nge of alyssum. A cobbled path ran up the middle. To the left was a weeping paper-birch triplet.

A high-waisted gray-haired man in khaki shirt, blue pants, and a pith helmet inspected its branches and plucked away dead leaves. A chamois cloth hung out of one rear pocket.

We got out. Traffic from Olympic was a baritone drone. Birds sang harmony. Not a particle of trash on the streets. The man turned as we walked up the path. Sixtyish, narrow shoulders, long arms, large hands. Long, hound-dog face under the helmet. White mustache and goatee, black-framed eyeglasses. It was only when we were a few feet away that I realized he was African-featured. Skin as light as mine, dotted with freckles. Eyes golden-brown, the color of schooldesk oak.

One hand remained on the tree as he watched us. He lowered it, ground a birch cone between his fingers. The particles showered to the ground.

"Gilbert Bayliss?" said Milo.

"Who's asking?"

"My name's Sturgis. I'm a detective-private-working on the disappearance of Mrs. Gina Ramp. Several years ago she was victimized by someone you used to handle at the Parole Department.

Joel McCloskey."

"Good old Joel," said Bayliss, removing his hat. His hair was a thick, nappy, salt-and-pepper cap. "Private eye, huh?"

Milo nodded. "For the time being. On leave from LAPD."

"Voluntary?"

"Not exactly."

Bayliss peered at Milo. "Sturgis. I know that name know your face, too."

Milo didn't move a muscle.

Bayliss said, "I got it. You're the one hit the other cop on TV: Something about interdepartmental intrigue news never did make clear what it was all about. Not that I want to know. I'm out of all that."

"Congratulations," said Milo.

"Earned it. So how long they cooling you out for?"

"Six months."

"Paid or unpaid?"

"Unpaid."

Bayliss clucked his tongue. "So in the meantime you're paying bills.

I wasn't allowed to do that. One thing that bothered me about the job no room to expand opportunities. How do you like itso far?"

"It's a job."

Bayliss looked at me. "Who's this? Another LAPD bad boy?"

"Alex Delaware," I said.

"Dr. Delaware," said Milo. "He's a psychologist. Treating Mrs. Ramp's daughter."

"Melissa Dickinson," I said. "You talked to her about a month ago.

"I seem to remember something like that," said Bayliss. "Psychologist, huh? I wanted to be one of those once. Figured what I was doing was mostly psychology, anyway-why not get paid better?

Took some classes at Cal State got enough credits for a master's but no time to write a thesis or take the exams, so that was that." He peered at me more closely. "What're you doing running around with him?

Psychoanalyzing everyone?"

"We just paid a visit to McCloskey," I said. "Detective Sturgis thought it might be useful for me to observe him."

"Aha," said Bayliss. "Good old Joel. You seriously suspect he's been up to something?"

"Just checking him out," said Milo.

"Getting paid by the hour and piling up those hours- Don't get yourself worked up, soldier. I don't have to talk to you if I don't want.

"I realize that, Mr. "Twenty-three years I spent following routine, taking orders from people a heck of a lot stupider than me. Working toward a twenty-five-year pension so that my wife and I could go traveling.

Two years short she had the bad manners to leave me. Massive stroke.

Got one kid in the army, over in Germany, married a German girl, never comes home. So the last two years I've been making my own rules. Last six months I've been getting good at it. Understand?"

Milo gave a long, slow nod.

Bayliss smiled, put his helmet back on. "Just as long as we've got a meeting of the minds on that."

"We do," said Milo. "If there's something you can tell us about McCloskey that might help us find Mrs. Ramp, I'd be much obliged."

"Good old Joel," said Bayliss. He touched his goatee, stared at Milo.

"You know, there were plenty of times during those twenty-five years that I wanted to punch someone. Never did it. "Cause of the pension.

The trip the wife and I were going to take. When you punched that paper-pusher, it made me smile. I was in a low mood, thinking about things that had happened and those that hadn't. You gave me a chuckle, lasted through the evening. That's why I remember you." He smiled.

"Funny thing, your walking up like this. Must be destiny. Come on in the house."

His living room was dark, neat, furnished with heavy carved pieces not quite old or good enough to be antiques. Lots of doilies and figurines and feminine touches. On the wall above the mantel were framed black-and-white photos of big bands and jazz combos, the musicians all black, and one close-up of a young, clean-shaven, pomaded Bayliss, dressed in a white dinner jacket and formal shirt and tie, and holding a slide trombone.

He said, "That was my first love. Trained classically at Juilliard.

But no one was hiring colored trombonists, so I settled for swing and bebop, did the rib circuit traveled with Skootchie Bartholomew for five years. Ever hear of him?"

I shook my head.

He smiled. "No one did. Tell the truth, the band wasn't that good.

Shooting heroin before every gig and thinking they were playing better than they actually were. I didn't want to live like that, so I quit, came out here, tooted for whoever would listen, did a few record things you listen to "Magic Love' by the Sheiks, some of that other doo-wop foolishness, that's me in the background. Finally got a trial run with Lionel Hampton."

He went over and touched one of the photos. "This is me, first row.

That band was all power, really heavy on the brass. Playing with em was like trying to ride a big brass hurricane, but I did okayLionel kept me on. Then the big-band market dried up and Lionel took the whole outfit to Europe and Japan. I didn't see any point in that, went back to school, took the civil service. Haven't played since. My wife liked the pictures ve got to take them down, get some real art. You want some coffee?"

Both of us declined.

"Sit if you want.

We did. Bayliss settled in a soft-looking floral chair with lace antimacassars on the arms.

"Good old Joel," he said. "Wouldn't worry too much about him in terms of major felonies."

"Why's that?" said Milo.

"He's a nothing." Bayliss tapped his head. "Nothing there.

When I read his file I expected some serious psychopath. Then this skinny little nothing walks in, all yessirs and nosirs, not an ounce of fight left in him. And I'm not talking bootlicking. Not the usual routine you get from your active psychopath you know how they try to come across like good boys. Every joker I dealt with over twenty-five years thought he was Oscar-quality, smarter than everyone else. Just had to put on the act and no one'd see through him."

"That's the truth," said Milo. "Even though it rarely works."

"Yeah. Funny how they never stop to think about why they're spending most of their lives in six-by-six cells. But old Joel was different-this was no act. The man had everything stripped out of him.

Course if you just saw him, you know that."

"How often did he come to see you?" I said.

"Just a few times four or five. By the time he got to L.A he really wasn't on official parole. The Department requested he check in until he got settled. Covering its derriere, just in case. They're really sensitive to playing it by the rules, so if something goes wrong and the victim's family gets on Geraldo, they can produce paperwork and show they've done the right thing. So it was really more a formality-he could have ignored it, but he didn't. Showed up once a week. We spent our ten minutes and that was it. Tell the truth, I wish I'd had more like him. Toward the end my caseload was sixty-three crooks, and some of them really did bear looking into."

Milo said, "Parole's usually three years. How come he did six?"

"Part of a deal. After he got out of Quentin, he asked to leave the state. The Department said okay if he could obtain structured placement and double his time. He found some sort of Indian reservation out in Arizona, I think. Did three years there, then moved somewhere else, another state I don't recall exactly and did three there."

"Why the move?" I said.

