it parade.

Poor thing was an equal-opportunity victim."

"Like ants crawling over a beetle carcass," I said.

Milo tossed his napkin on the table. "What else do you know about this Moriarty?"

"Just her address. West Hollywood." I pulled out the paper Jan Robbins had given me and handed it to him.

"Hey," he said, "we're neighbors-this is maybe six blocks from my place. Could have stood next to her in line at the supermarket."

"Didn't know you went to the market."

"I was speaking symbolically." He lifted his briefcase to his knee, rummaged, and pulled out his notepad, copied down the address.

"I can stop by," he said, "see if she's still living there. If she isn't, anything further's gonna have to wait, "cause of all the other stuff I've got to deal with. You want to spend some time pursuing it, that's fine, too."

"Do I get a brand-new private-eye briefcase?"

"Buy your own, ace. We're talking free enterprise."

I paid the check and Milo chatted with Joyce, complimenting her further on her food, commiserating on the problems of running a small business, then somehow easing into the subject of Kathy Moriarty as if it were the next logical step. She had no new facts to offer but was able to come up with a physical description of the reporter: mid- to late thirties, medium height and build, brown hair cut short, Buster Brown style, rosy complexion ("like what you'd expect in an Irish girl"), light eyes-either blue or green. Then, as if realizing she'd given more than she'd taken, she crossed her arms over her chest and said, "Why do you want to know all this?"

Milo crooked his head and led her to the rear of the restauranta needless concealment, since we were the only customers. He showed her his inactive LAPD badge. She opened her mouth but said nothing.

He said, "It's important you don't say anything to anybody.

Please."

"Sure. Is something-" "No danger to you or anyone. We're just making a routine inquiry."

"About that place-the clinic?"

"Does something about the place bother you?"

"Well," she said, "like I was telling this gentleman, it is odd so few people come in and out. Makes you wonder what they're really doing in there this day and age, you've got to wonder."

"Yes, you do."

She shivered and seemed to enjoy the conspiracy. Milo obtained another pledge of silence from her. We left the restaurant and headed back toward Sussex Knoll.

"Think she can keep a secret?" I said.

"Who knows."

"Not that important?"

He shrugged. "What's the worst that can happen? It gets back to the Gabneys that someone's asking questions. If they're not up to anything, it goes nowhere. If they are, maybe they'll get scared and do something rash."

"Such as?"

"Sell the Cassatt, maybe even do some other quick cashing-in that lets us know they've been holding on to some other assets of Gina's."

Gina. He said her name with an easy familiarity, though they'd never met. A homicide cop's intimacy. I thought of all the others he'd never met but knew so well.. so," he was saying, "that okay with you?"

"Is what okay?"

He laughed. "You're making my point for me, champ."

"Which is?"

"Go home and get some sleep."

"I'm fine. What were you saying?"

"That you should catch some Z's and check out Moriarty's place tomorrow morning. If it's an apartment building, talk to the landlord or the manager, if you can find them. Any other tenants, too.

"What's my premise?"

"Your what?"

"My reason for asking questions about her I don't have a badge."

"Buy one," he said. "On Hollywood Boulevard, one of the costume shops.

Be as legal as the one I'm using."

"Well, aren't we bitter," I said.

He gave an evil grin. "Okay, you want a premise: Say you're an old friend just come out from the East Coast, you're looking her up for old time's sake. Or you're a cousin the grand Moriarty family reunion's coming around soon and no one can seem to get hold of dear Kathy. Make something up. You met her sister-you should be able to make it sound realistic."

"Nothing like a little deception to spice up the morning, huh."

"Hey," he said, "makes the world go "round."

As we parked in front of the house, Noel Drucker came out the front door carrying a large blue suitcase with a designer logo.

He said, "She's up in her room. Writing."

"Writing what?"

"Something to do with the bank guy and the lawyer, I think.

She's really ticked off, wants to sue them."

Milo pointed at the suitcase. "For the boss?"

Noel nodded.

"Any idea where he's gonna be living?"

"I guess he'll stay with us till he finds a place. With my mom and me.

Upstairs at the Tankard. It's his, anyway."

"You rent from him?"

"No, he lets us stay there free."

"Pretty nice of him."

Noel nodded. "He really is a nice guy. I wish..." He threw up one hand and said, "Whatever."

"Must be hard for you," I said. "Caught in the middle."

He shrugged. "I figure it's practice."

"For international relations?"

"For the real world."

He got in the red Celica and drove off.

Milo watched his taillights until they disappeared. "Nice kid."

As if he'd just tagged an endangered species.

Slapping his briefcase against his leg, he checked his Timer.

"Nine-thirty. Gonna make a few calls. Then I'll boogie on down to the mission and try to get a rise out of Mr. Deadbrain."

"If Melissa doesn't need me, I'll go with you."

He frowned. "What about sleep?"

"Too wound up."

He said nothing for a moment, then: "Okay. He's a nutcasemaybe your training will come in handy. But then do me a favor and go home and crash. Don't keep driving on high the engine burns out.

"Yes, Mom."

Melissa was in the windowless room, sitting at the desk behind a of papers.

She looked alarmed when we came in, stood suddenly, and knocked some pages to the floor. "Strategy planning," she said. "I'm trying to figure out ways of getting the bastards."

Milo picked up the papers, glanced at them, and put them on the desk.

Blank. "Come up with anything?"

"Sort of I think the best way to go is reviewing every single thing they've been doing since... since the very beginning. I mean really make them open up all their books and go over every line, every number.

At the very least it'll freak them out so much they'll forget about ripping me off and I can concentrate on getting them."

I said, "Good offense the best defense."

"Exactly." She clapped her hands together. There was color in her cheeks and her eyes glowed, but it wasn't a healthy light. Milo was studying her, but she didn't notice it.

"Did you get a chance to talk to any lawyers, Dr. Delaware?"

"Not yet.

"Okay, but as soon as possible, all right? Please."

"I could try right now."

"That would be great. Thanks." She lifted the phone from the desk and thrust it at me.

Milo said, "I could use something to drink."

She looked at him, then at me. "Sure. Let's go get something from the kitchen."

Alone, I dialed Mal Worthy's home number in Brentwood. A machine with his third wife's voice on it answered. I began leaving a message and he broke in.

"Alex. I was meaning to call you got a juicy one coming up.

Two psychologists splitting up, three really screwed-up kids. I've got the wife and it's shaping up as one of the nastiest custody fights you're ever going to see.

"Sounds like fun."

"You bet. How's your calendar, let's say five weeks from now?"

"I don't have it in front of me but that far in advance I don't see a problem."

"Good. You're going to love this these are two of the craziest people you'll ever meet. The thought of them messing with other people's heads is What is it with your profession, anyway?"

"Let's talk about your profession," I said. "I need a referral."

"For what?"

"Estate and taxation."

"Word-processing or litigation?"

"Could be both." I gave him a general summary of Melissa's situation, leaving out names, numbers, and identifying marks.

He said, "Suzy LaFamiglia, if your client doesn't mind a woman.

"A woman would be fine."

"Only reason I mention it is, you'd be surprised how many people still come in with rules-no women, no minorities. Their loss, because Suzy's the best. CPA as well as a law degree, worked for one of the big accounting firms and brought in more business than any other associate until they kept passing her up for partnership because she had the wrong genitals. She sued, settled out of court, used the money to go to Boalt top of the class. She's a real blackhearted litigator. Made her mark working for film people, getting money back from the studios.

