xperiment."

It wasn't the conversation I'd have imagined having with the great Leo Gabney. Back in the days when I used to imagine things like that. I wasn't sure why he'd invited me in.

Perhaps sensing that, he said, "Alex Delaware. I've followed all your work, not just the sleep studies. "Multimodal Treatment of SelfDamaging Obsessions in Children." "The Psychosocial Aspects of Chronic Disease and Prolonged Hospitalization in Children."

"Disease-Related Communication and Family Coping Style." Et cetera. A solid output, clean writing."

"Thank you."

"You haven't published in several years."

"I'm working on something currently. For the most part I've been doing other things."

"Private practice?"

"Forensic work."

"What kind of forensic work?"

"Trauma and injury-related cases. Some child custody."

"Ugly stuff, custody," he said. "What's your opinion about joint custody?"

"It can work in some situations."

He smiled. "Nice hedge. I suppose that's adaptive when dealing with the legal system. Actually, parents should be strongly reinforced for making it work. if they fail repeatedly, the parent with the best child-rearing skills should be selected as primary custodian, regardless of gender. Don't you agree?"

"I think the best interests of the child are what counts."

"Everyone thinks that, Doctor. The challenge is how to operationalize good intentions. If I had my way, no decisions about custody would be made until trained observers actually lived with the family for several weeks, keeping careful records using structured, valid, and reliable behavioral scales and reporting their results to a panel of psychological specialists. What do you think of that notion?"

"Sounds good, theoretically. In practical terms-" "No, no," he said, chewing furiously. "I speak from practical experience. My first wife set out to murder me legally this was years ago, when the courts wouldn't even hear what a father had to say. She was a drinker and a smoker and irresponsible to the core. But to the idiot judge that heard the case, the crucial factor was that she had ovaries. He gave her everything my house, my son, sixty percent of the paltry estate I'd accumulated as an untenured lecturer.

A year later, she was smoking in bed, dead-drunk. The house burned down and I lost my son forever."

Saying it matter-of-factly, the bass voice flat as a foghorn.

Resting his elbows on the desk, he placed the fingertips of both hands together, creating a diamond-shaped space that he peered through.

I said, "I'm sorry."

"It was a terrible time for me." Chewing slowly. "For a while it seemed as if nothing would ever have reinforcement value again. But I ended up with Ursula, so I suppose there's a silver lining."

Heat in the blue eyes. Unmistakable passion.

I thought of the way she'd obeyed him. The way he'd looked at her rear. Wondered if what turned him on was her ability to be both wife and child.

He lowered his hands. "Soon after the tragedy I married again.

Before Ursula. Another error in judgment, but at least there were no children. When I met Ursula, she was an undergraduate applying for graduate school and I was a full professor at the university and the medical school as well as the first non-M.D. associate dean the medical school had ever appointed. I saw her potential, set out to help her realize it. Most satisfying accomplishment of my life. Are you married?"

"No."

"A wonderful convention if the proper confluence can be achieved. My first two were failures because I allowed myself to be swayed by intangibles. Ignored my training. Don't segregate your scholarship from your life, my young friend. Your knowledge of human behavior gives you a great advantage over common, bumbling homo incompetens."

He smiled again. "Enough lecturing. What's your take on this whole thing poor Mrs. "I don't have a take, Dr. Gabney came here to learn."

"This McCloskey thing very distressing to think such a man is roaming free. How did you find out?"

I told him.

"Ah, the daughter. Managing her own anxiety by attempting to control her mother's behavior. Would that she'd shared her information. What else do you know about this McCloskey?"

"Just the basic facts of the assault. No one seems to know why he did it."

"Yes," he said. "An atypically close-mouthed psychopath usually those types love to brag about their misdeeds. I suppose it would have been nice to know from the beginning. In terms of defining variables. But in the end, I don't feel the treatment plan suffered. The key is to cut through all the talk and get them to change their behavior. Mrs. Ramp has been doing very well. I hope it hasn't all been for naught."

I said, "Maybe her disappearance is related to her progress enjoying her freedom and deciding to grab a bigger chunk."

"An interesting theory, but we discourage breaks in schedule."

"Patients have been known to do their own thing."

"To their detriment."

"You don't think sometimes they know what's best for them?"

"Not generally. If I did, I couldn't charge them three hundred dollars an hour in good faith, could I?"

Three hundred. At that rate the kind of intensive treatment they did-three patients could carry the whole clinic.

I said, "Is that for both you and your wife?"

He grinned, and I knew I'd asked the right question. "Myself alone.

My wife receives two hundred. Are you appalled by those figures, Dr. Delaware?"

"They're higher than what I'm used to, but it's a free country."

"That it is. I spent most of my professional life in academia and in public hospitals, ministering to the poor. Setting up treatment programs for people who never paid a penny. At this stage in my life I thought it only fair that the rich be offered the benefit of my accumulated knowledge."

Lifting the silver pen, he twirled it and put it down. "So," he said, "you feel Mrs. Ramp may have run away."

"I think it's a possibility. When I spoke to her yesterday, she hinted that she was planning to make some changes in her life."

"Really?" The blue eyes stopped moving. "What kind of changes?"

"She implied that she didn't like the house she was living in too big, all the opulence. That she wanted something simpler."

"Something simpler," he said. "Anything else?"

"No, that's about it."

"Well, disappearing like this can hardly be thought of as a simplification.

"Do you have any clinical impressions that would explain what's happened?"

"Mrs. Ramp is a nice lady," he said. "Very sweet. Instinctively, one wants to help her. And clinically, her case is fairly simple, a textbook case of classically conditioned anxiety strengthened and maintained by operant factors: the anxiety-reducing effects of repeated avoidance and escape strengthened by the positively reinforcing qualities of reduced social responsibility and increased altruism of others."

"Conditioned dependency?"

"Exactly. In many ways she's like a child all agoraphobics are.

Dependent, ritualistic, routinized to the extent that they cling to primitive habits. As the phobia endures, it gains strength, and their behavioral repertoire drops off sharply. Eventually they become frozen by inertia-a sort of psychological cryogenics. Agoraphobics are psychological reactionaries, Dr. Delaware. They don't move unless prodded sharply. Every step is taken with great trepidation. That's why I can't see her gaily running off in search of some ill-defined Xanadu."

"Despite her progress?"

"Her progress is gratifying but she has a ways to go. My wife and I have each mapped out extensive plans."

That sounded more like competition than collaboration. I didn't comment.

Unwrapping another stick of gum, he slid it between his lips.

"The treatment is well thought out we offer full value in return for our appalling fees. In all probability, Mrs. Ramp will return to the roost and avail herself of it."

"So you're not worried about her."

He chewed hard, made squirting noises. "I'm concerned, Dr. Delaware, but worrying is counterproductive. Anxiety-producing. I train my phobics to stay away from it and I train myself to practice what I preach."

He walked me to the door, talking about science. As I made my way across the lawn I noticed the Saab had been moved forward into the driveway. Behind it was a gray Range Rover. The windshield was dusty, except for wiper arcs.

I visualized Gabney behind the wheel, forging through the mesquite, and drove away thinking what an odd couple the two of them were. At first glance she was an ice queen. Combative, accustomed to fighting for her rights I could see why she and Melissa had raised each other's hackles.