"From what I recall," he said, "the first place was funded by a grant that got canceled, so he had to move on. The second place was Catholic-I guess he figured unless the Pope canceled, he'd be okay."

"Why the move to L.A.?"

"I asked him about that and he didn't have much of an answer not one that made sense, anyway. Something about original sin, a lot of mumbo-jumbo about salvation. Basically what I think he was getting at was that he'd sinned here against your missing lady so he had to be a good boy here to even the score with the Almighty. I didn't push him on it like I said, he wasn't even obligated to show up. It was a formality."

"Any idea what he did with his time?" said Milo.

"Far as I know he was over at that mission, full time. Cleaning toilets and washing dishes."

"Eternal Hope."

"Yeah, that's the one. Found himself another Catholic place.

From what I could tell, he never left his room, never consorted with known felons or used dope. The priest confirmed it over the phone. If I'da had sixty-three like him, my job would have been a breeze."

"Did he ever talk about his crime?" I said.

"I talked to him about it-first time he came in. Read from his sentencing report, the judge calling him a monster and all that. I liked to do that with all of them at the outset. Establish some ground rules, let them know I knew who I was dealing with, eliminate a lot of nonsense. Most of them leave stir still claiming they're innocent as Baby Jesus. You try to break through that delusion, get some insight going, if there's gonna be any hope. Like doing psychoanalysis, right?"

I nodded.

"Did McCloskey develop any insight?" said Milo.

"Didn't need to. He came in breathing guilt, told me straight out he was worthless and didn't deserve to live. I told him that was probably true, then read the sentencing report out loud to him. He just sat there and took it-like it was some kind of medical treatment that was for his own good. About as close to a walking dead man as I'd ever seen. After a couple of times with him I found myself actually getting sorry for him-the way you feel sorry for a dog that's been hit by a car. And that's something that doesn't come easy to me. I've worked a long time fighting my sympathies."

"He ever say why he burned her?" said Milo.

"Nope," said Bayliss. "And I asked him about that, too. Because his file said he'd never owned up to any motive. But he didn't have much to say-kind of mumbled and wouldn't get into that."

A scratch of the goatee. Bayliss removed his glasses, wiped them with a handkerchief, and replaced them. "I tried to work on him a bit think I phrased it to him in terms of his duty to her, how once he'd done a crime like that, she owned him. In a spiritual sense-I was trying to appeal to his religious side. Whenever they tried the religious stuff I turned it right back on them. But it didn't work with him-he just sat there and stared at the floor. It was all I could do to keep a conversation going for the ten minutes. And he wasn't faking it after twenty-five years I can tell. We're talking nothing. Total zombie."

"Any idea why?" I said. "What got him to that state?"

Bayliss shrugged. "You're the psychologist."

"Okay," said Milo. "Thanks. Anything else?"

"Nothing. What's the story with the lady?"

"She left her house, drove off I and hasn't been heard from since."

"Left when?"

"Yesterday."

Bayliss frowned. "One day gone and they hire a "It's not your typical situation," said Milo. "She's been housebound for a long time. Hardly left her home."

"How long's a long time?"

"Since he burned her."

"She's been severely agoraphobic since then," I said.

"Oh. That's too bad." He looked as if he meant it. "Yeah, I can see why her folks would be worried."

We walked back outside. Bayliss looked thoughtful. He accompanied us all the way to the car.

"Hope you find her soon," he said. "If there was something I could tell you about Joel that would help you, I would. But I doubt he has anything to do with it."

"Why's that?" said Milo.

"Inertia. The dead zone. He's like a snake that got stepped on one time too many and lost its poison."

I drove home on Olympic. Though his seat was pushed all the way back, Milo positioned himself with his knees drawn up. Opting for discomfort. Looking out the window.

At Roxbury, I said, "What's up?"

He kept his eyes on the landscape. "Guys like McCloskey. Who the hell knows what's real and what's not? Bayliss is so sure the asshole's run out of steam, but he admitted he barely knew him.

Basically, he took McCloskey at face value because the sleaze showed up voluntarily and didn't make waves your typical bureaucratic response.

Shit flushes through the system and as long as the pipes don't back up, no one cares.

"You think McCloskey bears further watching?"

"If the lady doesn't show up real soon and no new leads develop, I'm gonna mosey on by again, try to catch him off guard. But before I do that, I'm gonna get to a phone, call in some markers, and try to find out if the scumbag's been consorting with any known felons. You got anything planned for yourself?"

"Nothing urgent.

"If you feel like it, take a run out to the beach. Check out the second house, just in case she's bunked out there and not telling anyone. It's a long drive and I don't want to kill that much timecourse I don't think it'll lead anywhere."

"Sure."

"Here's the address," he said.

I took the slip of paper and continued to drive.

He looked at his watch. "Might as well leave soon. While the sun's still out. Play sleuth and work on your tan hell, take out your boogie board and catch a wave."

"Watson goes gnarly?"

"Something like that."

No messages at home. I stayed long enough to give the fish a heavy feed, hoping to keep them away from the few egg clusters that remained.

Then back on Sunset, heading west, by two-thirty.

Day at the beach.

I pretended it was going to be fun.

I hit Pacific Coast Highway, saw blue water and brown bodies.

Robin and I had done this drive, so many times.

Linda and I had done it once. The second time we'd been out together.

Alone was different.

I stayed away from those thoughts, paid attention to the Malibu coastline. Never the same, always inviting. Kama Sutra real estate.

Probably why people went into hock in order to get a piece of it.

Living with black flies and corrosion and highway mayhem, and waxing amnesiac about the inevitable cycle of mud slides, fires, and killer storms.

Arthur Dickinson's piece was choice. Five miles up from Point Dume, past the sprawling public beach at Zuma, and a left turn onto Broad Beach Road just past the rodeo rink at Trancas Canyon.

Western Malibu, where the tacky motels and surf shops have long disappeared, ranches and tree farms fill the landside of Pacific Coast Highway, and the dinner hour is dominated by sunsets of unlikely hue.

The address Milo had given me took me to the far end of the road. A half mile of white silicon heaped into sine-wave dunes.

Fiftyby-a-hundred-foot mounds of dubious geology going for four million plus. At that price, architecture becomes a competitive sport.

The Dickinson/Ramp place was a one-story saltbox with silvered wood sides and a flat brown gravel roof, behind a low chainlink fence that provided no privacy and gave the public visual access to the beach.

The house was flanked on both sides by free-form, two-story ice cream scoops. One was vanilla stucco, still under construction; the other, pistachio trimmed with raspberry. Both lots were blocked by prison-bar electric gates. Green tennis-court tarp behind Vanilla. A FOR SALE sign in front of Pistachio. Alarm warnings on both.

But no security system for the saltbox. I lifted the latch and walked right in.

No landscaping, either-just a thorny mess of orange bougainvillea climbing part of the fence. Instead of a garage, a cement pad over sand, wide enough for two vehicles. A yarn-colored VW van with a ski rack on its roof was parked carelessly, taking up both widths.

Nowhere to conceal a Rolls-Royce.

I approached the house, absorbing the heat of the sand through the soles of my shoes. Still wearing a jacket and tie and feeling like a salesman for something. I could smell the tang of the ocean, see the high-tide spray percolate over the dunes. A V-formation of brown pelicans cut through the sky. A hundred feet beyond the breakers, someone was windsurfing.