In situations where the finances are so hairy they go beyond my not inconsiderable skills, she's my main man.

He laughed at his own wit.

I said, "Sounds perfect for my client."

He gave me a number. "Century City East she's got a whole floor in one of the towers. I'll call you on the other thing. You're going to love it our little pair of snarling, snapping therapists. I call them the Paradox. The I a propros." He laughed more heartily.

I hung up without telling him I'd heard the joke before.

Milo came back without Melissa, holding a can of Diet Coke.

"She's in the bathroom," he said. "Throwing up."

"What happened?"

"She just gave out. Started in with more of the tough talkgetting the bastards. I said something to her-then boom, she's crying and gagging."

"I saw you looking at her like a detective. Then you got her out of the room while I called. Why?"

He looked uncomfortable.

I said, "What?"

"Okay," he said, "I have an evil mind. It's what I get paid for."

He hesitated. "I didn't want her out. I wanted to get her alone-get a closer look, without you running interference for her. Because her demeanor, just now, bothered me. It got me thinking we'd missed one possibility in our little dinner discussion. Very ugly possibility, but sometimes those are the most important ones.

"Melissa?" I said, feeling my gut tighten.

He started to turn away, reversed direction, and faced me. "She's the sole heir, Alex. Forty million bucks. And she's sure ready to fight for it before the body's even cold."

"There is no body."

"Figure of speech. Don't chew my head off."

"You just come up with this?"

He shook his head. "I guess it's been floating around in the back of my head from the beginning. Because of my training: when there's money involved, look for the person who benefits. But I repressed it, or whatever maybe I just didn't want to think about it."

"Milo, she's fighting because she's channeling her grief into anger.

Taking the offensive instead of letting herself be crushed.

I trained her to do that in therapy. In my book, it's still good coping."

"Maybe," he said. "All I'm saying is that in a normal situation, I'd have looked at her early on."

"You can't be serious."

"Hey," he said, "I didn't say I thought it was a probability. Just something we left out. No, not we me. i'm the one trained to think ugly. But I didn't. It wouldn't have happened if I'd been working for the city."

"Well, you're not," I said, raising my voice, "so why not allow yourself a vacation from that kind of thinking?"

"Hey," he said, "don't kill the messenger."

"She had no opportunity," I said. "She was here when her mother disappeared."

"The Drucker kid could have had one-where was he?"

"I don't know."

He nodded, but without satisfaction. "From what I've seen, he digs her enough to eat her fingernail dirt and call it caviar. And he took care of the family's cars. He'd know all about how the Rolls worked. Gina would've picked him up, that's for sure. And you yourself said he twanged your antennae."

"I didn't say I sensed anything psychopathic about him."

"Okay."

"Oh, man," I said, feeling a grinding headache coming on. "No way, Milo. No way."

"It's sure not anything I want to believe, Alex. I like the kid and I'm still working for her. She was just looking a little too. hardbitten, just now. Going on and on about getting the bastards.

What I said to her out in the kitchen was "sounds like you're raring to go." And she just stopped and fell apart. I felt shitty for making her feel bad, but also better. Because she started looking like a kid again.

If I did something untherapeutic, I'm sorry."

"No," I said. "If it was that close to the surface it would have happened sooner or later."

"Yeah," he said.

Neither of us putting into words what we were thinking: if it was real.

Feeling suddenly weary, I sat down in the chair near the phone table.

The paper with Suzy LaFamiglia's number was between my fingers. "Just got a lawyer for her. Female, tough, combative-likes to take on the system."

"Sounds good."

"Sounds," I said, "like someone Melissa could grow up to be."

Melissa came back to the five-sided room looking a long way from grown up. Her shoulders were stooped, her gait had slowed, and she dabbed at her mouth with a piece of toilet paper. I gave her the lawyer's number and she thanked me in a very soft voice.

"Want me to call for you?"

"No, thanks. I'll do it. Tomorrow."

I sat her down behind the desk. She gazed out blankly in Milo's direction and gave a weak smile.

Milo smiled back and looked at his soda can. I wasn't sure for whom I felt sorrier.

Melissa sighed and put her hand under her jaw.

I said, "How're you doing, lion?"

"I don't know," she said. "This is all so I feel like I'm just being Like I've got no... I don't know."

I touched her shoulder.

She said, "Who am I fooling fighting them? I'm a nothing.

Who's going to listen to me?"

I said, "It'll be your lawyer's job to fight. Right now you should be concentrating on taking care of yourself" After a long time she said, "I guess."

Another stretch of silence, then: "I'm really alone."

"Lots of people around here care for you, Melissa."

Milo was looking at the floor.

"I'm really alone," she said again, with an eerie wonderment.

As if she'd run a maze in record time, only to find it led to an abyss.

"I'm tired," she said. "I think I'll sleep."

"Would you like me to stay with you?"

"I want to sleep with someone. I don't want to be alone."

Milo put the can down on the table and left the room.

I remained with Melissa, saying comforting things that didn't seem to have much of an effect.

Milo returned with Madeleine. The big woman was breathing hard and looked agitated, but by the time she reached Melissa's side, her expression had turned tender. She hovered over Melissa and stroked her hair. Melissa swooned a bit, as if she'd been embraced.

Madeleine leaned lower and hugged her to her bosom.

"I sleep with you, cherie. Come, we go now."

In the car, driving away from the house, Milo said, "Okay, I'm a child-abusing asshole."

"So you don't think her falling apart was an act?"

He braked hard at the foot of the drive and whipped his head toward me.

"What the hell was that, Alex? Twisting the goddam knife?"

His teeth were bared. The spotlight above the pine gates yellowed them.

"No," I said, feelingfear of him for the first time in all the years I'd known him. Feeling like a suspect. "No, I'm serious. Couldn't she have been faking it?"

"Yeah, right. You're telling me you think she's a psychopath?"

Shouting now, one big hand pounding the steering wheel.

"I don't know what to think!" I said, matching his volume. "You keep throwing theories at me out of left field!"

"Thought that was the idea!"

"The idea was to help!"

He shoved his face forward, as if it were a weapon. Glared, then sagged against the seat and ran his hands through his hair. "Shit, this is a pretty scene.

"Must be sleep deprivation," I said, feeling shaky.

"Must be. Change your mind about sacking out?"

"Hell, no.

He laughed. "Me, neither Sorry for getting on you.

"Sorry, too. How about we just forget it."

He put his hands back on the wheel and resumed driving.

Slowly, with exquisite caution. Dropping speed at every intersection, even when there was no stop sign. Looking from side to side and in all the mirrors, though the streets were empty.

At Cathcart he said, "Alex, I'm not cut out for this private stuff.

Too unstructured too many blurred boundaries. I've been telling myself that I'm different, but it's bullshit. I'm straight-ahead paramilitary, like everyone else in the department. Need an us-versusthem world."

"Who's us?"

"The blue meanies. I like being mean."

I thought of the world he'd contended with for so many years.

The one he'd be contending with again, in just a few months: being relegated to them by other policemen, no matter how many thems he put away.

I said, "You didn't do anything out of line. I was reacting from my gut as her protector. It would have been negligent for you not to consider her as a suspect. It would be negligent not to continue considering her if that's where the facts lead."

