Ten minutes later he left a message. Detective I Alexander Shimoff had a day off but could meet Robin anytime until nine p.m. at his home in the Pico-Robertson district.

I’d missed his call because I’d been talking to someone else.

Chapter 7

retchen Stengel answered her phone after one ring. “I’m me, who are you?”

Her voice was low, hoarse. The tail-end of each word faded.

“This is Dr. Delaware returning your call.”

“Doc,” she said. “Been a while, huh?”

“What can I—”

“You do remember me.”

“I do.”

“Been told I’m hard to forget,” she said.

I waited.

“All those years ago, huh, Doc?” Coughing. “Not exactly good times.”

“No one likes visits from the police.”

“The unspoken message: especially a pimp.”

I said, “My messages tend to be spoken. What can I do for you, Gretchen?”

She barked laughter, slid into a coughing fit, caught her breath with a sharp intake of air. “Now that we’re BFFs, may I call you Doctor?” Giggling.

I didn’t answer.

She said, “I can see you sitting there, with that stony shrink look.”

“Pure granite.”

“What—oh, ha, funny. Okay, sorry for being a wiseass. It’s just that I get that way when I’m dying.”

She coughed some more. “I don’t mean like some fucking comic bombing. Dying literally. As in the cells will soon go sleepy-bye.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Trust me, I’m sorrier than you. Springing it on you was a little naughty of me, huh? But there’s no easy way. Like when cops go tell families someone’s been murdered. Your gay buddy must love that, no?”

I didn’t answer.

She said, “I’ve been watching a lot of cop shows. Seeing it from the other side’s perspective has been educational.” Sigh. Throat clear. “Anyway, I’m on the way out. Kaput.”

“Would you like to come in to talk about it?”

“Not a chance,” she said. “There’s nothing to say. I lived what they call a high-risk life. Cleaned-and-sobered-up for seven years but kept dating Tommy Tobacco. My lungs never stopped bitching at me to quit, I didn’t, so they got pissed and cultivated a nice little bumper crop of tumors. I went through one course of chemo, asked the oncologist if there was a purpose to any of it and he was such a pussy, hemmed and hawed, that I got my answer. So I said, screw that noise, time to exit gracefully.”

There’s nothing to say.

She gasped. “Feels like I just ran the marathon. Not that I ever did that. Did anything healthy.” Laughter. “You’re a good shrink, I feel better already.” Inhalation. “Not.”

“What can I do for you, Gretchen?”