The front aoor was brine-eaten pine with a knob that had greened and crusted. The windows were cloudy and moist to the touch and someone had finger-written CLEAN ME on one of the panes.

Glass wind chimes dangled over the doorway, swaying and striking one another, but the roar of the ocean killed their song.

I knocked. Got no answer. Knocked again, waited, and went over to one of the streaked windows.

Single room. Unlit. Hard to make out details, but I squinted and discerned a small, open-shelved kitchen to the left, combo bedroom and living area filling the rest of the space. Futon unrolled on a dull pine floor. A few pieces of furniture bargain rattan with Hawaiian print cushions, beanbag chair, plain-wrap coffee table. On the beach side, sliding glass doors led to a shaded patio. Through them I could see a couple of folding lounges, a rise of dune, and tealcolored water.

A man stood out on the sand, directly in front of the patio.

Knees bent, back rounded, curling a barbell.

I walked around.

Todd Nyquist. The tennis instructor was braced ankle-deep in the sand, wearing skimpy black briefs, a leather power-lifter's girdle, and fingerless weight gloves, straining and grimacing as he hefted and lowered. The iron discs on the bar were the size of manhole covers.

Two on each end. His eyes were clenched shut, his mouth was open, and his long yellow hair was wet and limp and drooping down his back.

Sweating and grunting, he kept lifting, keeping his back immobile, putting all the strain on his arms. Curling in rhythm to the beat that blared from a boombox near his feet.

Rock "n' roll. Thin Lizzie. "The Boys Are Back in Town."

Manic beat. It had to be torture keeping up with it. Nyquist's biceps were engorged flesh carvings.

He did six more solid reps, then a few shaky ones, until the music stopped. Letting out a hoarse cry that could have been pain or triumph, he bent his knees further and, with his eyes still closed, lowered the barbell into the sand. He exhaled noisily, began to straighten, shook his head and sprayed sweat. The beach was nearly empty. Despite the weather, only a handful of people strolled along the shoreline, mostly with dogs.

I said, "Hello, Todd." He hadn't come fully upright and the surprise nearly knocked him off his feet.

He recovered gracefully, planting his soles, then bouncing like a dancer. Opening his eyes wide, he stared, processed, and gave a wide smile of recognition.

"The doctor, right? I met you over at the big house."

"Alex Delaware." I came closer and held out my hand. My shoes filled with sand.

He looked at his gloved hands and kept them up in the air.

"Wouldn't, if I were you. Pretty rank, Doc."

I lowered mine.

"Just doing my pumps, he said. "What brings you out here?"

"Looking for Mrs. Ramp."

"Here?" He seemed genuinely baffled.

"They're looking for her everywhere, Todd. Asked me to come down here and check."

"That's really weird," he said.

"What is?"

"Uh, the whole thing. Her disappearing. It really is freaky.

Where could she be?"

"That's what we're trying to find out."

"Yeah. Right. Well, you won't find her here, that's for sure.

She's never been here. Not once. At least not since I've been living here." He turned toward the ocean, stretched, and inhaled. "Can you imagine owning a place like this and never being here?"

"It is gorgeous," I said. "How long have you been living here?"

"Year and a half."

"You rent the place?"

He smiled wider, as if proud to possess some important secret.

Removing the gloves, he fluffed his hair. More sweat droplets flew.

"It's a trade thing," he said. "Tennis and personal training for Mr. R. in return for a place to stay. But it's not really my crib. Mostly I'm other places, traveling around-last year I went on two cruises.

Up to Alaska, and down to Cabo. Did an exercise class for old ladies.

I also give lessons at the Brentwood Country Club, and I've got lots of friends in the city. I sleep here maybe once or twice a week."

"Sounds like a good deal."

"It is do you know what this place would rent for? Even being dinky."

"Five thousand a month?"

"Try ten for an all-year-round, eighteen to twenty during the summer, and that's with the heat not even working. But Mr. and Mrs. R they've been really cool about letting me stay here when I want, just as long as I make the drive over to Smogsville and give Mr. R. a good workout when he wants."

"He never comes here?"

His smile eroded. "Not really. Why should he?"

"No reason. It just seems like a good place for a workout."

We heard female conversation and turned toward it. Two stringbikinied girls, around eighteen or nineteen, were walking a sheepdog. The dog kept veering away from the water, tugging on its leash, making the girl on the other end work. She fought for a while, finally gave up and let the dog lead her diagonally across the beach. The other girl jogged along. The dog stopped straining when it reached the property line of the vanilla scoop. The three of them headed our way.

Nyquist hadn't taken his eyes off them. Both had manes of long, thick, sun-coarsened hair. One blonde, one redhead. Tall and long-legged, with perfect thighs and laughing California girl faces straight out of a soft drink commercial. The blonde's bikini was white; the redhead's, acid green. When they were a few feet away, the dog stopped and coughed and began shaking itself. The redhead bent and petted it, revealing heavy, freckled breasts.

Nyquist whispered, "Whoa." Raising his voice: "Yo! Traci!

Maria!"

The girls turned.

"Hey," he said, still shouting, "how's it going, ladies?"

"Fine, Todd," said the redhead.

"Hey, Todd," said the blonde.

Nyquist stretched and grinned and rubbed a washboard abdomen. "Looking good, ladies. Whatsamatter, old Bernie still afraid of the water?"

"Yeah," said the redhead. "What a chicken." To the dog: "Aren't you, baby? Isn't Bernie just a little old wussy chicken-dog."

As if comprehending the insult, the dog turned away, kicked sand, and coughed again.

"Hey," said Nyquist, "sounds like he's got a cold."

"Naw, he's just chicken," said the redhead.

"Vitamin C'll do something for that. And B-12-crush it up and put it in his chow."

"Who's this, Todd?" said the blonde. "A new friend?"

"Friend of the landlord's."

"Oh," said the redhead, smiling. She looked at the blonde, then at me.

Gonna raise Todd's rent?"

I smiled.

Nyquist said, "One sec, Doc," and bounded over to the girls.

Putting his arms around them, he drew them in, as if for a football huddle. They seemed surprised but were pliant. He muttered to them, smiling all the while. Rubbing the back of the blonde's neck.

Massaging the redhead's waist. The dog nosed his ankle but he ignored it. The girls looked uncomfortable but Nyquist seemed oblivious to that, too. Finally, they drew away.

Nyquist held on to their wrists for a moment, let go, stretched his grin, patted both their rumps as they ran ofo The dog followed, lumbering.

He came back. "Pardon the interlude. Got to keep the wenches in line."

Aiming for sexual bravado but coming across too strongalmost caricaturist. It reminded me of his interaction with Gina a couple of days ago. Nuances of tension that I hadn't thought much of at the time.

I could handle a Pepsi, Mrs. R. Or anything else you got that's cold and sweet.

I'll get Madeleine to fix you something.

Older woman, young stud? Tennis for hubby, other kind of lessons for the lady of the house?

Hardly original, but people so seldom were when they transgressed.

I said, "Any idea where Mrs. R. might be, Todd?"

"No," he said, scrunching his face. "It's really a mystery. I mean, where could she go, being afraid and all that?"

"She ever talk to you about her fears?"

"No, we not at all. But hanging around someone's house you just pick stuff up." He glanced toward the house. "Wanna have a beer or something?"