"The facts," he said. "We don't got us too many of those.

He seemed about to say more, but the freeway on-ramp appeared and he clamped his mouth shut and gave the Porsche gas.

Traffic toward downtown was light, but it created enough of a roar to substitute for conversation.

We reached the Eternal Hope Mission shortly after ten and parked halfway down the block. The air smelled of ripening garbage and sweet wine and fresh asphalt, with a curious overlay of flowers that seemed to travel on a westerly breeze-as if the better parts of town had air-mailed a whiff of better homes and gardens.

The front facade of the mission was swimming in artificial light.

That, and the moonglow, turned the aqua plaster icy-white. Five or six shabby men were congregated near the entrance, listening or pretending to listen to two men in business clothes.

As we got closer I saw that the talkers were in their thirties. One was tall and thin and fair with waxy-looking blond hair cut frat-boy short and an oddly dark mustache that hooked down at right angles to his mouth and resembled a fuzzy croquet wicket. He wore silverrimmed eyeglasses, a gray summer-weight suit, and mocha-colored zip boots.

The arms of the suit were a trifle too short. His wrists were huge. A note pad, identical to the ones Milo used, was in one hand, along with a soft-pack of Winstons.

The second man was short, stocky, and dark, clean-shaven and baby-faced. He had a Ritchie Valens pompadour, narrow eyes with lips to match, wore a blue blazer and gray slacks. He was the one doing most of the talking.

The two men stood in profile, neither of them seeing us.

Milo walked up to the taller one and said, "Brad."

The man turned and stared. A few of the shabby men followed the stare.

The darker man stopped talking, checked out his partner, then Milo.

As if unleashed, the homeless men began to drift away.

The darker man said, "Hold on, campers," and the men stopped short, some of them muttering. The detective gave his partner an arched eyebrow.

The man Milo had called Brad sucked in his cheeks and nodded.

The other man said, "This way, campers," and corralled the shabby men off to one side.

The taller man watched them until they'd passed out of earshot, then turned back to Milo. "Sturgis. How convenient."

"What is?"

"I hear you've been down here already today. Which makes you someone I want to talk to."

"That so?"

The detective transferred his cigarettes to the other hand. "Two trips in one day-pretty dedicated. Getting paid by the hour?"

Milo said, "What's up?"

"Why all the interest in McCloskey?"

"Just what I told you when I checked in a couple of days ago."

"Run it by me again."

"The lady he burned is still gone. Real gone. Her family would still like to know if there's a connection."

"What do you mean, real gone?"

Milo told him about Morris Dam.

The blond man remained impassive, but the hand around the cigarette pack tightened. Realizing it, he frowned and examined the pack, tugging at cellophane, using his fingertips to straighten the corners.

"Too bad," he said. "Family must be shook up."

"They're not throwing any parties."

The blond man gave a curdled smile. "You already rousted him twice.

Why again?"

"First couple of times he didn't have much to say.

"And you thought you might convince him."

"Something like that."

"Something like that." The blond man looked over at the dark man, who was still lecturing to the derelicts.

Milo said, "What gives, Brad?"

"What gives," repeated the blond man, touching the rim of his eyeglasses. "What gives is that maybe life just got complicated."

He paused, studying Milo. When Milo didn't say anything, the blond man fished a cigarette out of the pack, put it between his lips, and talked around it. "Looks like we've got business together."

Another pause for reaction.

From half a mile away the freeway rumbled. From half a block away came the sound of shattering glass. Brad's partner kept talking to the derelicts. I couldn't make out his words but his tone was patronizing.

The shabby men looked nearly asleep.

The blond detective said, "Seems Mr. McCloskey met with an unfortunate situation." Staring at Milo.

Milo said, "When?"

The detective felt around in his trousers pocket as if the answer were to be found there. He pulled out a disposable lighter, and ignited.

The flame cast a two-second hobgoblin glow over his face. gh-sanded and knobby, with shaving bumps along the jawline. "Couple of hours ago," he said, "give or take." He squinted at me through glass and smoke, as if his releasing the information had made me someone to be reckoned with.

"Friend of the family," said Milo.

The tall man kept scrutinizing me, inhaling and blowing out smoke without removing the cigarette from his mouth. He'd majored in stoicism and graduated with honors.

Milo said, "Dr. Delaware, Detective Bradley Lewis, Central Division Homicide. Detective Lewis, Dr. Alex Delaware."

Lewis blew smoke rings and said, "A doctor, huh."

"Family doctor, as a matter of fact."

"Ah."

I tried to look doctoral.

Milo said, "How'd it happen, Brad?"

"What?" said Lewis. "This some kind of a bounty thing? Getting paid for bringing the good news back to the family?"

Milo said, "It won't bring her back, but yeah, I can't imagine they'll mourn." He repeated his question.

Lewis pondered answering it, finally said, "Back alley a few blocks south and east of here-the industrial area between San Pedro and Alameda. Auto versus pedestrian, auto winning with a first round KO."

"If it's hit and run, why are you guys on it?"

"What a sleuth," said Lewis. "Hey d'you ever do police work?"

Grinning.

Milo didn't talk or move.

Lewis smoked and said, "As it happens, the auto didn't take any chances, according to the techs. Ran over him once, then backed up and did it at least twice more for good luck. We're talking road pizza with all the toppings."

He turned to me, pulled the cigarette out of his mouth, and flashed a sudden, wolfish grin. "Family doctor, huh? You look like a civilized gentleman, but appearances can be deceiving sometimes, right?"

I smiled back. His grin widened, as if we'd just shared a terrific joke.

"Doctor," he said, chain-lighting a second cigarette and grinding out the first on the sidewalk, "you wouldn't by any remote chance have used your Mercedes or BMW or whatever to put poor Mr. McCloskey out of his misery, would you, sir? Quick confession and we can all go home."

I kept smiling and said, "Sorry to disappoint you.

"Darn," said Lewis. "I hate whodunits."

"The car was German?" said Milo.

Lewis kicked the cement with one boot heel and blew smoke through his nose. "What is this, Meet the Press?"

"Any reason not to tell me, Brad?"

"You're a civilian, for one."

Milo said nothing.

Lewis said, "Maybe even a suspect, for two."

"Right," said Milo. "What is this, Brad? Fucking Murder She Wrote?"

Turning his stare on Lewis. They were the same height but Milo outweighed Lewis by fifty pounds. Lewis stared back, smoking, stone-faced, and didn't answer.

Milo near-whispered a single word that sounded like "Gonzales."

Lewis's gaze faltered. The cigarette in his mouth dipped, then arced upward as his jaw tightened.

He said, "Look, Sturgis, I can't fuck around with this. At the very least there's a conflict of interest like if we end up coming out to Pasadena and talking to the family about this."

"The family, as it stands right now," said Milo, "is an eighteenyear-old girl who just found out her mother's dead and doesn't even have a body to bury "cause it's at the bottom of the goddam dam.

Sheriff's just waiting for it to float "All the more reason "That happens, it'll be loads of fun for her, right, Brad? ID-ing a floater?

Meanwhile, she's been cooped up in the house for the last few days, tons of eyewitnesses, so she sure as hell didn't run the pieceo-shit over, and she sure as hell didn't put any contracts out on him.