But the frost was so thin it melted on scrutiny. Underneath, vulnerability. Like Gina's. Had that formed the basis for an exceptional empathy?

Who'd introduced whom to small gray rooms and the art of Mary Cassatt?

Whatever the reason, she seemed to care. Gina's disappearance had shaken her up.

In contrast, her husband seemed intent upon distancing himself from the whole affair. Shrugging off Gina's pathology as routine, reducing pain to jargon. Yet, despite his nonchalance, he'd z' I peddown to L.A. all the way from SantaYnez a two-hour drive. So perhaps he was as worried as his wife and simply better at concealing it.

The old male-female split.

Men posture.

Women bleed.

I thought of what he'd told me about losing his son. How he'd told me.

The ease with which he'd spun his tale suggested he'd mouthed it a thousand times before.

Working it through? Desensitization?

Or maybe he really had mastered the art of putting the past behind him.

Maybe one day I'd call him up and ask for lessons.

It was nine-fifty by the time I got back to Sussex Knoll. A single police cruiser was still patrolling the streets. I must have passed inspection because no one stopped me from pulling up to the gates.

Over the talk box Don Ramp's voice was dry and tired.

"No, nothing," he said. "Come on up.

The gates yawned. I sped through. More outdoor bulbs had been switched on, creating a false daylight, bright and cold.

No other cars in front of the house. The Chaucer doors were open.

Ramp stood between them in his shirtsleeves.

"Not a damned thing," he said, after I'd climbed the steps.

"What'd the doctors say?"

"Nothing significant." I told him about Ursula's call regarding Melvin Findlay.

His face fell.

I said, "Have you heard anything more from Chickering?"

"He called about half an hour ago. Nothing to report, she's probably fine, not to worry it's not his wife out there. I asked him about contacting the FBI. He claims they won't get involved unless there's evidence of abduction, preferably something involving interstate transport of the victim."

He threw up his hands, let them fall limply. "The victim. I don't even want to think of her as that, but.

He closed the doors. The entry hall was lit, but beyond it the house was in darkness.

He headed for a light switch on the other side of the entry, making scuffing sounds as he crossed the marble.

I said, "Did your wife ever say why McCloskey did it?"

He stopped, half-turned. "Why do you ask?"

"In terms of understanding her how she dealt with the assault."

"Dealt with it in what way?"

"Victims of crime often go on fact-finding missions wanting to know about the criminal, his motives. What turned them into victims. In order to try to make some sense out of it and protect themselves from future victimizations. Did your wife ever do that?

Because no one seems to know what McCloskey's motive was."

"No, she didn't." He resumed walking. "At least not as far as I know.

And she had no idea why he did it. Frankly, we don't talk much about it I'm part of her present, not her past. But she did tell me that the bastard refused to say the police couldn't get it out of him. He was a drinker and a drug-fiend, but that doesn't explain it, does it?"

"What kind of drugs did he use?"

He reached the switch, flicked, illuminated the huge front room in which Gina Ramp and I had waited yesterday. Yesterday seemed like ancient history. A swan-necked decanter filled with something amber and very clear sat alongside several old-fashioned glasses on a portable rosewood bar. He held out a glass to me. I shook my head.

He poured a finger for himself, hesitated, doubled it, then stoppered the decanter and sipped.

"I don't know," he said. "Drugs were never my thing. This" raising the glass "and beer is about as daring as I get. I never knew him very well just a bit from the studios. He was a hanger-on.

Hung around Gina like a little leech. A nothing. Hollywood's full of them. No talent of his own, so he got girls to pose for pictures."

He walked farther into the room, stepped on carpeting that dampened his footsteps and restored the house to silence.

I followed him. "Is Melissa back yet?"

He nodded. "Up in her room. She went straight up, looked pretty beat."

"Noel still with her?"

"No, Noel's back at the Tankard my restaurant. He works for me, parking cars, busing, some waiting. Good kid, real up-fromthe-bootstraps story he's got a good future. Melissa's too much for him, but I guess he'll have to learn that for himself."

"Too much in what way?"

"Too smart, too good-looking, too feisty. He's madly in love with her and she walks all over him not out of cruelty or snobbery.

It's just her style. She just forges straight ahead, not thinking."

As if trying to compensate for the criticism, he said, "That's one thing she isn't-a snob. Despite all this." Waving his free hand around the room. "Christ, can you imagine growing up here? I grew up in Lynwood when it was still mostly white. My dad was an independent truck driver with a bad temper. Meaning there were plenty of times nobody hired him. We always had enough to eat, but that was about it.

I didn't like having to scrounge, but I know now that it made me into a better person not that Melissa's not a good person. Basically she's a real good kid. Only she's used to having her way, just plows ahead when she wants something, regardless of what anyone else wants. Gina's... situation made her grow up fast.

Actually it's kind of amazing she developed as well as she did."

He sat down heavily on an overstuffed couch. "Guess I don't need to tell you about kids-I'm just going on because frankly I'm pretty rattled by all this. Where the hell could she be? What about this detective-you reach him yet?"

"Not yet. Let me try again."

He sprang up and brought back a cellular phone.

I dialed Milo's home, got the recorded message, then heard it break.

"Hello?"

"Rick? This is Alex. Is Milo there?"

"Hi, Alex. Sure. We just got in saw a bad movie. Hold on."

Two seconds, then: "Yeah?"

"Ready to start early?"

"On what?"

"Private-eyeing?"

"It can't wait till morning?"

"Something's come up." I looked over at Ramp. Staring at me, haggard.

Choosing my words carefully, I recounted what had happened, including McCloskey's questioning and release, and the news of Melvin Findlay's death in prison. Expecting Milo to comment on either or both.

Instead, he said, "She take any clothes with her?"

"Melissa says no.

"How can Melissa be sure?"

"She says she knows the contents of her mother's closet, could tell if anything was missing."

Ramp looked at me sharply.

Milo said, "Even a skimpy little negligee?"

"I don't think it was anything like that, Milo."

"Why not?"

I shot a glance over at Ramp. Still staring, his drink untouched.

"It doesn't fit."

"Ah. Hubby at close proximity?"

"Correct."

"Okay, let's switch to another lane. What have the local cops done, other than drive around?"

"That's it as far as I know. No one's too impressed with their level of competence.

"They're not known as stone geniuses out there, but what else should they be doing? Going door to door and antagonizing the trillionaires?

Lady staying out late isn't Judge Crater. It's only been a few hours.

And with the kind of car she's driving, someone might actually see it.

They put out bulletins for what they're worth?"

"The police chief said they did."

"You hobnobbing with police chiefs now?"

"He was here."

"The personal touch," he said. "Ah, the rich."

"What about the FBI?"

"Nah, those guys won't touch it unless there's definite evidence of a crime, preferably one that will make the headlines. Unless your affluent friends have heavy-duty political connections."

"How heavy-duty?"

"Someone in a position to call Washington and lean on the director.

Even then, she's gonna have to be missing for a couple of days for the Feds for anyone to take it seriously. Without some kind of evidence of a bona fide crime, what they'll do is eventually send over a couple of agents who look like actors, to take a report, march around the house in their junior G-man shades, French-kissing their walkie-talkies.