"No, thanks. Got to be heading back."

"Bummer," he said, but he looked relieved. "You look in pretty good shape. What do you do in terms of workout?"

"Bit of running."

"How much?"

"Six to ten miles a week."

"Better watch it-running's ultra high-impact. Four times your weight every stride. Bad for the joints. Bad for the spine, too."

"I've got a cross-country ski machine now."

"Excellent-the ultimate aerobic. If you alternate that with some muscle-lengthening weight-training, you'll be doing yourself the ultimate favor."

"Thanks for the advice."

"No prob. If you're interested in some one-on-one training, give me a call. I don't have any cards with me but you can always get me through Mr. and Mrs. through Mr. R. Shaking his head. Shee, that was dumb.

Sure hope they find her-she's a real nice lady."

I walked back to the Seville and took a few moments to look at the ocean. The windsurfer was out of view but the pelicans had returned and were swooping and retrieving. Seagulls and terns followed in their wake, content with the leavings. A couple of oblong gray cigars were visible floating atop the horizon. Oil tankers making their way up the coast. I wondered what it would be like to live at sea.

To be reminded, constantly, of insignificance and infinity.

Before I could take that any further I heard engine noise, then happy shouts that turned into "Hey! Mr. Landlord!"

A white VW Golf with the top down had pulled up next to me.

The blonde from the beach was behind the wheel, a cigarette fuming between her fingers. The redhead sat next to her, eating from a box of Fiddle Faddle and holding an open can of Coors. Both girls had put gauzy white shirts over their bathing suits but had left them unbuttoned. Bernie the dog sat in the back seat, panting and lolling and looking motion-sick.

"Hi," said the redhead.

"Neat old car. My dad had one just like it.

I smiled at the thought of the Seville as an antique. Ten years old.

The day I'd bought it, these two had probably been in third grade.

"Do you, like, garage it?" said the blonde.

"Uh-huh."

"Neat."

"Thanks."

"You really with the landlord? "Cause Traci and me are looking for a place closer to the beach. We're across PCH, now, down at Las Flores, and the beach there isn't a keeper-too wet, lots of rocks.

We're willing to work-light aupair; babysitting, whatever, like for a trade? Todd said he'd help but we figure we can talk for ourselo" "Sorry," I said. "I do know Todd's landlord but I'm not in the real-estate business."

The blonde's face managed to turn ugly while retaining its beauty.

"What a firp! Told you, Mar, it was total bullshit!"

The redhead wrinkled her nose and looked injured.

I said, "What's the matter?"

"Todd," said the redhead. "He bullshat us royal."

"How?"

"Said you were a real-estate stud and if we were nice to him, he'd talk to you about finding us a place here on Broad. We used to live here-aupairing for Dave Dumas and his wife when they rented last summer, so people think we still live here and don't hassle us when we come down, but we want to be right here all the time, or at least somewhere dry."

"Dave Dumas the basketball player?"

"Yeah. Mr. Stretch." Shared giggles.

"We took care of his kids," said the blonde. "Really big kids from a really big guy." She laughed some more, then turned abruptly serious.

"We'd really like to get back here to Broad-the beach is a total keeper and the concerts at the Trancas Cafe' are heating up. Last week Eddie Van Halen showed up to jam."

"We're willing to work," said the redhead. "Todd said he could get us a trade."

"Fag-wuss!" said the blonde. "Last time we're nice to him." She gunned the Golf's engine. The dog jerked in alarm.

I said, "What exactly did he want from you?"

"He was, like, act like we thought he was hot. Let him touch us in front of you." Turning to the redhead: "Told you, Mar. I was like, sure, Todd, you might ever be."

"Todd's not hot in real life?"

Giggles all around. The redhead picked a piece of popcorn out of the box and handed it back to the dog.

"He likes it," she said. "Bernie's got a sugar thing."

"Enjoy, Bernie," I said, walking over and petting the dog. His fur was matted and clogged with salt and dirt. As I rubbed his neck, he whined with pleasure.

"So Todd's no keeper," I said.

A wary look came into the blonde's eyes. Up close her face was hard, ready to age, already starting to leather from too much sun and risk-taking.

"You're not like a good friend of his or anything?" she said.

"Not at all," I said. "I do know the people who own the house.

But I only met Todd once before."

"So you're not, like-" The blonde smiled, gave an arch look, and raised her wrist limply.

"Tra-ace! That's like so ru-ude!"

"So?" said the blonde. "He's the one who does it! He should be embarrassed!"

I said, "Todd's gay?"

"For sure," said the redhead.

"A muscle-fag," said the blonde.

"Wasted buff," said the redhead. The dog coughed. She said, "Don't stress out, Bern."

"That's why it was rank," said the blonde. "Using us to make like he's into girls-I mean, maybe he's got a buff body but his head's not buff I that's for sure."

"How do you know he's gay?" I said.

"Well," said the blonde, laughing and gunning the engine again, "it's not like we go around watching him do it or anything."

"He's got guys coming in and out all the time," said the redhead. "He says he's training them, but one time I saw him and this guy holding hands and kissing."

"Rank!" said the blonde, elbowing her friend. "You never told me.

"Yeah, it was a long time ago. When we were still with Big Dave."

"Big Dave," said the blonde, giggling.

"How long ago was that?" I said.

Bafflement. Both of them looked as if they were struggling with a difficult word problem.

Finally the redhead said, "A long time ago maybe five weeks.

Buffy Todd and this other guy were walking in back of the house.

Right over there, I was walking Bernie." She pointed to the cement pad. "And they touched their hands. Then the other guy got in his car white five-sixty SEC with these brushed-steel custom wheelsand Todd leaned in and gave him a little kiss."

"Rank," said the blonde.

"Kind of sweet, actually," said the redhead, looking as if she meant it. But the empathy didn't fit, and she squirmed and burst into nervous laughter.

I said, "Remember what this other guy looked like?"

She shrugged. "He was old."

"How old?"

"Older than you." Even.

"Forties?"

"Older."

"Maybe he was Todd's dad," said the blonde, smirking. "You can kiss your dad, right, Mar?"

"Maybe," said the redhead. "Little Todd and his dad, kissing."

They looked at each other. Shook their heads, giggled some more.

"No way," said the redhead. "This was true love." She gave a reflective look. "Actually, the old guy was kind of buff. For an old guy.

Kind of like Tom Selleck."

I said, "He had a mustache?"

The redhead strained. "I think so. Maybe. I just remember he reminded me of Tom Selleck. An old Tom Selleck. Buff tan. Big chest."

"How come, said the blonde, "so many of them are buff? What a waste.

-" "It's "cause they're rich, Trace," said the redhead. "They can afford to buy special supplements, get lipoed-out, whatever."

"Suck and tuck," said the blonde, touching her own flat midriff.

"If I ever need that, put me to sleep." She stuck her hand in the box of Fiddle Faddle and groped around.

"Geez, don't touch everything!" said the redhead, tugging on the box.

The blonde held fast and said, "Almonds." Smile. "Here we go."

She pulled out a nut and placed it between her teeth. Looked at me, flicked it with her tongue, and bit down slowly.

I said, "That the last time you saw this old guy around-five weeks?"

"Yup," said the redhead, looking wistful. "It's been a long time since we hit dry sand."