But if you think there's some advantage to coming around and getting her really freaked out, be my guest. Deal with their lawyerguy's uncle was Hammerin' Harmon Douse. Captain Spain always did appreciate guys taking the initiative."

Lewis puffed and dragged and stared at his cigarette as if it were a thing of wonder.

"If that's where it leads, bet your ass I'll be there," he said, but his voice lacked conviction.

Milo said, "Be my guest, Brad."

The dark detective finished talking to the homeless men and gave a dismissing wave. They dispersed, some of them entering the mission, others drifting up the street. He came over, wiping his palms on his blazer.

"This is the famous Milo Sturgis," said Lewis, between rapid drags on his cigarette.

The shorter man looked perplexed.

Lewis said, "Heavyweight champ from West L.A. -went one round with Frisk?"

Another second of confusion, then insight spread across the shorter man's baby features. Revulsion followed a moment later. A pair of hard brown eyes shifted to me.

"And this," said Lewis, "is the family doctor family that's been interested in our d.b. Maybe he can look at that knee of yours, Sandy."

The other detective wasn't amused. He buttoned his jacket and when he turned to Milo, he might have been regarding a floating body.

Milo said, "Esposito, right? You used to be over at Devonshire."

Esposito said, "You came around here earlier and talked to the deceased. What about?"

"Nothing. He wouldn't talk."

"That's not what I asked," said Esposito, clipping his words.

"Regarding what specifics was your intention to talk with the deceased?"

Milo paused weighing his words or unraveling the syntax.

"His possible involvement in the death of my client's mother."

Esposito didn't appear to have heard. He managed to back his body away from Milo while pushing his head forward. "What do you got to tell us?"

Milo said, "Ten to one it'll come down to something stupid.

Interview the residents of this resort and find out the last person McCloskey short-portioned on the hash line."

"Save your advice," said Esposito, moving back farther. "I'm talking information."

"As in whodunit?"

"As in."

Milo said, "Afraid I can't help you with that."

Lewis said, "The hash-line theory doesn't cut it, Sturgis. The residents of this resort don't tend to have cars.

"They get day jobs once in a while," said Milo. "Driving, delivering.

Or maybe McCloskey just met up with someone who didn't like his face.

Wasn't much of a face."

Lewis smoked and said nothing.

Esposito said, "Brilliant." To me: "You got something to add?"

I shook my head.

"What can I say?" said Milo. "You bought yourselves a whodunit, for a change."

Lewis smoked.

Esposito said, "And you got nothing that would take the who out of the dunit?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," said Milo. Smiling. "Well, maybe not that good, but I'm sure you'll work at improving it."

He began walking past the two of them, heading for the front door of the mission. I tried to follow but Lewis stepped in front of me.

"Hold on, Sturgis," he said.

Milo looked back. His forehead was knotted.

Lewis said, "What's your business in there, now?"

"Thought I'd see the priest," said Milo. "Time for confession."

"Right," said Esposito, smirking. "Priest gonna grow a beard, listening."

Lewis laughed, but it sounded obligatory. "Maybe it's not the optimal time," he said to Milo.

"I don't see any yellow tape, Brad."

"Maybe it's still not optimal."

Milo put his hands on his hips. "You're telling me this is a restricted scene because the d.b. once bunked here, but it's okay for vagrant scumbags to come in and out? Harmon Junior's gonna love that, Brad. Next time he and the chief meet up on the links they're gonna share a few yucks over that one."

Lewis said, "What is it, three months? And you're already acting like a fucking suit."

Milo said, "Bullshit. You're the one with the invisible tape, Brad.

You're the one all of a sudden turned careful."

Esposito said, "We don't have to take this shit," and unbuttoned his coat. Lewis held him back, puffing like a chimney. Then he dropped his cigarette on the sidewalk, watched it smolder, and moved aside.

Esposito said, "Hey."

Lewis said, "Fuck it," with enough savagery to shut Esposito's mouth.

To me: "Go ahead. Move it."

I stepped forward and Milo put his hand on the door.

"Don't fuck anything up," said Lewis. "And don't get in our way-I mean it. I don't care how many fucking lawyers you've got behind you, hear me?"

Milo pushed the door open. Before it closed, I heard Esposito's voice mutter, " I Then laughter, very forced, very angry.

A TV was on in the big aqua room. Some sort of cop show flashed on the screen, and forty or so pairs of drooping eyes followed the crunchand-rattle fantasy.

"Thorazine city," said Milo, his voice cold as Freon. Anger as therapy.

We'd gotten halfway across the room when Father Tim Andrus appeared from around a corner, wheeling a coffee urn on an aluminum cart.

Plastic-wrapped stacks of Styrofoam cups filled the cart's bottom shelf The priest's clerical shirt was olive-drab, worn over faded blue jeans, the knees of the pants scraped white. Same white high-top shoes he'd had on the first time; one of the laces had come loose.

He frowned, stopped, made a sharp turn away from us, and pushed the cart between rows of slumping men. The cart's wheels were loose and kept sticking. Andrus maintained a jerky, weaving progress until he was next to the television. Bending low, he whispered to one of the men-a young, wild-eyed white youth in toosmall clothing that gave him the look of an overgrown feral child.

Not much older than a child, actually late teens, maybe twenty, still larded with baby fat and suburban softness under a patchy chinbeard.

But any semblance of innocence was destroyed by matted hair and scabbed skin.

The priest talked to him slowly, with exquisite patience. The young man listened, rose slowly, and began unwrapping a cup stack with shaky fingers. Filling a cup from the urn's spigot, he started to raise it to his lips. Andrus touched his wrist and the youth stopped, bewildered.

Andrus smiled, spoke again, guided the youth's wrist so that the cup was held out to one of the seated men. The man took hold of it. The chin-bearded youth stared and released it. Andrus said something and gave him another cup that he began filling. Some of the men had left their seats; a loose queue formed in front of the urn.

Andrus motioned at a scrawny man the color of photo film, slumped in the front row. The man got up and limped over. He and the youth stood side by side, not looking at each other. The priest smiled and instructed, setting up a two-man assembly line. Guiding and praising until a rhythm of filling and distribution had been established and the queue began to shuffle forward. Then he came over to us.

"Please leave," he said. "There's nothing I can do for you."

"just a few questions, please, Father," said Milo.

"I'm sorry, Mr. I don't remember what your name is, but there's absolutely nothing I can do for you and I'd really appreciate it if you left."

"The name is Sturgis, Father, and you didn't forget. I never gave it to you."

"No," said the priest, "you didn't. But the police did. Just a while ago. They also informed me you weren't the police."

"Never said I was, Father."

Andrus's ears colored. He plucked at his wispy mustache. "No, I suppose you didn't, but you did imply it. I deal with deception all day, Mr. Sturgis part of the job. But that doesn't mean I like it."

"Sorry," saidMilo. "I was "An apology isn't necessary, Mr. Sturgis.

You can demonstrate your remorse by leaving and letting me attend to my people."

"Would it have made a difference, Father? If I'd have told you I was a cop on temporary leave?"

Surprise on the priest's lean face.

"What'd they tell you, Father?" said Milo. "That I'd been kicked off the force? That I was some kind of heavy-duty sinner?"

Andrus's pale face took on an angry blush. "I- There's really no sense getting into... extraneous things, Mr. Sturgis. The main thing is there's nothing I can do for you. Joel's dead."

"I know that, Father."