What's it been, six hours?"

I looked at my watch. "Closer to seven.

"It doesn't scream major felony, Alex. What else have you got to tell me?"

"Nothing much. I just got back from talking to her therapists.

They had no major insights."

"Well," he said, "you know those types. Better at asking questions than answering them."

"You have any you want to ask?"

"I could go through some motions."

Ramp was sipping and eyeing me over the rim of his glass. I said, "That might be useful."

"I guess I could make it over there in a half-hour or so, but basically it's going to be a placebo routine. Because the kind of stuff you want to do in a real missing-persons case financial searches, credit-card checks have to take place during working hours. Anybody think of checking hospitals?"

"I assume the police have. If you'd like to "No big sweat making a few calls. In fact, I can do plenty from right here rather than spend thirty minutes getting over there."

"I think it would be a good idea to do it face-to-face."

"You do, huh?"

"Lots of shaky knees? Power of placebo?"

"Hold on." Hand over receiver. "Yeah, okay, Dr. Silverman's not happy but he's being saintly about it. Maybe I can even get him to pick out my tie."

Ramp and I waited without talking much. He, drinking and sinking progressively lower into one of the overstuffed chairs. Me, thinking about how Melissa would be affected if her mother didn't return soon.

I considered going up to her room to see how she was doing, remembered what Ramp had said about her being beat, and decided to let her rest.

Depending on how things turned out, she might not be sleeping well for a while.

Half an hour passed, then another twenty minutes. When the chimes sounded I got to the door ahead of Ramp and opened it. Milo padded in, dressed as well as I'd ever seen him. Navy hopsack blazer, gray slacks, white shirt, maroon tie, brown loafers. Clean-shaven and he'd gotten a haircut the usual lousy one, cropped too close at the back and sides, the sideburns trimmed to mid-ear. Three months off duty and he still looked like the arm of somebody's law.

I did the introductions. Watched Ramp's face change as he got a good look at Milo. Eyes narrowing, mustache twitching as if plagued by fleas.

Flinty suspicion. Marlboro Man staring down rustler varmints.

Gabney's cowboy suit would have looked better on him.

Milo must have seen it, too, but he didn't react.

Ramp stared a while longer, then said, "I hope you can help."

More suspicion. It had been a while since Milo's picture had been on TV but maybe Ramp had a good memory. Actors even stupid ones often did. Or perhaps his memory had been prompted by good old-fashioned homophobia.

I said, "Detective Sturgis is on leave from the Los Angeles Police."

Pretty sure I'd mentioned that before.

Ramp stared.

Milo finally began to return the favor.

The two of them remained locked in a stare-fest. I thought of rodeo bulls in adjacent pens, snorting and pawing and butting the boards.

Milo broke first. "This is what I've been given so far." He repeated, almost word for word, what I'd told him. "Accurate?"

"Yes," said Ramp.

Milo grunted. Pulling a note pad and pen out of a jacket pocket, he turned pages, stopped, pointed with a thick finger. "I've confirmed that the San Labrador police put out countywide bulletins on her.

Which is usually a waste of time, but with this car, maybe not.

They've got the car listed as a 1954 Rolls-Royce sedan, license plate AD RR SD, Vehicle Identification Number SOG Twenty-two. Correct?"

"Correct."

"Color?"

"Black over shell-gray."

"Better than a Toyota," said Milo, "in terms of conspicuousness.

Before I came out I called a few of the local emergency rooms. No one fitting her description's been brought in."

"Thank God," said Ramp. Sweating.

Milo looked up at the ceiling, lowered his eyes and took in the front rooms with one sweeping glance. "Nice house. How many rooms?"

The question caught Ramp off guard. "I'm not really surenever counted.

About thirty, thirty-five, I guess."

"How many does your wife actually use?"

"Use? Basically, she just uses her suite. It's three rooms four including the bathroom. Sitting area, bedroom, plus a side room with bookshelves, a desk, some exercise equipment, a refrigerator."

"Sounds like a home within a home," said Milo. "Do you have one, too?"

"Just one room," said Ramp, coloring. "Right next to hers."

Milo wrote something down. "Any reason you can think of why he decided to drive to the doctor alone?"

"I don't know that wasn't the plan. I was supposed to go with her. We were going to leave at three. She called me at two-fifteen I was at my restaurant and told me not to bother coming home, she'd be driving herself. I questioned it, but she said she'd be fine. I didn't want to weaken her confidence, so I didn't press the matter.

"Thirty-five rooms," said Milo, writing again. "Besides her suite, did she frequent any of the others? Keep stuff around?"

"Not to my knowledge. Why?"

"How large is the property?"

"Just under seven acres.

"She walk around it much?"

"She's comfortable walking around it, if that's what you mean.

She used to stroll quite a bit. I strolled with her, back when it was the only place she went. Lately the last few months she's been leaving the property, taking short walks with Dr. Cunningham-Gabney."

"Besides the front gate, is there another way to get in or out?"

"Not as far as I know."

"No rear alleys?"

"No. The property abuts another estate Dr. and Mrs. Elridge's.

There are high hedges in between. Ten feet or higher."

"How many outbuildings?"

Ramp thought. "Let's see, if you count the garages "Garages? How many?"

"Ten. One long building with ten stalls, actually. It was built for her first husband's antique car collection. Some of the vehicles are priceless. The doors are kept bolted at all times. Only the Dawn's stall was left open."

Milo jotted quickly, looked up. "Go on."

Ramp looked puzzled.

Milo said, "Other buildings on the property."

"Buildings," said Ramp. "A potting shed, pool cabanas, a changing room off the tennis court. That's it, unless you count the gazebo."

"What about servants' quarters?"

"The staff lives here in the house. One of the corridors upstairs leads to their quarters.

"How many on the staff?"

"There's Madeleine, of course. Two maids and the gardener. The gardener doesn't live on the premises. He's got five sons, none of whom work for us full time but all of whom are here from time to time, helping out."

"Any of the staff actually see your wife leave?"

Ramp said, "One of the maids was polishing the entry, saw her walk out the door. I'm not sure if anyone actually saw her drive off. If you want to question them I can go get them right now."

"Where are they?"

"Up in their rooms."

"When do they go off shift?"

"At nine. They don't always retire right away. Sometimes they stay in the kitchen talking, having coffee. I sent them up early tonight.

Didn't want any hysteria."

"They pretty upset?"

Ramp nodded. "They've known her a long time, tend to be protective."

"What about other homes?"

"Only one. At the beach. Broad Beach. Malibu. She's never gone there, to my knowledge. Doesn't like the water-she doesn't even swim in the pool here. But I called over there anyway. Twice.

Nothing."

"Did she say anything recently over the past few days or even weeks about taking off? Going away by herself?"

"Absolutely not, and I "No hints dropped? Remarks that didn't seem to mean anything then but do now?"

"I said no!" Ramp's color deepened. He squinted so hard, my head began to ache.

Milo tapped his pen and waited.

Ramp said, "That wouldn't make sense. She wanted more involvement with other people, not less. That was the whole point of her treatment getting back into the social whirl. And frankly, I don't see the point of this line of questioning who the hell cares what she talked about?

