Moe Reed said, “We kind of need you, Doc. Over at the Corey house.”

“Which one?”

“Pardon?”

“His or hers?”

“Oh. Hers. L.T. wants to know if you can come over A-sap.”

“Any reason he didn’t call himself, Moe?”

Reed said, “Hold on, let me move away from the scene.”

“Another murder?”

“No, this is … maybe even weirder. Why didn’t he call himself, Doc? Because to tell the truth, Doc, he’s kind of … I don’t know, I guess stunned is the word? Never really seen him like this.”

He explained why.

I said, “Be over as soon as I can.”

Robin began wrapping up the sandwiches. “Drive carefully.”

“You never say that.”

“That’s because I assume you will.” She kissed me again. “But now, my darling, you’re looking a little … accelerated.”

I told her why.

She said, “That’s crazy. Then again, who better to handle crazy than you?”

CHAPTER

8

This time, the gatehouse at Rancho Lobo Estates was staffed by a young man who looked nervous. I announced myself. He let me in between “Alex” and “Delaware.”

The four-slot parking area on the north side of Ursula Corey’s house was filled, overflow vehicles parked on the side of the road. The quartet that had beaten me onto the property were Milo’s Impala, two other unmarkeds, and a red BMW 3. I left the Seville behind a white Infiniti sedan, a bronze Jaguar S-type with customized plates reading RE MIK, and a white van bearing the seal of the crime lab. The cars were unoccupied. Two techs sat in the van listening to something on earphones.

The horses were gone but the smell of horseshit lingered. The house’s front door had been propped open and Detective I Sean Binchy stood in the octagonal entry, wearing his usual dark suit, deep-blue shirt, black tie, and Doc Martens. His red hair was spiked, his long, big-jawed face smooth and freckled and glowing.

“Doc!” he said, as if my arrival made his day.

Years ago Sean had begun a metamorphosis that took him from surfer to punk-ska bassist to born-again crime solver. Maybe it’s faith that keeps him cheerful, maybe he’s just wired that way, but nothing bores him, nothing disappoints him, and he’s got the attention span of a severe obsessive-compulsive without the anxiety and the troublesome habits.

Cloning his neural fluid could make someone rich.

He gripped my hand and said, “You’re going to be interested, Doc, it’s really psychological.”

“Can’t wait, Sean.” Walking past him, I encountered Detective I Moses Reed at the mouth of the great room. Reed had probably played cop in the crib. His half brother had once been an LAPD ace and his father’s life distilled down to military service, Central Division patrol, premature death.

He said, “Doc,” and thumbed me forward.