“From what we’ve seen they are. Grumpy Dad, softer Mom, lots of obvious discord. Frankie managed to find lodgings that replicated her home life. Probably unconsciously. That tells me she had a giant hole in her soul.”

“Big-time rebel when all she needed was a cuddle?”

“Pretending to reinvent herself but wanting the comfort of the familiar,” I said. “Poor kid, life’s been tough for her.”

“And now it’s ended. Her parents couldn’t tell me much. Think it’s worth talking to her brother and sister?”

“Definitely.”

A mile later, he said: “Okay, Kathy and Frankie were shy and Deirdre Brand got on his nerves. But I don’t see Ursula fitting in. Just the opposite, she sounds like a social superstar.”

“But she met Fellinger during a particularly stressful period and grew dependent on him. The fact that she came back to him after the divorce settled—to tweak her will—says the dependency was durable. I agree, her murder stands out: She wasn’t taken at home, there was no blitz-attack, and the dinner scene wasn’t set up until later. But that could just be practicality on the part of a smart killer. And for all we know, despite sleeping with Fellinger, Ursula kept him at arm’s length, never invited him into her home. So he took her on his own territory. But when you get down to it, she was hunted and bagged, just like the others.”

“He handles her divorce and decides to kill her.”

“Maybe she pulled away sexually and he doesn’t take well to rejection.”

“Bang, bon appétit,” he said. “Moving up to a designer kitchen.”

“But the message remains the same: I run the show.”

“He took his time setting up Ursula’s scene, careful to make sure no one would be home. He’s able to delay gratification.”

“I hate that in a criminal. Okay, time to drop in at the bookstore where Frankie worked. If Fellinger was a regular, someone’s gotta know.”

“I was figuring the same thing, Big Guy.”

“Great minds,” he said. “Or we’re both rowing in circles.”

He said he’d need his car later so I dropped him at the station and we continued separately. The address he gave me was on Sunset Boulevard east of Hollywood, the initial fringes of Silverlake. At this time of day, a forty-five-minute drive, minimum, which gave me plenty of time to think about what I hadn’t told him.

A killer icing the cake by misleading the cops.

My thoughts about that had solidified because each of the murders had been ripe with misdirection.

Katherine Hennepin set up as a textbook crime of passion and lust committed by an intimate.

Ursula Corey set up as a textbook professional execution.

Deirdre Brand, the “obvious” victim of an unfortunate lifestyle.

And now, Frankie DiMargio, perhaps the most vulnerable of all of them. A victim who’d made textbook easy.