"So," said the blonde, "can you do anything for us?"

"Like I said, I'm not in the real estate business, but I do know some people let me check around. Why don't you write down your names and numbers."

"Sure!" said the redhead, beaming. Then she grew grave.

"What is it?"

"No pen."

"No prob," I said, resisting the impulse to wink. I went back to the Seville, found a ballpoint and an old mechanic's receipt in the glove compartment, and handed it to her. "Write on the back."

Using the Fiddle Faddle box as a desk, she wrote laboriously as the blonde looked on. The dog planted a wet nose on the back of my hand and wheezed in gratitude when I rubbed him again.

"Here." The redhead thrust the paper at me.

Maria and Thaci. Looping script. Hearts over the I's. An address on Flores Mesa Drive. A 456 exchange.

I smiled and said, "Great, I'll do what I can. In the meantime, good luck."

"We've already got it," said the blonde.

"Got what?" said the redhead.

"Luck. We always get what we want, right, Mar?"

Giggles and a cloud of dust as the Golf shot forward.

I watched them speed to the northern end of Broad Beach Road and disappear. It took a second to register that they were around Melissa's age.

I made a three-point turn and headed back for the highway.

Older man and young stud.

Older man with a mustache and a tan.

Lots of tan, mustachioed gay men in L.A. Lots of white Mercedes.

But if Don Ramp drove a white 560 SEC with brushed-steel wheels, I was willing to go out on a limb and assume.

I joined the southbound traffic on PCH and drove home assuming even without prooo Casting Ramp as Nyquist's lover and recasting the tension that I'd witnessed between Nyquist and Gina.

Another macho charade on his part?

Anger on hers?

Did she know?

Did that have something to do with her hints about making a life-style change?

Separate bedrooms.

Separate bank accounts.

Separate lives.

Or had she known about Ramp when she'd married him?

Why, after living a bachelor life for so long, had he married her?

Gina's banker and lawyer seemed certain it hadn't been for money, citing the prenuptial agreement as proof.

But prenuptials-and wills-could be contested. And lifeinsurance policies could be taken out without bankers and lawyers being informed.

Or perhaps inheritance had nothing to do with it. Maybe Ramp simply needed a cover for the good, conservative folks of San Labrador.

Hearth and home and a child who hated his guts.

What could be more all-American?

I got home just after five. Milo was out. He'd recorded a new greeting on his machine. No more misanthropy. Businesslike: Please leave your message. I asked him to please call when he had a chance.

I phoned San Labrador and got Madeleine.

Mademoiselle Melissa was not feeling well. She was sleeping.

Non, Monsieur was not there, either.

A catch in her voice. Click.

I paid bills, straightened the house, fed the fish some more and noticed that they looked tired-especially the females. Did thirty minutes on the ski machine and showered.

Next time I looked at my watch, it was seven-thirty.

Friday night.

Date night.

Without thinking it through, I called San Antonio. A man answered with a wary "Hello?" When I asked for Linda, he said, "Who's this?"

"A friend from Los Angeles."

"Oh. She's over at Behar at the hospital."

"Her dad?"

"Yeah. This is Conroy, her uncle his brother. I'm over from Houston, came down today."

"Alex Delaware, Mr. Overstreet. I'm a friend from L.A. Hope it's nothing serious."

"Yeah, well, that's what I'd like to hope, too, but I'm sorry to say that's not the case. My brother passed out this morning. They revived him but it wasn't easy some kinda problem with circulation and the kidneys. They've got him over in intensive care. The whole family's over there. I just came back to get some things and caught your call."

"I won't keep you.

"Thank you, sir.

"Please tell Linda I called. If there's anything I can do, let me know."

"I'll be sure to do that, sir. Thank you for offering."

Click.

Wrong reason to do it, but I did it anyway.

"Hello."

"Alex! How are you?"

"Got a date tonight?"

She laughed. "A date? No, just sitting here by the phone."

"Care to change your luck?"

More laughter. Why did it sound so good?

"Hmm, I don't know," she said. "My mother always told me not to go out with any boy who didn't ask by Wednesday night."

"Good old Mom."

"Then again, she was full of shit about lots of other things.

What time?"

"Half an hour."

She came out of the front door of her studio just as I pulled in front of the building. She was wearing a thin black silk turtleneck and tight black jeans tucked into black suede boots. Lips glossed, eyes shadowed, curls full and gleaming. I wanted her, badly. Before I could get out, she opened her own door, scooted next to me, radiating heat.

One hand in my hair. Kissing me before I had a chance to catch my breath.

We necked fiercely. She bit me a couple of times, seemed almost angry.

Just as I ran out of breath, she broke it off and said, "What's for dinner?"

"I was thinking Chinese." Thinking of all the times we'd eaten takeout in bed. "Of course, we could call out for it and stay here."

"Never mind that. I want a date."

We drove to a place in Brentwood-the standard Mandarin! Szechuan menu and paper lanterns, but always reliable-and feasted for an hour, then headed over to a comedy club in Hollywood. A lighthearted place we used to enjoy together. Neither of us had been there with anyone else.

The ambience was different now: black felt walls, murderous looking bouncers with ponytails and steroid complexions. Calcutta level density, stale smoke, and hostility. Tables crowded with heavy-eyed night-crawlers and their significant others, coming down from one trip or another, demanding an entertainment-fix or else.

The first few acts were raw meat for that crowd mumblemouthed novice stand-ups reciting the stuff that had always cracked up their friends but didn't make the transition to Sunset Boulevard.

Sad clowns veering wildly, like drunks on ice skates-staggering between silences more painful than any I'd encountered doing therapy and stutter-bursts of manic word salad. Just before midnight, things got more polished but no more friendly: slick, trendily dressed young men and women who'd been shaped on the late night talk show lathe, spitting out the four-letter wit they couldn't get away with on TV Rage-laced relationship humor. Ugly-spirited ethnic jokes.

Screaming scatology.

Had the city gotten meaner, or had I just lost my edge?

I looked over at Robin. She shook her head. We left. This time she allowed me to open her door. Pressed herself against it the moment she was inside and stayed that way.

I began driving. Reached for her hand. She squeezed mine a couple of times and let go.

"Sleepy?" I said.

"No, not at all."

"Everything okay?"

"Uh-huh."

"So Where to?"

"Do you mind just driving for a while?"

"Not at all."

I was on Fountain going west. Turning right on La Cienega, I crossed Sunset up into the Hollywood Hills, climbing slowly and steadily until I found myself on a series of narrow, hairpin residential streets named after birds.

Robin remained tight against the door, like a nervous hitchhiker. Eyes shut, not talking, her face directed away from me. She crossed her legs and placed one hand on her belly, as if it ached.

A few moments later she put her head back and straightened her legs.

Despite her denial of fatigue, I wondered if she'd fallen asleep.

But when I switched on the radio and found a late night jazz show, she said, "That's nice."

I kept driving, with no idea where I was going, ended up somehow on Coldwater Canyon, took it all the way to Mulholland Drive, and turned left.

A bit of forest, then clearings that revealed sheer cliff above the incandescent grid of the San Fernando Valley. Fifty square miles of lights and motion, leering through night-haze and treetops.

Bright lights, pseudo city.