"Along with any interest you might therefore have in the mission. died"Any idea who's responsible for his death?"

"Do you care, Mr. Sturgis?"

"Not one bit. But if it helps me understand why Mrs. Ramp "Why sheOh.

.." Andrus shut his eyes and opened them rapidly. "Oh, my."

Sighing and putting a hand to his forehead. "I didn't know. I'm sorry.

Milo told him about Morris Dam. A longer but softer version than the one he'd given Lewis.

Andrus shook his head and crossed himself "Father," said Milo, "when Joel was alive did he say anything to you that would indicate he'd resumed contact with Mrs. Ramp or any member of her family?"

"No, not at all. I'm sorry, I can't take this any further, Mr. Sturgis." The priest looked over at the coffee line. "Anything Joel may have told me was in confidentiality. It's a theological issue-the fact that he's dead doesn't change that."

"Of course not, Father. The only reason I came down here to talk to him again is that Mrs. Ramp's daughter is really struggling to deal with her loss. She's only a kid, Father. A total orphan now. And she's coming to grips with being all alone. Nothing you can say or do will change that, I realize, but any light you might be able to shed on what happened to her mom could be helpful to her in terms of getting her life back together. At least that's what I've been told by her therapist."

"Yes," said Andrus. "That makes sense Poor child." He thought for a moment. "But no, it can't help her."

"What can't, Father?"

"Anything nothing I know, Mr. Sturgis. What I mean is that I know nothing Joel never told me anything that would ease the poor girl's pain. Though even if he had, I couldn't tell you, so perhaps it's best that he didn't. I'm sorry, but that's the way it is."

"Uh-huh," said Milo.

Andrus shook his head and put the knuckles of a fist against his brow.

"That wasn't very clear, was it? It's been a long day and I lose coherence after long days." Another glance at the urn. "I could use some of that poison over there plenty of chicory in it but we haven't skimped on the caffeine. It helps the men deal with detox. You're welcome to some, too.

"No, thanks, Father. Just one more second of your time. Do you have any idea who might have done it?"

"The police seem to think it was just one of those things that happens down on Skid Row."

"Do you agree with that?"

"There's no reason not to, I guess. I've seen so many things that don't make sense..

"Is there something about McCloskey's death that doesn't make sense?"

"No, not really." Another look at the urn.

"Was there any reason for McCloskey to be in the area where he was run down, Father?"

Andrus shook his head. "None that I know of He wasn't on an errand for the mission I told the police that. The men do take walks surprisingly long distances for their physical condition. It's as if staying in motion reminds them they're still alive. The illusion of purpose, even though they have nowhere to go.

"The first time we were here, I got the impression that Joel rarely left the mission."

"That's true."

"So he wasn't one of your big walkers."

"No, not really."

"Did he take any other walks you're aware of?"

"No, not really Andrus paused; his ears were flaming.

"What is it, Father?"

"This will sound very ugly, very judgmental, but my first impression upon hearing what had happened was that someone in the family-Mrs. Ramp's family decided finally to exact revenge.

Lured him away somehow, then ambushed him."

"Why's that, Father?"

"They'd certainly have a reason. And using a car impressed me as a.

.. nice middle-class way of doing it. No need to get close. To smell him or touch him."

The priest stared away again. Upward. Toward the crucifix.

"Ugly thoughts, Mr. Sturgis. I'm not proud of them. I was angry-everything I'd put into him and now... Then I realized I was being thoughtless and cruel and thinking of myself Suspecting innocent people who'd had their own share of suffering. I had no right to do that. Now that you tell me about Mrs. Ramp, I feel even more.

Shaking his head.

Milo said, "Did you mention your suspicion to the detectives?"

"It wasn't suspicion, just a momentary... thought. An uncharitable thought in the heat of... the shock of hearing about it.

And no, I didn't. But they brought it up asked me if any member of Mrs. Ramp's family had been by. I said only you had."

"How'd they react when you told them I'd been here?"

"I didn't get the impression they took it seriously took any of it seriously. They just seemed to be throwing things outscattershot. My impression was that they're not going to spend a lot of time on this particular case."

"Why's that?"

"Their attitude. I'm used to it. Death is a frequent visitor around here but he doesn't give too many interviews on the six o'clock news."

The priest's face fell. "Here I go again, judging. And there's so much work to be done. You must excuse me, Mr. Sturgis."

"Sure, Father. Thanks for your time. But if you do think of something, anything that would help that little girl, please let me know."

Somehow a business card had made it into Milo's palm. He handed it to the priest. Before Andrus slipped it into a pocket of his jeans, I got a look at it. White vellum. Milo's name, in strong black letters, over the word INVESTIGATIONS. Home number and beeper code in the lower right-hand corner.

Milo thanked Andrus again. Andrus looked pained.

"Please don't count on me, Mr. Sturgis. I've told you all I can.

Walking back to the car, I said, " "I've told you all I can,' not "all I know." My bet is that McCloskey bared his soul to him-formal confession or some sort of counseling. Either way, you'll never get it out of him."

"Yup," he said. "I used to talk to my priest, too."

We walked to the car in silence.

Driving back to San Labrador, I said, "Who's Gonzales?"

"Huh?"

"What you told Lewis? It seemed to make an impression on him."

"Oh," he said, frowning. "Ancient history. Gonsalves. Lewis used to work at West L.A. when he was still in uniform. College boy, tendency to think he was smarter than the others. Gonsalves is a case he fucked up. Domestic violence that he didn't take seriously enough.

Wife wanted the husband locked up, but Lewis thought he could handle it with his B.A. psych B.A matter of fact. Did some counseling and left feeling good. Hour later, the husband cut up the wife with a straight razor. Lewis was a lot softer then-no attitude. I could have ruined him, chose to go easy on the paperwork, talk him through it. After that he got harder, got more careful, didn't fuck up again, notably.

Made detective a few years later and transferred to Central."

"Doesn't seem too grateful."

"Yeah." He gripped the wheel. "Well, that's the way the Oreo deteriorates."

A mile later: "When I first called him to scope out McCloskey and the mission he was frosty but civil. Given the Frisk thing, that's the best I can hope for. Tonight was amateur theater putting on an act for that little macho asshole he's partnered with."

"Us and them," I said.

He didn't answer. I regretted bringing it up. Trying to lighten things, I said, "Nifty business card. When'd you get it?"

"Couple of days ago-insta-print on La Cienega on the way to the freeway. Got a box of five hundred at bulk rate talk about your wise investment."

"Let me see.

"What for?"

"Souvenir it may turn out to be a collector's item."

He grimaced, put his hand in his jacket, and pulled one out.

I took it, snapped the thin, hard paper, and said, "Classy."

"I like vellum," he said. "You can always pick your teeth with it."

"Or use it for a bookmark."

"Got something even more constructive," he said. "Build little houses with them. Then blow them down."

Back at Sussex Knoll, he pulled up beside the Seville.

I said, "What's next for you?"

"Sleep, hearty breakfast, then financial scumbags." He put the Porsche in neutral and revved the engine.

"What about McCloskey?" I said.

"Wasn't intending to go to the funeral."

Revving. Drumming the steering wheel.

I said, "Any ideas about who killed him and why?"

"You heard all of "em back at the mission.

"Okay," Isaid.

"Okay." He sped away.