She didn't go on vacation, for Christ's sake!

Something happened to her out there. Why don't you drive downtown and shake up that psychopath McCloskey! Teach the idiots who let him go something about police work!"

Breathing hard. Temple veins swollen.

Milo said, "Before I came here, I spoke to the detective at Central Division who interviewed McCloskey. Fellow named Bradley Lewis not the best cop, but not the worst, either. McCloskey's alibi is ironclad he was feeding the homeless at the mission where he lives. Peeling potatoes and washing dishes and ladling out soup all afternoon. Dozens of people saw him, including the priest who runs the place. He never left from noon till eight. So there's no way the police could have kept him in custody."

"What about as a material witness?"

"No crime, no witness, Mr. Ramp. As far as they're concerned it's just a situation of some lady who stayed out late."

"But look who we're talking about what he did!"

"True. But he served his time; his parole's over. Far as the law's concerned, he's Joe Citizen. The police have zero hold over him."

"Can't you do anything?"

"My hold's less than zero."

"I wasn't referring to legal niceties, Mr. Sturgis."

Milo smiled, took a deep breath. "Sorry. Donated my rubber hose to Goodwill."

"I'm serious, Mr. Sturgis."

The smile died. "So am I, Mr. Ramp. If that's the kind of help you're after, you've dialed a very wrong number."

He put his pen away.

Ramp said, "Look, I didn't mean to Milo held out a hand. "I know this is hell. I know the system stinks. But rousting McCloskey right now is not in your wife's best interest. Central Division said after they let him go, they drove him home guy doesn't have a car and he went to bed. Let's say I go over there, wake him up. He refuses to let me in.

So I force my way in, play Dirty Harry. In the movies that works great the power of intimidation. He confesses all, and the good guys win.

In the real world, he hires a lawyer. Sues my ass, and yours, and the media find out. Meanwhile your wife comes waltzing in she had car trouble, couldn't get to a phone. A real happy ending except now she's back on page one. The main feature on A Current Affair: Not to mention having to watch you cough up some dough to McCloskey or play defendant for a couple of years. What's that gonna do for her psychological progress?"

Ramp said, "Christ, this is insanity," and shook his head.

"I asked Central Division to keep a watch on him. They said they'd try, but to be truthful that's not worth a lot. If she's not back by morning, I'll pay him a visit. If you can't handle waiting, I'll drive down there right now. When he doesn't let me in, I'll sit out there all night watching his door, write you a detailed surveillance report that sounds pretty impressive. I'm charging you seventy dollars an hour plus expenses. A bullshit hour gets billed the same as a productive one. But I just figured for that kind of money, you're entitled to some independent judgment on my part.

"And what is your independent judgment, Mr. Sturgis?"

"At this point, there are better ways of spending my time."

"Such as?"

"Such as making more hospital calls. Phoning all-night service stations. The auto club if you're members."

"We are. Those sound like things I can do."

"You can. Feel free. The more people working on it, the faster we'll get it done. If you want to do it yoursdf, I'll write you up a list of the other things you can do and be on my way.

"What kinds of things?"

"Hooking up with the paramedics and the independent ambulance companies, keeping in touch with the traffic divisions of the various police departments in order to make sure information doesn't get lost in the shuffle it happens a lot, believe me. If you want to go further, check out airlines, air charter services, car rental agencies.

Run credit-card traces find out what cards she carries, have the companies flag the numbers, so when they're used to make a purchase, we know where and when and get the information as soon as possible. If she's not back by morning, I'd also get to work on her bank records, see if she made any major withdrawals recently. Do you cosign on her accounts?"

"No, our finances are independent."

"No shared accounts?"

"No, Mr. Sturgis." Ramp had folded his arms across his chest.

Each word seemed to crank him tighter. "Withdrawals, airlineswhat are you saying? That she deliberately ran away?"

"I'm sure she didn't, but "She definitely didn't."

Milo ran his hand over his face. "Mr. Ramp, let's hope she walks in any minute. If she doesn't, it's got to be approached as a missing persons case, and missing-persons cases aren't great for the ego-the egos of those left waiting. Because to do the job properly, you've got to assume anything's possible. It's like a doctor biopsying a lump chances are it's benign. The doctor quotes you statistics, smiles, and tells you he's almost positive it's nothing to worry about.

But he cuts it open anyway and sends it to the lab."

He unbuttoned his jacket, jammed both hands in his trouser pockets, put the weight of one leg on its heel and arced it back and forth, like a runner doing an ankle stretch.

Ramp looked down at the foot, then up at Milo's green eyes.

"So," he said, "I'm going to get cut.

"It's your choice," said Milo. "The alternative is just to sit tight and wait."

"No, no go ahead, do all those things. You can do them faster.

I suppose you'll want a check before you begin."

Milo said, "I'll want one before I leave seven hundred dollars, which is a ten-hour advance. But first round up the servants, call the gardener, and get him back here, along with any sons who were working today and might have seen her. Meantime, I'd like to check out her suite, go through her stuff" Ramp started to question that, didn't like the answers he created for himself, and swallowed them.

Milo said, "I'll be as tidy as possible. You want to watch, that's okay."

Ramp said, "No, that's fine. Go ahead. This way." Pointing to the staircase.

The two of them began climbing, side by side, sharing the same wide marble step but keeping maximum distance.

I followed two steps behind, feeling like the guy who introduced Ah to Foreman.

When we got to the top, I heard a door open, saw a sliver of light slant across the floor of one of the corridor spokes, two doors down from Gina Ramp's room. It widened to a triangle, then was darkened by shadow as Melissa walked out into the hall, still in shirt and jeans, socks on her feet. Walking groggily, rubbing her eyes.

I called her name softly.

She started, turned. Ran toward us. "Is she Ramp shook his head.

"Nothing yet. This is Detective Sturgis.

Dr. Delaware's... friend. Detective, Ms. Melissa Dickinson, Mrs. Ramp's daughter."

Milo held out a hand. She barely grazed it, withdrew, looked up at him. There were crease marks on her face the false scars of slumber.

Her lips were dry and her eyelids were swollen. "What are you going to do to find her? What can I do?"

"Were you here at home when your mother left?" said Milo.

"Yes."

"What kind of mood was she in?"

"Okay. Excited about going out by herself actually, nervous, and she was covering it by trying to look excited. I was worried she'd have an attack. I tried to talk her out of it, told her I'd go with her.

But she refused she even raised her voice to me. She'd neter raised her voice to me..

Biting back tears.

"I should have insisted."

Milo said, "Did she say why she wanted to go by herself?"

"No. I kept asking her that, but she refused. It wasn't like her at all I should have known something was wrong.

"Did you actually see her drive away?"

"No. She told me not to follow her ordered it." Biting her lip.

"So I went to my room. Lay down and listened to music and fell asleep just like I did now. I can't believe it why am I sleeping so much?"

Ramp said, "Stress, Meliss."

She said to Milo: "What do you think happened to her?"

"That's what I'm here to find out. Your stepdad will be calling the staff together, see if anyone knows anything. In the meantime, I'll be checking out her room and making phone calls you can help with some of those, if you want."

"Calls to where?"

