“And one more thing, Alex: Sean said both the working girls had tattoos. Maybe it means nothing, lots of people ink up nowadays. But it got me thinking about Frankie. Maybe that’s what turns him on. That’s when I realized I hadn’t checked the other victims for skin work, so I went back and re-read the autopsy reports. Not a dot on Kathy, but Deirdre had some prison ink, no surprise. And guess what: Classy Ursula had a tiny inscription in blue above her left shoulder blade. Pathologist listed it as ‘Chinese characters,’ no translation. I got the coroner to email it to Jim Gee, he’s a robbery D at Hollenbeck. He had no idea but emailed his mother and she said it was some sort of prayer for prosperity. Anyway, three of my victims have endured the needle. Am I making too big of a deal out of that?”

“It’s worth considering. Going to try to find the working girls?”

“Sean’s going back to the Norman tonight, see what he can learn. Meanwhile, my night on Sullivan defined stultifying, she was home all night. The guy in the chair’s definitely her husband. Gary Sullivan, also an attorney, now retired. His name came up in our files but not as an offender, as a victim. Nine years ago a drunk driver rear-ended a row of cars at a red light near the Staples Center after a Lakers game. Sullivan got hit hard, his spine was shattered. Flora stuck with him; from what we’ve seen, she takes good care of him, is nothing but a dutiful wife. You still see her as worth watching?”

“Think pleather and a tense chat with Fellinger.”

“Thought you were my friend.”

I said, “Here’s proof I am: spent a chunk of today calling antiques dealers and thrift shops. No one knew Frankie by name and her description didn’t ring any bells.”

“No one knew Frankie,” he said. “Guess that was the point.”

For the next two days, I visited thrift and antiques shops within a mile of Frankie DiMargio’s garage-apartment in Mar Vista. That encompassed a slew of establishments in Culver City, mostly on Washington Boulevard’s newly gentrified design strip. Frankie’s photo sparked nothing from proprietors and clerks.

The same went for tattoo parlors I found in the neighborhood. When the owner of one shop asked what I did for a living and I said, “Psychologist,” he said, “I can ink Freud’s face on your ass.”

“No thanks,” I said.

He smirked. “Afraid of pain?”

“Too repressed.”