Being up here felt strangely adolescent. Mulholland was the quintessential parking spot, as consecrated by Hollywood. How many make-out scenes had been filmed here? How many splatter flicks?

I lowered my speed, enjoying the view, keeping my eyes out for drag-racers and other nuisances. Robin opened her eyes. "Why don't you pull over somewhere?"

The first few turnoffs were occupied by other vehicles. I found a eucalyptus-shaded spot several miles from the Coldwater junction, parked, and killed my lights. Not far from Beverly Glen; just a quick southward dip and we'd be home at least I would.

She was still up against the door, looking out at the Valley.

"Nice," I said, setting the emergency brake and stretching.

She smiled. "The stuff of picture postcards."

"It's good being with you." I made another reach for her hand.

No return squeeze this time. Her skin was warm but inert.

"So," she said, "how's your friend in Texas?"

"Her dad took a turn for the worse. He's in the hospital."

"I'm so sorry.

She cranked open her window. Stuck her head out.

"Are you okay?"

"Guess so," she said, pulling her head back in. "Why'd you call me, Alex?"

"I was lonely," I said, without thinking. Not liking the pitiful sound of it. But it seemed to cheer her. She took my hand and played with my fingers.

"I could use a friend, too," she said.

"You've got one.

"Things have been rough. I don't want to whine-I know I have a tendency to do that and I'm fighting it."

"I never thought of you as a whiner."

She smiled.

"What is it?" I said.

"Dennis. He used to complain that I whined."

"Well, fuck him, the churl."

"He didn't just leave. I kicked him out."

I said nothing.

"I got pregnant and had an abortion. It took me a week to decide that was what I was going to do. When I told him, he agreed right away.

Offered to pay for it. That made me angry-that he had no conflict about it. That it was so simple for him. So I kicked him out."

Suddenly she was out of the car, walking around to the front and standing by the grille. I got out and stood next to her. The ground was thick with dead eucalyptus leaves. The air smelled like cough drops. A couple of cars drove by, then silence, then another headlight parade.

Finally, a stillness that endured.

"When I found out," she said, "I felt so strange. Disgusted at myself for being so careless. Happy that I was able to-biologically.

And scared."

I remained silent, dealing with my own feelings. Anger: all the years we'd been together. The care we'd taken. Sadness "You hate me," she said.

"Of course I don't."

"I don't blame you.

"Robin, it happens."

"To other people," she said.

She stepped toward the cliff. I put both arms around her waist.

Felt resistance and let go.

"The procedure itself was nothing. My OB-GYN did it, right in the office. She said we'd caught it real early-as if it were a disease.

Vacuum pump and a receipt for insurance as a routine D and C. Later, I had cramps, but nothing terrible. The old Castagna pain threshold.

Couple of days of Tylenol, then cold turkey."

She'd slipped into a flat voice that unnerved me.

I said, "The main thing is you're okay," and felt as if I were reading from a script. Melodrama at Make-out Mountain. Check your theater listings..

"Afterward," she said, "I got paranoid. What if the pump had done damage and I could never conceive again? What if God punished me for killing what was inside me?"

She took several steps to the side. "Everyone talks about it so abstractly," she said. "The paranoia lasted for a month. I developed a rash, convinced myself I was going to get cancer. The doctor said I was fine and I believed her, was okay for a few days. Then the feelings came back. I fought them and won. Convinced myself I was going to live. Then I cried nonstop for another month. Wondering what might have been... Eventually, that stopped, too. But some of that sadness stuck around in the background. It's still there. Sometimes, when I smile, I feel as if I'm really crying. It's like a hole, in here."

Prodding her abdomen. "Right here."

I took hold of her shoulders and managed to turn her around.

Pressed her face into my jacket.

"With him, dammit," she said, muffled by fabric. Then she drew away and forced herself to look at me. "He was fast-food something to fill space. Kind of obscene that it would happen with him, huh? Like one of those horrible jokes they were telling tonight."

She was dry-eyed. My eyes began to hurt.

"Sometimes, Alex, I still lie awake at night. Wondering. It's as if I've been sentenced to wondering."

We stood staring at each other. Another caravan of cars zoomed by.

"Some date, huh?" she said. Whine, whine, whine."

"Stop," I said. "I'm glad you told me."

"Are you?"

"Yes- I- Yes, I am."

"If you hate me, I understand."

"Why should I hate you?" I said, with sudden anger. "I had no claim on you. It had nothing to do with me."

"True," she said.

I let go of her shoulders. Threw up my arms and let them fall.

"I should have kept my mouth shut," she said.

"No," I said. "It's all right- No, it's not. Not right at the moment.

I feel lousy. Mostly for what you've been through."

"Mostly?"

"Okay. For myseli, too. For not being a part of your life when it happened."

She nodded mournfully, embracing that bit of gloom. "You would have wanted me to keep it, wouldn't you?"

"I don't know what I would have wanted. It's too theoreticaland there's no sense flogging yourself over it. You didn't commit any crime.

"Didn't I?"

"No," I said, taking hold of her shoulders again. "I've seen the real item. I know the difference. People being deliberately cruelbeing bestial to one another. God knows how many times it's happening right now-down in that light show."

I pointed her toward the valley view. She allowed herself to be molded.

"The hell of it is," I said, "the ones who should feel guilty-the really bad ones-never do. It's the good ones who torture themselves.

Don't get sucked into that. You're not doing anyone any favors by not drawing distinctions.

She looked up at me, seemed to be listening.

I said, "You made a mistake-and not an earthshaking one in the greater scheme of things. You'll recover. You'll go on. If you want babies, you'll have them. Meanwhile, try to enjoy life a little bit."

"Do you enjoy life, Alex?"

"I sure try. That's why I ask good-looking women out on dates."

She smiled. A tear rolled down her cheek.

I put my arms around her, from behind. Felt her belly. Toned muscle under a layer of softness. I stroked it.

She cried.

"When you called I was glad," she said, "and worried."

"About what?"

"That it would be just like a few days ago. Not that I didn't enjoy it God, it was great. First real pleasure I'd had in so long.

But afterwards, I " She put her hand over mine and pressed. "I guess what I'm saying is I could really use a friend right now. More than a lover."

"Like I said, you've got one.

"I know," she said. "Hearing you-seeing you like this. I know I do."

She turned and we held each other.

A car sped by, trapping us momentarily in its high-beams. A teenage face appeared in the open window and shouted, "Go for it, dude!"

We looked at each other. And laughed.

She came back to the house with me and I ran her a hot bath. She soaked for half an hour, came out looking pink and drowsy. We got into bed and played gin while absently attending to a one-star western on TV By 2:00 A.M. we'd finished a dozen games six wins each. It seemed as good a time as any to go to sleep.

No callback from Milo on Saturday. No news from San Labrador. I phoned, got Madeleine again, and was told Melissa was still sleeping.

Robin and I spent most of the day together. Brunch and groceryshopping at Farmer's Market, a drive out to the Self-Realization Fellowship in Pacific Palisades to look at the lake and the swans. Light dinner at a seafood place near Sunset Beach, then back to her place by seven, where I called in for messages and she played the tape on her machine.

Nothing for me, but a famous singer had called her three times an hour or the past three hours. Famous raspy baritone tight with panic.

"Emergency, Rob. Sunday concert in Long Beach. Just got back from a gig in Miami. Humidity popped Patty's bridge. Call me at the Sunset Marquis, Rob. Please, Rob, I won't go anywhere."