"Routine stuff I " said Milo. "Gas stations, the auto club. The Highway Patrol. Some of the local hospitals just to be careful."

"Hospitals," she said, putting a hand on her chest. "Oh, God!"

"Just to be careful," Milo repeated. "The San Labrador cops have already called a few. So have I, and she hasn't been reported injured.

But it pays to be careful."

She said "Hospitals" again and began crying. Milo put a hand on her shoulder.

Ramp pulled out a handkerchief, said, "Here." She glanced at it, shook her head, used her hand to wipe her eyes.

Ramp looked at the cloth, put it back in his pocket, and took a couple of steps back.

Melissa said to Milo, "Why do you want to see her room?"

"To get a feel for the type of person she was. See if anything's out of order. Maybe she left some clue. You can help me with that, too.

"Shouldn't we be doing something be out there looking for her?"

She turned on him. "That's your opinion."

"No, it's Mr. Sturgis's opinion."

"Then let him tell me himself."

Ramp squinted, motionless except for tiny flexes along the jawline.

"I'll go get the stafi," he said, and walked away quickly down the left-hand corridor.

When he was out of earshot, Melissa said, "You should be keeping an eye on him."

Milo said, "Why's that?"

"She's got a lot more money than he does."

Milo looked at her. Ran a hand over his face. "You think he might have done something to her?"

"If he thought it might get him something, who knows? He sure likes the things money can buy-tennis, living here, the beach house. But everything belongs to Mother. I don't know why they got married they don't sleep together or do anything together. It's like he's just visiting-some damned house guest who refuses to leave. I don't see why she married him."

"They fight much?"

"Never," she said. "But big deal. They're not together enough to fight. What could she see in him?"

"Ever ask her?" I said.

"In a roundabout way I didn't want to hurt her feelings. I asked her what to look for in a man. She said kindness and tolerance were the most important things."

"That describe him?" said Milo.

"I think he's just smooth. Out for luxury."

"Does he get her money if something happens to her?"

It was more than she was willing to confront. Her hand flew to her mouth. "I... I don't know."

"Easy enough to find out," he said. "If she doesn't show up tomorrow morning, I'll start looking into her finances. Maybe I'll find something up in her room right now."

"Okay," she said. "You don't really think something happened to her, do you?"

"No reason to. And in terms of what you mentioned before going out there looking for her your local cops are already patrolling extensively. I saw them on the way over and it's what they do best.

Ramp said, "Waste of time."

There are also countywide bulletins out for her-I checked myself, didn't take that on faith. Dr. Delaware will tell you I'm the original skeptic. That doesn't mean all those police departments are gonna go out of their way to look for your mother. But a Rolls-Royce may just catch their eye. If she's not back soon, we can have the bulletins expanded, can even tell the papers she's missing but once those guys sink their teeth in, they never let go, so we've gotta be careful."

"What about McCloskey!" she said. "Do you know about him?"

Milo nodded.

"Then why don't you go out there and pressure him? Noel and I would have done it if we knew where he lived maybe I'll find out and do it.

"That's not a very good idea," said Milo and repeated the speech he'd given Ramp.

"I'm sorry," she said, "but she's my mother and I've got to do what I think is right."

"How do you think your mother would like seeing you in a drawer in the morgue?"

Her mouth dropped open. She closed it. Drew herself up. Next to Milo she looked tiny, almost comically so. "You're just trying to scare me.

"You're right."

"Well, it won't work."

"Damn shame." He looked at his Timer. "Been here a quarter hour and I've done diddly. Wanna stand around talking or work?"

"Work," she said. "Of course "Her room," said Milo.

"Over here. C'mon." She ran down the hall, all traces of sleepiness gone.

Milo watched her and muttered something I couldn't make out.

We followed her.

She'd reached the door, was holding it open. "Here," she said.

"I'll show you where everything is.

Milo walked into the sitting room. I went in after him.

She slid past me and faced Milo, blocking the door to the bedroom.

"One more thing."

"What?"

"I'm paying you. Not Don. So treat me like an adult."

Milo said, "If you don't like the way I'm treating you, I'm sure you'll let me know. In terms of payment, work it out with him."

He pulled out his pad again and looked around the sitting room. Went to the gray couch. Poked at the pillows, ran his hand under them.

"What is this, a waiting room for visitors?"

"A sitting room," said Melissa. "She didn't have visitors. My father designed it this way because he thought it was genteel. It used to be different very elegant, lots more furniture but she cleaned it out and put this in. She ordered it from a catalogue. She's basically a simple person. This is really her favorite place she spends most of her time here."

"Doing what?"

"Reading she reads a lot. Loves to read. And she exercises there's equipment back there." Crooking a finger in the direction of the bedroom.

Milo peered at the Cassatt.

I said, "How long's she had that print, Melissa?"

"My father gave it to her. When she was pregnant with me."

"Did he have other Cassatts?"

"Probably. He had lots of works on paper. They're stored upstairs on the third floor. To keep them out of the sunlight. That's why it's perfect for here. No windows."

"No windows," said Milo. "That doesn't bother her?"

"She's a sunny person," said Melissa. "She makes her own light."

"Uh-huh." He went back to the gray couch. Removed the cushions and put them back.

I said, "How long ago did she change the decor?"

Both of them looked at me.

"Just curious," I said. "About any changes she might have made recently."

Melissa said, "It was recent. A few months ago three or four.

The stuff that was in here was Father's taste really ornamental. She had it put up on the third floor, in storage. Told me she felt kind of guilty because Father had spent so much time picking it out. But I told her it was okay it was her place; she should do what she wanted."

Milo opened the door to the bedroom and stepped through.

I heard him say, "She didn't change this too much, did she?"

Melissa hurried after him. I walked in, last.

He was standing in front of the canopied bed. Melissa said, "I guess she likes it the way it is."

"Guess so," said Milo.

The room seemed even bigger from the inside. At least twenty-five feet square, with fifteen-foot ceilings embroidered with crown moldings fashioned to resemble braided cloth. A six-foot white marble mantel was topped with a gold clock and a menagerie of miniature silver birds.

A gold eagle sat perched atop the clock, eyeing the smaller fowl.

Groupings of Empire chairs upholstered in olive-green silk damask, a baroque threefold screen painted in trompe l'oeil flowers, a scattering of tiny gold-inlaid tables of doubtful function, paintings of country scenes and bosomy maidens with uncertainty in their eyes.

The braids snaked toward the center of the ceiling, terminating in a plaster knot from which a crystal and silver chandelier dangled like a giant watch fob. The bed was covered with a quilted off-white satin spread. Tapestry pillows were arranged at the head in a precise overlapping row, like fallen dominoes. A silk robe lay neatly across the foot. The bed was set on a pedestal, adding to its already considerable height. The finials of the posts nearly touched the ceiling.

Weak light shone from crystal wall sconces beside the bed, transforming the off-white color scheme to the color of English mustard, and turning the plum carpeting gray. Milo flipped a switch and flooded the room with the high-watt glare of the chandelier.

He looked under the bed, straightened, and said, "You could eat off it.

"When was the room made up?"

"Probably this morning. Mother usually does it herself not the vacuuming or anything strenuous. But she likes to make her own bed.

She's very neat.

