have a dog, a little Scottie. You know how kids never take responsibility with pets, it's always the parents who end up with it. Not our situation. Claire did everything, feeding it, cleaning up after it. She was always trying to fix things-broken wings on bugs, anything. We knew she'd be some kind of doctor, I would've guessed a veterinarian, but psychologist was fine. She always got good grades-it doesn't make sense, Detective Sturgis. At the morgue-what we just saw-I just don't... It had to be a maniac-this Starkweather place is nothing but maniacs?"

"Yes, sir," said Milo. "It's the first thing we looked at. So far, no leads. Apparently the inmates never get out."

"Sure," said Rob Ray. "Isn't there always some screwup that lets someone out? Some stupid mistake?" Tears began coursing silently down the jelly of his cheeks.

"You're right, sir," said Milo. "But so far I haven't come up with anything."

His tone had gentled; suddenly he seemed like a much younger man.

"Well," said Rob Ray. "I can tell you're good people. Where you from originally? Your folks, I mean."

"Indiana."

Satisfied nod. "I know you're trying."

Suddenly one log-arm moved with astonishing speed, slamming upward to the big man's face, as he ground the handkerchief to his eyes.

"Oh, Rob," said his wife, and she was crying again, too.

Milo went into the bathroom and brought them water.

Rob Ray Argent said, "Thanks, I'm supposed to drink a lot, anyway. For my joints, keep them lubricated." Half a shrug made his sloping shoulders jiggle. He plucked shirt fabric out of a fat fold.

Milo said, "So Claire visited only on Christmas."

"Yes, sir."

"Is that since she moved to Los Angeles or since she went to graduate school in Cleveland?"

"Los Angeles," said Rob Ray. "When she was at Case Western she came home for Thanksgiving, Easter, summers. She helped us out in the store, summers."

"Once she moved to L.A., how often did she write?"

Silence.

"We're phoners, not writers," said Ernestine. "Long distance is so economical nowadays. We have one of those calling plans."

I remembered Claire's phone bills. No recent calls to Pittsburgh. Had she dialed her parents from the office? Or had she become a stranger to them? Adding them to the club of strangers we'd encountered at every turn?

"So she called," said Milo.

"That's right," said Ernestine. "Every so often."

Milo scribbled. "What about her marriage? And the divorce. Anything I should know about that?"

Ernestine lowered her eyes. Her husband took a long, noisy breath.

"She said she'd gotten married in Reno," he said. "Soon after. One of her calls."