She turned off the machine and said, "Wonderful."

"Sounds pretty serious."

"Oh, yeah. When he calls himself, instead of getting a roadie to do it, that means nervous breakdown time."

"Who's y "One of his guitars. Fifty-two Martin D-twenty-eight. He's got two others, Laverne and... I forgot the other. They're named after the Andrews sisters-who was the other Andrews sister?"

"Maxene."

"Right. Maxene. Patty and Laverne and Maxene. All fifty-twos, sequential serial numbers. I've never heard three instruments sound so similar. But of course he has to play Patty tomorrow."

She shook her head and walked into the kitchenette. "Something to drink?"

"Nothing right now, thanks."

"Sure?" Looking edgy. Glancing back at the phone.

"Positive. Aren't you going to call him back?"

"You don't mind?"

I shook my head. "Actually, I'm a little tired. You're wearing an old man out.

She was about to respond when the phone rang. She answered it and said, "Yes, I just got in No, it's better if you bring it here. I can do a better job here.... Okay, see you soon."

She hung up, smiled, and shrugged.

She walked me to the car, we kissed lightly, avoiding conversation, and I left her to her work. Left myself to enjoy life.

But I was into a preaching mode, not a practicing one, and after driving a few blocks, I pulled into a service station and used the pay phone to try Milo again.

This time Rick answered. "He just walked in, Alex, and went right out.

Said he'd be tied up for a while but that you should call him. He's got my car and the cellular phone. Here's the number."

I copied it down, thanked him, hung up, and dialed. Milo picked up after the first ring.

"Sturgis."

"It's me. What's up?"

"The car," he said. "It was found a couple of hours ago. Out near San Gabriel Canyon Morris Dam."

"What about-" "No trace of her. Just the car.

"Does Melissa know?"

"She's out here. I brought her myself."

"How's she doing?"

"She seems pretty shell-shocked. The paramedics looked at her, said she was okay physically, but to keep an eye on her. Any specific advice, dealing with her?"

"Just stay with her. Give me directions.

I shot onto the freeway at Lincoln. Traffic was gummy and hottempered all the way to the 134 east-weekend partyers and RV jockeys coming and going. But by Glendale it had started to thin, and by the time I reached the 210 transition, the highway was mine.

I drove faster than usual, speeding along the northern rim of Pasadena, passing the on-ramp Gina had probably taken two days ago.

Lonely road, made lonelier by the darkness, separating the city from the chalky, high desert at the base of the San Gabriel mountains.

Daylight would reveal budget housing developments, industrial outcroppings, an eventual decline to gravel pits and scrubby hills.

All of it hidden mercifully by a starless night. A bad night to be looking for someone.

A mile before the Highway 39 exit I slowed down to get a look at the spot where the highway patrolman had seen the Rolls-Royce.

The freeway was bisected by window-high cement sound-barriers.

The only thing that would have been visible even to a car fanatic's eye was the top of the unmistakable grille chased by a blur of lacquer.

Amazing he'd noticed anything.

But he'd been right.

I exited onto Azusa Boulevard and drove through the outskirts of a town that looked as if it had never forgotten the fifties: fullservice filling stations, lodge halls, small storefronts, all dark. Occasional streetlamps brightened some of the signs: TACK AND SADDLE, peared at the end of the third block. AM-PM mini-mart, open for business but no one was buying and the clerk looked asleep.

I crossed a railroad track and Route 39 turned into San Gabriel Canyon Road. The Seville bounced over old asphalt, speeding through a neighborhood of sad little stucco houses and trailer parks insulated from the street by cinder block walls.

No graffiti. Guess that made it the country. Cars and pickups were parked in peewee front yards. Old cars and pickups, nothing that would ever be a classic. The Rolls would have stuck out like frankness during election year.

As the road began to climb, the houses gave way to larger parcels-boarding stables and horse ranches behind stake-and-post fencing. A Park Service sign a hundred yards up was top-lit, announcing the entrance to Angeles Crest National Forest above smallprint fire and camping regulations. An information booth just off the road was boarded up. The air began to smell sweet. Before me was two-lane asphalt cutting through granite bulk. The rest, darkness.

Using my brights, the speed bumps in the center of the road, and blind faith to guide me, I drove faster. A couple of miles in, I heard a deep mechanical stutter. It grew louder, deafening, seemed to be descending upon me.

Two sets of cherry-red lights appeared at the top of my windshield, then lowered and ranged directly in front of my field of vision before rising sharply and pulling ahead on a northward trajectory.

Twin searchlights began scything the darkness, highlighting treetop and fissure, brushing over the mountainside, cAposing momentary flashes of shimmer and luster to the east.

Water. Another peek of it around a curve.

Then a crest of concrete. Concrete piers, a sloping spillway.

I tried to follow the copters' light-strokes, saw the dam rising a quarter mile above the water table.

Round-edged WPA architecture.

A staked placard by the road: MORRIS DAM AND RESERVOIR. L.A. FLOOD MAINTENANCE DISTRICT.

A long time since floods had needed to be maintained in Southern California; the current drought was four years running.

Still, the depth of the reservoir had to be substantial. Hundreds of millions of gallons, inky and secretive.

Milo had said to look for a utility road on the dam side. The first two I passed were blocked by padlocked metal swing gates. Five miles later, as the road looped sharply to accommodate the northern ridge of the reservoir, I saw it: sparking road flares, flashing amber emergency lights atop orange-and-white sawhorses. A convention of vehicles, some idling and huffing out white smoke.

Arura Police black-and-whites. LA. Sheriffs. Three Park Service Jeeps. Fire Department paramedic van.

Behind one of the Jeeps, a foreign contingent: the bowl-butt of Rick's white Porsche. And another white car: Mercedes 560 SEC.

Brushed-steel wheels.

A sheriff's deputy stepped into the middle of the road and halted me.

Young, female, blond ponytail. A figure that lent the beige uniform more style than it deserved.

I stuck my head out the window.

"Sorry, sir, the road's closed."

"I'm a doctor. Mrs. Ramp's daughter is my patient. I was asked to be here."

She asked me my name, requested ID to back it up. After looking at my license, she said, "One moment. Meantime, why don't you turn off your engine, sir."

Stepping to the side of the road, she talked into a hand-held radio and returned, nodding.

"Okay, sir, you can just leave your car right here with the keys in, as long as you don't mind my driving it if I have to."

"Be my guest."

"They're all down there." Pointing to an open swing-gate. "Be careful, it's steep."

The path was a vehicle-wide swath through mesquite and young conifers.

Paved, but a slight softness beneath my soles said it had been recent.

The blacktop provided some traction, but I still had to walk sideways to maintain balance on the fifty-degree slope.

I sidestepped my way down a quarter mile before I saw the bottom. Flat area, maybe sixty feet square, leading to a small wooden dock that bobbed on the banks of the reservoir. Hazard lanterns had been rigged on high poles, flooding the space with sallow light.

People in uniforms crowded around looking at something to the left of the dock, trying to talk over the roar of the copters. From where I was standing none of the conversation was audible.

I continued to descend and saw the object of attention: A RollsRoyce, its rear end submerged in the water, its front wheels lifted several feet off the ground. The driver's door was open. Hanging open hinged near the center-post. The kind of doors old Lincoln Continentals used to have suicide doors.