My house seemed tiny and friendly. The timer had switched the pond lights off and it was too dark to tell how my fish eggs were doing. I crept upstairs, slept for ten hours, woke up Monday thinking of Gina Ramp and Joel McCloskey bound together, again, by pain and terror.

Was there a link between Morris Dam and what had happened in the back alley, or had McCloskey been simply another piece of Skid Row garbage?

Murder with a car. I found myself thinking about Noel Drucker.

He had access to lots of wheels and plenty of time on his hands during the Tankard's indefinite hiatus. Were his feelings for Melissa strong enough to knock him that far off the straight and narrow? If so, had he been acting on his own, or at Melissa's bidding?

And what of Melissa? It made me sick to think of her as anything other than the defenseless orphan Milo had portrayed to the detectives. But I'd seen her temper in action. Watched her channel her grief into revenge fantasies against Anger and Douse.

I recalled her and Noel, entwined on her bed. Had the plan to get McCloskey been hatched during a similar embrace?

I switched channels: Ramp. If he was innocent of causing Gina's death, perhaps he'd avenged it.

He had lots of reasons to hate McCloskey. Had he been at the wheel of the death car, or had he hired someone? The poetic justice would have been appealing.

Todd Nyquist would have been perfect for the job-how would anyone connect a surf-jock from the west side with the downtown death of a brain-damaged bum?

Or maybe Noel was Ramp's automotive hit man, not Melissa's.

Or maybe none of the above.

I sat on the edge of the bed.

An image flashed across my eyes.

The scars on Gina's face.

I thought of the prison McCloskey had sent her to for the rest of her life.

Why waste time worrying about the reason he had died? His life had been a case study in wretchedness. Who'd miss him other than Father Andrus? And the priest's feelings probably had more to do with theological abstraction than human attachment.

Milo had been right to brush it off.

I was playing head-games rather than making myself useful.

I stood, stretched, said, "Good riddance," out loud.

Dressing in khakis, shirt and tie, and a lightweight tweed jacket, I drove to West Hollywood.

The HilIdale address Kathy Moriarty's sister had given me was between Santa Monica Boulevard and Sunset. The house was a graceless box, the color of week-old newspaper, on a thirty-foot lot, shielded nearly to the roof by an unkempt eugenia hedge. The roof line was flat, layered with Spanish tiles painted black. Flat black it looked like an amateur job, some of the terra cotta showing through in places, the hue that of a poorly dyed brown shoe.

The eugenia hedge ended at a short, collapsing driveway asphalt struggling with weeds in the couple of feet not taken up by a twenty-year-old, bird-bombed, yellow Oldsmobile. I parked across the street, walked across a dry, clipped lawn packed harder than the asphalt. Four paces took me to a three-step cement porch. Three addresses in black metal letters were nailed to the right of the gray plank door. A piece of adhesive tape, now darkened to the old-paper tint of the house, covered the doorbell ringer. An index card with KNOCK in red ballpoint was wedged between the bell frame and the stucco. I followed instructions and was rewarded, seconds later, with a "Hold On!" in a sleepy-sounding male voice.

Then: "Yeah?" from behind gray wood.

"My name is Alex Delaware and I'm looking for Kathy Moriarty."

"How come?"

I thought of Milo's suggestions of subterfuge, decided I had no stomach for that, and opted for technical truth: "Her family hasn't seen her in a while."

"Her family?"

"Her sister and brother-in-law. Mr. and Mrs. Robbins, in Pasadena."

The door opened. A young man clutching a handful of paintbrushes in his right hand looked me up and down. No surprise, no suspicion. Just an artist's eye gauging perspective.

He was in his late twenties, tall and solidly built, with dark hair combed back and tied in a foot's worth of ponytail that dangled over his left collarbone. His face was heavy and soft-featured under a low flat forehead and shelf brows. The gestalt was simian more gorilla than chimp helped along by black eyebrows that met in the middle and a wash of black stubble that ran up past his cheekbones, swooped down his neck till it merged with his chest hair. He wore a black polyester tank top emblazoned with the logo of a skateboard company in tomato-red letters; baggy, flowered, orange-and-green kneelength shorts, and rubber beach sandals. His arms were coated with dark, coiling hair just past the elbow. The skin above that was hairless and white and slabbed with the kind of muscle that would pump up easily but looked slack and unused. A dried patch of babyblue paint stained one bicep.

I said, "Sorry to disturb you."

He glanced at the brushes, then back at me.

I pulled out my wallet, found the business card I'd taken from Milo last night, and handed it to him.

He studied it, smiled, studied me, and gave it back. "I thought you said your name was Del-something."

"Sturgis is in charge. I'm working with him."

"An op," he said, grinning. "You don't look like one-at least not like the ones on TV Guess that's the point of it, though, isn't it?

Thus incommunicado."

I smiled.

He studied me some more. "A lawyer," he finally said. "Defense, not prosecution-or maybe some kind of professor. That's how I'd cast you, Marlowe."

"Do you work in the movies?" I said.

"No." He laughed and touched a paintbrush to his lips. Lowering it, he said, "Though I guess I do. Actually. I'm a writer." More laughter. "Like everyone else in this town, right? But not screenplays-God forbid screenplays."

His laughter rose in pitch and lingered, hovering on the brink of giddy. "You ever write one?"

"Nope."

"Give yourself time. Everyone's got a hot property-'cept me.

What I do for a living is graphic art. Airbrush-photorealism to sell products. What I do for fun is art-art-sloppy freedom." Waving the brushes. "And what I do to stay sane is writing-short pieces, postmodern essays. Had a couple published in the Reader and the Weekly.

Mood-based urban fiction-how music and money and the whole L.A. experience make people feel. The different things L.A. evokes in people."

"Interesting," I said, not sounding very convincing.

"Yeah," he said cheerfully, "as if you give a shit. You just want to do your job and go home to your lonely PI. Murphy bed, right?"

"Boy needs a hobby."

He said, "Oh, yeah," transferred his brushes to his left hand and held out his right and said, "Richard Skidmore."

We shook, he stepped back and said, "C'mon in."

The interior of the small house was prewar budget construction: cramped dark rooms that smelled of instant coffee and takeout food, marijuana, and turpentine. Textured walls, rounded archways, tin wall sconces, all of them bulbless. A brick mantel above a fireplace was piled high with Presto logs still in their wrappers. Thrift shop furniture, including some plastic-and-aluminum-tubing outdoor pieces, was assembled randomly on worn wood floors. Art and its accoutrements odd-shaped, hand-stretched canvases in various stages of completion, jars and tubes of paint, brushes soaking in pitchers were everywhere but on the walls. A paint-encrusted easel sat in the center of the living room, amid a mound of crumpled paper, broken pencils, and charcoal stubs. A draftsman's table and adjustable chair were set up in what looked to be the dining area, along with a compressor attached to an airbrush.

The walls were unadorned, but I noticed a single piece of white construction paper nailed above the mantel. Calligraphic lettering at the center read: Day of the Locusts, Twilight of the Worms, Night of the Living Dread.

"My novel," said Skidmore. "Both the title and the opening line. The rest will happen when the old attention span kicks in-it's always been a problem for me, but hey, it didn't stop the last couple of presidents, did it?"

I said, "Did you meet Kathy Moriarty through your writing?"

"Work, work, work, Marlowe? How much does Boss Spurgis pay you to get you to be so conscientious?"