I followed his glance to the chinoiserie nightstands. Ivory pseudo-antique phones on both. Bud vase with red rose centered on the one to the left. A hardcover book next to it.

All the draperies were drawn. Milo went to one of the casement windows, pulled aside the curtains, cranked, and looked out. Fresh air puffed in.

After studying the view for a while, he turned, walked to the left side of the bed, picked up the book, and opened it. Skimmed a few pages, turned it upside down, and gave it a couple of shakes. Nothing fell out. Opening the door of the stand, he bent and peered in. Empty.

I went over and looked at the book's front cover. Paul Theroux's Patagonia Express.

Melissa said, "It's a travel book."

Milo said nothing, kept looking around.

The wall opposite the bed was occupied by a nine-foot walnutand-gilt armoire and a wide carved fruitwood dresser inlaid with marquetry herbs and flowers. Perfume bottles and a marble clock sat atop the dresser.

Milo opened the top section of the armoire. Inside was a color TY a Sony 19-inch that looked to be at least ten years old.

Atop the television was a TV Guide. Milo opened it, flipped through it. The bottom of the armoire was empty.

"No VCR?" he said.

"She doesn't go in for movies much."

He moved down to the dresser, slid open drawers, ran his hands through satin and silk.

Melissa watched for several moments, then said, "What exactly are you looking for?"

"Where does she keep the rest of her clothes?"

"Over there." She pointed to carved swinging doors on the left side of the room. Indian rosewood doors inlaid with vines of copper and brass and topped with a motif that conjured up the Taj Mahal.

Milo shoved them open unceremoniously.

On the other side was a short, squat foyer with three more doors.

The first opened to a green marble bathroom accented with champagne-tinted mirrors and equipped with a sunken whirlpool tub expansive enough for family bathing, gold fixtures, green marble commode and bidet. The medicine cabinet was camouflaged as just another mirrored panel. Milo pushed, looked inside. Aspirin, toothpaste, shampoo, lipstick tubes, a few jars of cosmetics.

Half-empty.

"She take anything as far as you can tell?"

Melissa shook her head. "This is all she keeps. She doesn't use much makeup."

Beyond the second door was a room-sized closet outfitted with a makeup table and padded bench at the center and organized as precisely as a surgical scrub tray: champagne-colored padded hangers, all facing the same way. Two walls of cedar, two of pink damask.

Double-hung hardwood dowels.

Clothes organized by type, but there wasn't much to organize.

Mostly one-piece dresses in pale colors. A few gowns and furs at the back, some still bearing their sales labels. Perhaps ten pairs of shoes, three of them sneakers. A collection of sweats folded in storage compartments along the back wall. No more than a quarter of the dowel-space filled.

Milo took his time there, checking pockets, kneeling and inspecting the floor beneath the garments. Finding nothing and going into the third room.

Combination library and gym. The walls lined floor to ceiling with oak shelves, the floor high-lacquer hardwood tile. Interlocking rubber mats covered the front half. A stationary bicycle, rowing machine, and motorized treadmill sat on the rubber along with a free-standing rack of low-weight, chrome-plated dumbbells. A cheap digital watch hung from the handlebars of the bike. Two unopened bottles of Evian water stood atop a small refrigerator alongside the weight rack. Milo opened it. Empty.

He moved to the back and ran his finger along some of the bookshelves.

I read titles.

More Theroux. Jan Morris. Bruce Chatwin.

Atlases. Books of landscape photography. Travelogues dating from the Victorian age to modern times. Audubon birding guides to the West.

Fielding Guides to everywhere else. Seventy years of National Geographic in brown binders. Bound collections of Smithsonian, Oceans, Natural History, Thavel, Sport Diver; Connoisseur: For the first time since he'd arrived at the mansion, Milo looked troubled. But only momentarily. He scanned the rest of the bookcases, said, "Seems like we've got a theme going here."

Melissa didn't answer.

Neither did I.

No one daring to put the obvious into words.

We went back into the bedroom. Melissa seemed subdued.

Milo said, "Where does she keep her bankbooks and financial records?"

"I don't know. I'm not sure she keeps anything here."

"Why's that?"

"Her banking's handled for her-by Mr. Anger, over at First Fiduciary Trust. He's the president. His father knew mine."

"Anger," said Milo, writing it down. "Know the number offhand?"

"No. The bank's on Cathcart just a few blocks from where you turn off to get here."

"Any idea how many accounts she keeps there?"

"Not the foggiest. I have two my trust account and one that I use for expenses." Meaningful pause. "Father wanted it that way."

"What about your stepdad? Where does he bank?"

"I have no idea." Kneading her hands.

"Any reason to think he's in any financial trouble?"

"I wouldn't know."

"What kind of restaurant does he run?"

"Steak and beer."

"Does he seem to do pretty well?"

"Well enough. He brings in lots of imported beers. In San Labrador, that's considered exotic."

"Speaking of which," said Milo, "I could use a drink juice or soda.

With ice. Is there a refrigerator up here with something in it?"

She nodded. "There's a service kitchen at the end of the staff wing.

I can get you something from there. What about you, Dr. Delaware?"

"Sure," I said.

Milo said, "Coke."

I said I'd have the same.

She said, "Two Cokes." Waited.

"What is it?" said Milo.

"Are you finished in here?"

He looked around one more time. "Sure."

We passed through the sitting room and went out into the hall.

Melissa closed the door and said, "Two Cokes. I'll be right back."

When she was gone, I said, "So what do you think?"

"What do I think? That money sure don't buy no happiness, brutha.

That room" cocking a thumb at the door "it's like a goddamn hotel suite. Like she came in on the Concorde, unpacked, went out to see the sights. How the hell could she live like that, not leaving a piece of herself anywhere? And what the hell did she do with herself all day?"

"Read and toned her muscles."

"Yeah," he said. "Travel books. It's like a bad joke. Some shlock movie director's version of irony."

I said nothing.

He said, "What? Think I've lost my sense of compassion?"

"You're talking about her in the past tense.

"Do me a favor, don't interpret. I'm not saying she's dead, just that she's gone. My gut feeling is she's been planning to fly the coop for a while, finally gathered enough courage and did it. Probably jamming that Rolls along Route 66 with the windows open, singing at the top of her lungs."

"I don't know," I said. "I can't see her abandoning Melissa."

He gave a small, hard laugh. "Alex, I know she's your patient and you obviously like her, but from what I've seen, the kid grates.

You heard what she said about Mommy never raising her voice to her.

That normal? Maybe Mommy finally blew her stack. See the way she treated Ramp? And suggesting to me I investigate him without any solid reason to? I couldn't put up with that shit for very long. Course, I don't have a Ph.D. in kiddy psych. But neither does Mommy."

I said, "She's a good kid, Milo. Her mother's disappeared. Time to cut her a little slack, don't you think?"

"Was she sweetness and light before Mommy split? You yourself said she pulled a fit and ran out on Mommy yesterday."

"Okay, she can be difficult. But her mother cared about her. The two of them are close. I just don't see her running out."

"No offense," he said, "but how well do you really know the lady, Alex?

You met her once. She used to be an actress. And in terms of their being close, think of it: never yelling at a kid. For eighteen years?

