Profound, Delaware. You are hereby christened the Grand Duke of Generic Psychological Guesswork.

After photocopying Katherine Hennepin’s enlarged DMV photo, I showered, but didn’t shave, put on a T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers, and drove to Century City.

Leaving the Seville in the pay lot of the office building directly across the street, I climbed the broad steps leading to the structure where Ursula Corey had died.

Rather than enter the lobby, I stood around, slightly left of center, studying the foot traffic in and out.

No spew of humanity, just a thin but steady parade of people looking purposeful.

I did my best to look aimless, figured clothes that didn’t fit in would help. No one noticed or cared. The flow parted around me and resumed; I might as well have been a traffic cone.

Invisible man. Was that the way he felt all the time?

Maybe a smidge of odd behavior would help. I lowered my head, bobbed up and down, pretended to study at the ground, a loner caught up in a private world.

When that failed to raise a reaction, I looked up and altered my facial expression: sneering at the universe.

That caught the eye of a few people and made them frown and widen the berth they gave me. But no slowing of pace. Now I was a traffic cone soiled by dog shit.

Finally, a pair of young brunettes in short skirts muttered something that sounded cruel as they stilettoed past.

Then: more invisibility.

I supposed it made sense. Kids are taught not to stare and people are repelled by abnormality.

But maybe it was more than that. Because despite all the so-called social networks and the transitory clans they breed (the yoga community, the yogurt community, the Yogi Berra community), ultimately, we all drive solo. And that can lead to self-absorption.

More so in California where nice weather and cinematic promises of happy endings can erode any but the most passionate or paranoid person’s sense of threat.

I’d just proven to myself how tough it was to get anyone to pay attention. Had that helped the killer take Ursula Corey?

Decked out in bling, she’d marched happily to her Jaguar, secure in the knowledge that she was rich and charismatic and sexy and therefore owned the world. Gladdened further by what she’d just accomplished: willing a whole bunch of shiny stuff to her daughters, how delighted they were when she told them, maybe the three of them would go out to dinner tonight to celebrate, something spontaneous, she’d pop it on them when she got back to Calabasas.

The last thing on her mind …

Easy pickings.

Satisfied there was nothing more to be learned here, I’d turned to leave when a fingertip poked my shoulder hard enough to hurt.

“Can I help you, pal?”