"Depends on the case."

"Very good," he said, smiling. "Evasive. You know, this is really great, your dropping in like this. It's why I love waking up in LA.

You can never tell when some SoCal archetype will come knocking."

Another appraising glance. I started to feel like a still life.

"Think I'll use you in my next piece," he said, drawing an imaginary line in the air. "The Private Eye: The Things He SeesThe Things That See Him."

He lifted several canvases covered with abstract splotches from a pool chaise and dumped them on the floor unceremoniously. "Sit."

I did and he lowered himself onto a wooden stool directly in front of me.

"This is great," he said. "Thanks for dropping by."

"Does Kathy Moriarty live here?"

"Her place is in back. Garage unit."

"Who's the landlord?"

"I am," he said with pride. "Inherited it from my grandfather.

Gay old blade ergo the Boys' Town location. Came out of the closet twenty years after Grandma died, and I was the only one in the family who didn't cut him off. So when he died, I got all of it the house, the Bloatmobile, hundred shares of IBM stock. The art of the deal, right?"

"Mrs. Robbins says she hasn't seen Kathy for over a month.

When's the last time you saw her?"

"Funny," he said.

"What is?"

"That her sister would hire someone to look for her. They didn't get along at least from Kathy's POV" "Why's that?"

"Culture clash, no doubt. Kathy said the sister was Pasadena Whitebread. The kind who'd say urination and defecation."

"As opposed to Kathy."

"Exactly."

I asked him again when he'd last seen her.

He said, "Same time Whitebread did-about a month."

"When's the last time she paid her rent?"

"The rent is a hundred a month, which is stand-up comedy, right?

Couldn't get into the whole landlord thing."

"When's the last time Kathy paid the hundred?"

"At the beginning."

"Beginning of what?"

"Our association. She was so happy to get something that cheap and it includes utilities because everything's metered together and it's too much of a hassle to have it changed she came up with ten months' worth right at the beginning. So she's paid up through December."

"Ten months. She's been living here since February?"

"Guess so yeah. It was right after New Year's. I used the garage apartments for a party-artists and writers and terrific fakers.

When I was cleaning up I decided to rent one of them and use the other for storage, so I wouldn't be tempted to throw another party next year and hear all that bad dialogue."

"Was Kathy invited to the party?"

"Why would she have been?"

"Being a writer."

"No, I didn't meet her till after the party.

"How'd you meet her?"

"Ad in the Reader: She was the first to show up and I liked her.

Straight on, no bullshit, a real no-nonsense Sapphire."

"Sapphire?"

"As in Lesbos."

"She's gay?"

"Sure." Big smile. "Tsk, tsk-looks like Sister Whitebread didn't brief you thoroughly."

"Guess not.

He said, "Like I said, culture clash. Don't be shocked, Marlowe-this is West Hollywood. Everyone here is either queer or old or both. Or me. I'm into chastity until something monogamous and heterosexual and meaningful comes along." Tugging the ponytail: "Don't let this fool you I'm really right-wing. Two years ago I owned twenty-six button-down shirts and four pairs of penny loafers.

This" another tug "was to make the neighbors more comfortable.

I'm already dragging down the property values, not letting them bulldoze and put up another Spa-Jacuzzi-Full-Security."

"Does Kathy have a lover?"

"Not that I saw, and my guess would be no."

I u I "Why's that?"

"Her persona projects as profoundly unloved. As if she's just come off something hurtful and isn't ready to juggle with razor blades again.

It wasn't anything she said we don't talk too much, don't run into each other much. I like to sleep as much as I can and she's gone most of the time."

"Gone this long?"

He thought. "This is the longest, but she's usually on the road-I mean, it's not weird for her to be away for a week at a time.

So you can tell her sister she's probably okay-probably doing something Miss Pasadena doesn't really want to hear about."

"How do you know she's gay?"

"Ah, the evidence. Well, for starts, the stuff she reads. Lesbo mags.

She buys them regularly I find them out in the trash. And the mail she gets."

"What kind of mail?"

His smile was a wide, white pin-stripe on wooly stubble. "Not that I go out of my way to read it, Marlowe-that would be illegal, right? But sometimes the mail for the back unit gets put in my box because the carriers don't realize there's a unit back there-or maybe they're just too lazy to go back there. A lot of it's from gay groups.

How's that for deductive reasoning?"

"After a month you must have quite a bit of it collected," I said.

He stood, went into the kitchen, and returned a moment later carrying a sheaf of envelopes bound with a rubber band. Rolling the band off, he examined each piece of mail, then held on to it for several moments before passing the entire collection to me.

I fanned it and counted. Eleven pieces.

"Not much for a month," I said.

"Like I said, unloved."

I inspected the mail. Eight pieces were computer-addressed postcards and advertisements made out to Occupant. The remaining three were envelopes addressed to Kathy Moriarty by name. One appeared to be a solicitation for funds from an AIDS support group.

So did another, from a clinic in San Francisco.

The third envelope was white, business-sized, postmarked three weeks previously in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Typewritten address: Ms. Kathleen R. Moriarty. Return address preprinted in the upper left-hand corner: THE GAY AND LESBiAN ALLIANCE AGAINST DISCRIMINATION, MASSACHUSETTS AVENUE, CAMBRIDGE.

I pulled out a pen, realized I hadn't brought paper, and copied the information onto the back of a gasoline receipt that I found in my wallet.

Skidmore was studying me, amused.

I turned the envelope over several times, more for his benefit than anything else, finally gave it back to him.

He said, "So what did you learn?"

"Not much. What else can you tell me about her?"

"Brown hair, butch-do. Green eyes, kind of a potato face.

Her fashion statement tends to be oriented toward baggy and sensible."

"Does she have a job?"

"Not that I'm aware of, but she could have."

"She never mentioned a job?"

"Uh-uh." He yawned and rubbed one knee, then the other.

"Other than being a writer," I said.

"That's not a job, Marlowe. It's a calling."

"Have you ever seen anything she wrote?"

"Sure. We didn't talk at all the first couple of months she was here, but once we discovered we had the muse in common, we did do a little show-and-tell."

"What'd she show?"

"Her scrapbook."

"Remember what was in it?"

He crossed his legs and scratched a hairy calf "What do you call this?

Getting a profile on the subject?"

"Exactly," I said. "What kinds of things did she have in her scrapbook?"

"All give, no take, huh?" he said, but without resentment.

"I don't know anything, Richard. That's why I'm talking to you.

"That make me a snitch?"

"A source.

"Aha."

"Her scrapbook?"

"I just skimmed it," he said. Yawning again. "Basically it was articles-stuff she'd written."

"Articles on what?"

Shrug. "I didn't look at it too closely-too fact-bound, no fancy."

"Any chance of my seeing the scrapbook?"

"Like how would that be possible?"

"Like if you have the key to her apartment."

He raised his hand to his mouth, a parody of outrage. "Invasion of privacy, Marlowe?"

"How about you stand right over me while I read it?"

"Doesn't take care of the constitutional issues, Phil."

"Listen," I said, leaning forward and putting major effort into sounding ominous, "this is serious. She could be in danger."

He opened his mouth and I knew he was going to crack wise.

I blocked it by holding out a hand and said, "I mean it, Richard."

His mouth closed and stayed that way for a while. I stared at him hard and he rubbed his elbows and knees and said, "You're serious."