No matter how good a kid is, they're gonna bear some yelling once in a while, right? The lady must have been sitting on a powder keg. Anger at what McCloskey did to her. At losing her husband. At being stuck up here because of her problems. That's one giant keg, right? The fight with the kid was what finally lit it the kid mouthed off one time too many. Mom waited a long time for her to come back, and when she didn't, she said fuck it, to hell with reading about distant places, let's go see some."

I said, "Assuming you're right, do you think she'll come back?"

"Yeah, probably. She didn't take much with her. But who knows?"

"So what's next? More placebo?"

"Not more. The placebo hasn't started yet. When I scoped out the room it was for real. Trying to get a feel for her. As if it were a crime scene. And you know, even with all the bloody rooms I've been in, that place ranks up there on the Freaky Scale. It felt... empty.

Bad vibes. I saw jungles in Asia that made me feel like that. Dead silent, but you knew something was going on beneath the surface."

He shook his head. "Listen to me. Vibes. I sound like some New Age asshole."

"No," I said. "I felt it, too. Yesterday, when I was here, the house reminded me of an empty hotel."

He rolled his eyes, flashed a Halloween mask grimace, clawed his hands, and scraped at the air.

"The Rrrich Motel," he said in a Lugosi accent. "They check in, but they don't check out."

I laughed. Totally tasteless. But it felt cruelly good. Like the jokes that flew around at staff meetings back in my hospital days.

He said, "I figure the best thing to do is give it a couple of days of my time. Chances are she'll be back by then. The alternative is for me to quit right now, but all that would do is spook both the kid and Ramp and send them rushing to someone else. At least with me they won't get ripped off. Might as well be my seventy an hour."

"Meant to ask you about that," I said. "You told me fifty."

"It was fifty. Then I drove up and saw the house. Now that I've seen more of the interior, I'm sorry I didn't make it ninety."

"Sliding scale?"

"Absolutely. Share the wealth. Half an hour in this place and I'm ready to vote socialist.

"Maybe Gina felt the same way," I said.

"What do you mean?"

"You saw how few clothes she had. And the sitting room. The way she redecorated. Ordering from a catalogue. Maybe she just wanted out.

"Or maybe it's just reverse snobbery, Alex. Like owning expensive art and storing it upstairs."

I was about to tell him about the Cassatt in Ursula Cunningham-Gabney's office but was interrupted by Melissa, returning with two glasses. At her heels were Madeleine and two stocky Hispanic women in their thirties who came up to the Frenchwoman's shoulder, one with long plaited hair, the other with a short shag cut.

If they'd removed their white uniforms for the evening, they'd put them back on. Along with fresh makeup. They looked hyper-alert and wary, travelers passing through Customs at a hostile port.

"This is Detective Sturgis," Melissa said, handing us the Cokes.

"He's here to figure out what happened to Mother. Detective, meet Madeleine de Couer, Lupe Ortega, and Rebecca Maldonado."

Milo said, "Ladies."

Madeleine folded her arms across her bosom and nodded. The other two women stared.

Melissa said, "We're waiting for Sabino the gardener. He lives in Pasadena. It shouldn't take long." To us: "They were waiting in their rooms. I couldn't see any reason why they shouldn't be able to come out. Or even why you shouldn't get started right now. I already asked them-" The doorbell cut her short.

She said, "One sec," and ran down the stairs. I watched her from the top of the landing, followed her descent to the front door. Before she got there, Ramp was opening it. Sabino Hernandez walked in, trailed by his five sons. All six men had on short-sleeved sports shirts and slacks and stood at parade rest. One wore a bolo tie; a couple had on sparkling white guayaberas. They began glancing around awestruck by circumstances or the scale of the house. I wondered how many times, after all these years, they'd actually been inside.

We assembled in the front room. Milo standing, note pad and pen out, everyone else sitting on the edges of the overstuffed chairs. Nine years had turned Hernandez into a very old man white-haired, hunched, and loose-jawed. His hands had a permanent tremor. He looked too frail for physical labor. His sons, transformed from boys to men by the same stretch of time, surrounded him like stakeposts protecting an ailing tree.

Milo asked his questions, told them to search their memories very carefully. Got wet eyes from the women, bright stares from the men.

The only new development was an eyewitness account of Gina's departure.

Two of the Hernandez sons had been working in the front of the house at the time Gina Ramp had driven out. One of them, Guillermo, had been pruning a tree near the driveway and had actually seen her drive by.

Seen her clearly, because he'd been standing to the right of the right-hand drive Rolls-Royce, and the tinted window had been rolled down.

The senora hadn't been smiling or frowning just a serious look.

Both hands on the steering wheel.

Driving very slowly.

She hadn't noticed him or said goodbye.

That was a little unusual the senora was usually very friendly.

But no, she hadn't looked frightened or upset. Not angry, either.

Something else-he searched for the word in English. Conferred with his brother. Hernandez Senior looked straight ahead, seemed cut off from the proceedings.

Thinking, said Guillermo. She looked as if she'd been thinking about something.

"Any idea what?" Milo asked.

Guillermo shook his head.

Milo addressed the question to all of them.

Blank faces.

One of the Hispanic maids began crying again.

Madeleine prodded her and stared straight ahead.

Milo asked the Frenchwoman if she had something to add.

She said Madame was a wonderful person.

Non. She had no idea where Madame had gone.

Non, Madame hadn't taken anything with her other than her purse. Her Judith Leiber black calfskin purse. The only one she owned. Madame didn't like a lot of different things but what she had was excellent.

Madame was... tres classique.

More tears from Lupe and Rebecca.

The Hernandezes shifted in their seats.

Lost looks from all of them. Ramp stared at his knuckles. Even Melissa seemed drained of fight.

Milo probed gently, then more insistently. Doing as deft a job as I'd ever seen.

Coming up with nothing.

A tangible sense of helplessness settled over the room.

During the course of Milo's questions, no pecking order had emerged, no one stepping forth to speak for the group.

Once upon a time it had been different.

Looks like Jacob's a good friend.

He takes care of everything.

Dutchy had never been replaced.

Now this.

As if the big house were being assaulted by destiny, allowed to crumble, piece by piece.

Milo dismissed the staff and asked for a place to work. Ramp said, "Anywhere's okay."

Melissa said, "The downstairs study," and led us to the windowless room with the Goya painting. The desk at the center was white and French and much too small for Milo. He sat behind it, tried to get comfortable, gave up, and swung his glance from wall to booklined wall.

"Nice view." lissa said, "Father used it as his study. He designed it without windows for maximum concentration."

Milo said, "Uh-huh." He opened desk drawers and closed them.

Took out his note pad and placed it on the desk. "Got any phone books?"

Melissa said, "Here," and opened a cabinet beneath the shelves.

Removing an armful of directories, she piled them in front of Milo, obscuring the bottom half of his face. "The black one on top's a San Labrador private directory. Even people who don't list their numbers in the regular phone book put them in here."

Milo divided the books into two short stacks. "Let's start with her credit-card numbers."

"She has all the major ones," said Ramp, "but I don't know the numbers offhand."

"Where does she keep her statements?"

"At the bank. First Fiduciary, here in San Labrador. The bills go straight there and the bank pays them."

Milo turned to Melissa. "Know any numbers?" She shook her head and gave a guilty look, like a student caught unprepared.

Milo scribbled. "What about her driver's license number?"

Silence.

"Easy enough to get from the DMV" said Milo, still writing.

"Let's go for vital statistics-height, weight, birthdate, maiden name.

"Five eight and a half," said Melissa. "Around a hundred and twenty-five pounds. Her birthday's March twenty-third. Her maiden name's Paddock. Regina Marie Paddock." She spelled it.

Milo said, "Year of birth?"

"Nineteen forty-six."

"Social security number?"

"I don't know."

Ramp said, "I've never seen her card-I'm sure Glenn Anger can get you the number from her tax returns.

Milo said, "She doesn't keep any papers around the house?"

"Not as far as I know."

"The San Labrador police didn't ask you for any of those things?"

"No," said Ramp. "Maybe they figured on getting the information elsewhere from the city rolls."

Melissa said, "Right."

Milo put down his pen. "Okay, time to get to work." He reached for the phone.

Neither Ramp nor Melissa budged.

Milo said, "Feel free to stick around for the show, but if you're drowsy, I promise this will finish you off."

Melissa frowned and left the room quickly.

Ramp said, "I'll leave you to your duties, Mr. Sturgis," and turned heel.

Milo picked up the phone.

I went looking for Melissa and found her in the kitchen, looking in one of the wall lockers. She pulled out a bottle of orange soda, twisted the cap, got a glass from an upper cabinet, and poured.

Carelessly. Some of the soda spilled on the counter. She didn't attempt to clean it.

Still unaware of my presence, she raised the glass to her lips and gulped so quickly it made her cough. Sputtering, she slapped her chest. Saw me and slapped harder. When the paroxysms died, she said, "Oh, that was attractive." In a smaller voice: "Can't do anything right."

I came closer, ripped a piece of paper towel from a roll impaled upon a wooden holder, and mopped up the spill.

She said, "Let me do that," and took the towel. Wiped spots that were already dry.

"I know how rough this has been for you," I said. "Two days ago we were talking about Harvard."

"Harvard," she said. "Big damned deal."

"Hopefully it'll return to being a big deal soon."

"Yeah, right. As if I could ever leave now."

Wadding up the towel, she tossed it onto the counter. Lifted her head and looked straight at me, inviting debate.

I said, "In the end, you'll do what's best for you."

Her eyes flickered with uncertainty, shifted to the soda bottle.

"God, I didn't even offer you any. I'm sorry.

"It's okay. I just had that Coke."

As if she hadn't heard, she said, "Here, let me get you some."

She reached up into the cupboard and retrieved another glass. As she placed it on the counter, her arm jerked and the glass skidded across the shelf. She caught it before it dropped on the floor. Dropped it and fumbled to catch it again. Staring at it, breathing hard, she said, "Damn!" and ran out of the room.

I followed her again, searched for her throughout the ground floor of the house, but couldn't find her. Went up the green stairs and headed toward her room. The door was open. I looked in, saw no one, called out her name, got no answer. Entering, I was hit by deceitful memories: crystalline recollections of a place I'd never been.

The ceiling was painted with a mural of gowned courtesans enjoying a place that could have been Versailles. Carpeting the color of raspberry sherbet covered the floor. The walls were pink-and-gray lamb-and-pussycat wallpaper broken by lace-trimmed windows. The bed was a miniature of her mother's. Shelves brimming with music boxes and miniature dishes and figurines lined the room. Three dollhouses. A zoo of stuffed animals.

The precise images she'd described nine years ago.

The place she'd never slept.

The only concession to young adulthood was a desk to the right of the bed bearing a personal computer, dot-matrix printer, and a pile of books.

I inspected the books. Two manuals on preparation for the SAT.

The College Game: Planning Your Academic Career: Fowler's Guide to American Universities. Information brochures from half a dozen firstrate colleges. The one from Harvard, dogeared, a bookmark inserted in the Psychology section.

Manuals for the future in a room that clung to the past. As if her mind had developed while the rest had stagnated.

Had I been fooled, nine years ago, into believing she'd changed more than she had?

I left the room, considered looking for her on the second and third floors, and realized how daunting that would be.

I went downstairs and stood alone in the entry hall. Man without a function. A ten-foot marble clock, with a face almost too ornate to read, said 11:45. Gina Ramp had been gone almost nine hours.

I'd been hanging around for more than half of it.

Time to catch some sleep, leave the detecting to the pros.

I went to tell the pro I was leaving.

He was standing behind the desk, tie loosened, sleeves rolled carelessly mid-forearm, phone tucked under his chin, writing rapidly.

"Uh-huh... Is he generally reliable? He does? Didn't know you guys were doing that well.... That so?.. - Really... Maybe I should be thinking about that, yeah. Anyway, what time was this?.

.

. Okay, yeah, I know where it is. I appreciate your talking to me at this stage of the game. Yeah, yeah, officially, though I don't know that they're actively involved San Labrador is..

Yeah, I know. Just for strokes, though -. Yeah, thanks. Appreciate it. Bye."

He hung up, said, "That was the Highway Patrol. Looks like my freeway theory's getting some validation. We've got a possible sighting of the car. Three-thirty this afternoon, on the 210, heading east, out near Arura. That's about a ten-mile drive from here, so it makes sense time-wise.

"What do you mean "possible sighting,' and why did it take so long to find out if it was spotted that long ago?"

"The source is an off-duty motorcycle guy. He was hanging out at home, listening to his scanner, happened to hear the bulletin and called in.

Seems at three-thirty he'd pulled some speeder off onto the left shoulder of the westbound 210, was in the process of writing out a ticket when he happened to notice the Rolls, or one just like it, zip by on the eastbound. It happened too fast for him to get the plates, other than to notice they were English. That answer both your questions?"

"Who was driving?"

"He didn't see that either. Not that he would've if it was her, because of the smoked windows."

"Did he notice smoked windows?"

"Nope. It was the car he was looking at. The body-style. Seems he's some sort of collector, has a Bentley from around the same period."

"Cop with a Bentley?"

"That was my reaction, too. The guy I was just talking to sergeant at the San Gabriel chippy station-is a buddy of the first guy. The call came in to him, personally-he's also a motorhead, collects Corvettes.

Lots of cops are into wheels-they work extra jobs to pay for their toys. Anyway, he informs me that some of the old Bentleys aren't that expensive. Twenty grand or so, cheaper if you buy a wreck and fix it up yourself. Rolls from the same year cost more cause they're rarer-only a few hundred of those Silver Dawns were made. That's why the first guy noticed it."

"Meaning it's probably hers."

"Probably. But not definitely. The guy who saw it thought it was black over gray, but he couldn't be sure it might have been all black or dark gray over light gray. We're talking a sixty-mile-an-hour zip-by."

"How many old Rolls would there be driving around, that time, that place?"

"More than you might imagine. Apparently, a hell of a lot of them ended up in L.A. back when the dollar was worth something.

And there are plenty of collectors concentrated in the Pasadena-San Labrador area. But yeah, I'd say we've got a ninety-percent-plus chance it was her."

"East on the 210," I said, picturing the wide-open highway.

"Where would she be heading?"

"Anywhere, but she'd h