"Very."

"This has nothing to do with collecting?"

"Collecting what?"

"Money. She told me she'd borrowed lots from her sister, hadn't paid any of it back, and her sister's husband was getting pissed-he's some sort of financial type."

"Mr. Robbins is a lawyer," I said, "and he and his wife are concerned about Kathy's debt. But that's not the issue anymore. She's been gone too long, Richard."

He rubbed some more and said, "When you told me you were working for the sister, I figured it had something to do with collecting."

"Well, it doesn't, Richard. Her sister-whatever their culture clash-is worried about her and so am I. I can't tell you more than that, but Mr. Sturgis considers this case a priority."

He undid his ponytail and shook his hair loose. It was thick and shiny as a cover girl's, and fanned across his face. I heard his neck crack as he lowered it and continued fanning. When he looked up some of the hair was in his mouth and he chewed it while wearing a thoughtful expression.

"All you want to do is look at it, huh?" he said, pulling strands away from his lips.

"That's it, Richard. You can watch me every second."

"Okay," he said. "Why not? At the worst, she'll find out and get pissed and I'll invite her to find a cheaper place."

He stood and stretched and shook his hair again. When I got up, he said, "Just stay right there, Phil."

Another trip to the kitchen. He came back too soon to have gone very far, carrying a loose-leaf notebook bound in orange cloth.

I said, "She left it with you?"

"Uh-uh. She forgot to take it back after she'd given it to me to look at. When I realized it, she was already gone, so I stuck it somewhere got so much junk around here and she never asked about it. We both forgot. Meaning it probably isn't that important to her, right?

That's the rationale I'll use if she gets pissed."

He returned to the stool, opened the notebook, and flipped pages.

Clinging to his treasure for just a moment before yielding, just as he'd done with the mail.

"Here you go," he said. "We're not talking racy, Phil."

I opened the book. Inside were forty or so double-sided pages black paper sheathed in transparent plastic. Newspaper clippings bearing Kathleen Moriarty's byline were inserted on each side. There was a flap on the inside front cover. I slid my hand in. Empty.

The articles were arranged chronologically. The first few, dating back fifteen years, were from The Daily Collegian at Cal State Fresno.

A score or so, spanning a seven-year period, were from the Fresno Bee.

Next came pieces from the Manchester Union Leader and the Boston Globe.

The dates indicated Kathy Moriarty had stayed at each of the New England papers for only about a year.

I turned back to the beginning and checked out contents. For the most part, general interest stuff, and all local: Town meetings and personality pieces. Holiday features of the clever pet variety. An investigative trend didn't creep in until Moriarty's year at the Globe: a series on pollution in Boston Harbor and an expose' of cruelty to animals at a Worcester pharmacologic firm that didn't appear to have gone very far.

The last insert was a review in the Hartford Courant of The Bad Earth, her book on pesticides. Small press publisher. Good marks for enthusiasm, points off for poor documentation.

I checked the back flap. Slipped out several folded pieces of newsprint. Skidmore was looking at his toes and hadn't noticed. I unfolded and began reading.

Five opinion pieces, dated last year, from a paper called The GALA Banner and subtitled "The monthly newsletter of the Gay and Lesbian Alliance Against Discrimination, Cambridge, Mass."

Byline change to Kate Moriarty. Title of Contributing Editor.

These essays were filled with rage: male domination, the AIDS plague, the penis as a weapon. A piece on identity and misogyny.

Stapled to that one was a scrap of newsprint.

Skidmore yawned. "Almost finished?"

"One sec.

I read the scrap. The Globe, again, three years old. No Moriarty byline. No byline at all. Just a news summary-one of those "roundup" items papers run on page 2 of the final edition.

DOCTOR'S DEATH TIED TO OVERDOSE (CAMBRiDGE) The death of a Harvard Psychiatric Fellow is believed to have resulted from an accidental or self-administered dose of barbiturates.

The body of Eileen Wagner, 37, was found this morning in her office at the Beth Israel Hospital Psychiatry Department on Brookline Avenue.

Time of death was estimated at some time during the night. Police would not speculate upon what led them to their conclusion, other than to say that Dr. Wagner had been suffering from "personal problems." A graduate of Yale and Yale University Medical School, Dr. Wagner completed pediatric training at Western Pediatric Medical Center in Los Angeles and practiced medicine with the World Health Organization overseas before coming to Harvard last year to study Child and Adolescent Psychiatry.

I looked over at Skidmore. His eyes were closed. I pulled off the article, pocketed it, closed the book, and said, "Thanks, Richard.

Now how about giving me a look at her apartment.

His eyes opened.

"Just to make sure," I said.

"Sure of what?"

"That she's not there-hurt or worse.

"No way is she there," he said, with genuine anxiety that was refreshing. "No way, Marlowe."

"How can you be sure?"

"I saw her drive away a month ago. White Datsun-you can get the plates, run some kind of trace, right?"

"What if she came back without the car? You might not have noticed you yourself said the two of you didn't see each other often."

"No." He shook his head. "Too weird."

"Why don't we just check, Richard? You can stand there and watch just like with the scrapbook."

He rubbed his eyes. Stared at me. Got up.

I followed him into a tiny, dark kitchen where he picked a ring of keys out of a pile of junk and pushed open a rear door. We walked across a backyard too small for hopscotch to a double garage. The garage doors were the old-fashioned hinge-type. Door-sized inserts were centered in each. Garage apartments. Literally.

Skidmore said, "This one," and led me to the unit on the left.

The door-within-a-door was deadbolted.

"Illegal," he said, "converting the garage. You won't tell on me, Marlowe, will you?"

"Cross my heart."

Smiling, he shuffled keys. Then turned serious and stopped.

"What is it, Richard?"

"Wouldn't it smell-if she was.. you know."

"Depends, Richard. You never can tell."

Another smile. Shaky. He fumbled with the keys.

"One thing I'm curious about," I said. "If you thought I was here to dun Kathy for money, why'd you let me in?"

"Simple," he said. "Material."

Kathy Moriarty's home was a twenty-by-twenty room that still reeked of automobile. The floor was wheat-colored linoleum squares; the walls were white plasterboard. The furniture was a twin-size mattress on the floor, sheet crumpled at the foot, revealing sweatstained blue ticking.

Wooden nightstand, round white Formica table, and three metal chairs padded at seat and back with dollops of yellow Hawaiian-print plastic.

One of the far corners contained a hot plate on a metal stand; the other, a Fiberglas water closet no bigger than an airplane latrine.

Above the hot plate a single bracket shelf held a few dishes and kitchen utensils. On the opposite wall was a makeshift closet frame of white PVC tubing. A few outfits, mostly jeans and shirts, hung from the horizontal tube.

Kathy Moriarty hadn't spent her sister's money on interior decorating.

I had an idea where the funds had gone.

Skidmore said, "Oh, man." The skin beneath his stubble was white and one hand was atop his head, snarled in hair.

"What is it?"

"Either someone's been here or she's packed out on me."

"What makes you say that?"

He waved his hands, suddenly agitated. The kid with the poor attention span, struggling to make himself clear.

"This wasn't the way it looked when she was here. She had luggage-lots of suitcases, a backpack... this big trunk that she used for a coffee table." He looked around and pointed. "Right there.

And there was a pile of books right on it-next to the mattress."

"What kinds of bo