I peered into the crowd, saw Don Ramp in shirtsleeves next to Chief Chickering, staring at the car, one hand on his head, the other clutching his trousers, gathering a handful of worsted. As if trying, literally, to hold himself together.

No immediate sign of Milo. Finally I spotted him off to one side, out of the light. He had on a plaid shirt and jeans and his arm was around Melissa. A dark blanket covered her shoulders. Their acks were to the car. Milo's lips were moving. I couldn't tell if Melissa was listening.

I made my way down to them.

Milo noticed me coming and frowned.

Melissa looked up at me but remained under his arm. Her face was white and still, like a Kabuki mask.

I spoke her name.

She didn't respond.

I took both of her hands and gave them a squeeze.

She said, "They're still under," in a disembodied voice.

Milo said, "The divers," in the practiced tone of an interpreter.

One of the helicopters circled lower over the reservoir, using its beam to sketch spheres of light in the black water. The sketches decayed before they were complete. Someone shouted. Melissa yanked her hand free and turned toward the sound.

One of the park rangers held a flashlight near the shoreline.

A wet-suited diver surfaced, pulling up his mask and shaking his head.

As he stepped completely out of the water, another diver emerged. Both of them began removing their scuba tanks and weight belts.

Melissa made a groaning sound, like gears grinding, then shouted, "No!" and ran over to them. Milo and I went after her. She reached the divers and screamed, "No! You can't stop now!"

The divers backed away from her and lowered their gear to the ground.

They looked at Chickering, who'd come over, accompanied by a deputy sheriff. Some of the other men were glancing our way.

Ramp hung back, still fixated on the cat "What's the situation?"

Chickering asked the divers. He had on a dark suit, white shirt, and dark tie. The toes of his wingtips were coated with mud. Uniforms were assembling behind him, watchful, like a nighttime posse itching to ride.

"Black as coal," said one of the divers. He shot an uneasy glance at Melissa, turned back to the San Labrador chief. "Really dark, sir."

"Then use light!" said Melissa. "People night-dive all the time with lights, don't they!"

"Miss," said the diver. "We..." He searched for words. He was young-not much older than she. Freckled, with a downy blond mustache under a peeling nose. A thread of algae clung to his chin.

His teeth began to chatter and he had to clench his jaws to make them stop.

The other diver, just as young, said, "We did use lights, miss."

He bent over and picked something off the ground. Black-cased bulb attached to a rope lanyard. He let it swing a few times and put it back down.

"Swat Submersible, miss. We used the yellow bulbs-they're excellent for this kind of... The problem here is that even during the day it's pretty murky. At night..." Shaking his head, he rubbed his arms, looked down at the ground.

The blond diver had seized the opportunity to move several feet away.

Standing on one leg, he pulled off a flipper, switched legs, and began to tug at the other. Someone brought him a blanket identical to the one around Melissa's shoulders. The other diver looked at it longingly.

"It's drinking water "It's a reservoir, dammit!" said Melissa. how can it be muddy?"

"Not muddy, miss," said the dark-haired diver. "Murky. Kind of opaque. It's the natural color of the water-minerals. Come here during the day and you'll see the color's this real deep green-" He stopped himsel?, looked to the crowd for confirmation.

The deputy stepped forward. A brass tag above one pocket said GAUTIER.

Below it were rows of ribbons. He looked about fifty-five.

His eyes were tired and gray.

"We're going to do everything to find your mother, Miss Dickinson," he said, showing even, tobacco-stained teeth. "The helicopters will keep going, covering a twenty-mile semicircle above the highway, which will take us well above the Crest Highway. As far as the reservoir, those boats the dam people sent out right at the beginning went over every square inch of surface. The copters are going over it again, just to make sure. But in terms of below the surface, there's really nothing we can do right now."

He spoke softly and deliberately, trying to communicate horror without being horrible. If Gina was below the surface, there was no need for urgency.

Melissa kneaded her hands, glared at him, working her mouth.

Chickering frowned and took a step closer.

Melissa shut her eyes, threw up her hands, and let out a wrenching cry.

Slamming both hands over her face, she bent at the waist, as if gripped by cramps. "No, no, no!"

Milo made a move toward her but I got there first and he retreated.

Taking hold of her shoulders, I drew her to me.

She fought, kept repeating the word no.

I held her fast, and gradually she loosened. Too loose. I put a finger under her chin and lifted her face. She was cold and plastic to the touch. It was like positioning a mannequin.

Conscious, breathing normally. But her eyes were static and unfocused and I knew if I let go, she'd sink to the ground.

The crowd of uniformed men watched. I drew her away.

She moaned and some of them flinched. One man turned his back, then others. Gradually, most of them began drifting back to the Rolls.

Chickering and Gautier lingered. Chickering stared at me, puzzled and irritated, shook his head, joined the car crowd. Gautier watched him leave with a raised eyebrow. Turning back to me, he glanced down at Melissa and gave a look of concern.

"It's okay," I said. "We're going to get out of here if that's okay with you."

Gautier nodded. Chickering was looking at the water.

Don Ramp stood alone, in muck up to his ankles. He'd somehow turned into a frail-looking, stooped man.

I tried to catch his attention, thought I had when he turned toward me.

But he was staring past me with eyes as muddy as his shoes.

The helicopters had moved on, emitting fly-on-carrion buzzes from somewhere in the north. Suddenly, my senses expanded, like the lens of a camera. I heard water lapping against the shore. Smelled the chlorophyll tang of the underbrush, the hydrocarbon stink of leaking motor fluids.

Melissa stirred, opening, too.

Like a wound. Crying softly, rhythmically. Her grief rising to a high mewl that danced above the water and the hard-data chorus of the men at the shore.

Milo frowned and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

He'd been standing behind me and I hadn't noticed.

Maybe it was that movement that snapped Ramp out of his trance. He walked toward us, took half a dozen halting steps before thinking better of it and turning around.

Milo and I half-walked, half-carried Melissa up to my car. He returned to the Rolls and I drove her home, prepared for therapy. She put her head back and closed her eyes, and by the time I reached the bottom of the mountain road, she was snoring lightly.

The gates to the house on Sussex Knoll were open. I carried her up to the front door and knocked. After what seemed like a long time, Madeleine answered, wearing a white cotton dressing gown buttoned to the neck. No surprise on her broad face; she had the weathered look of one used to grieving alone. I walked past her, into the huge front room, and deposited Melissa on one of the overstuffed couches.

Madeleine hurried off and came back with a blanket and a pillow.

Sinking to her knees, she propped up Melissa's head, slid the pillow under it, removed Melissa's sneakers, spread the blanket over her, and tucked the corners under her feet.

Melissa turned on her side, facing the back of the sofa. There was squirrely movement under the blanket. A couple of shifts of position, then a hand peeked out, thumb extended. The hand wormed its way totally free and the thumb came to rest on Melissa's lower lip.

Still kneeling, Madeleine brushed the hair from Melissa's face.

Then she stood, straightened her dress, and gave me a hard, hungry look that demanded information.

I curled a finger and she followed me across the room, out of Melissa's earshot.

When we stopped, she was standing very close to me, breathing hard, heavy bosom heaving. Her hair was braided tightly. She'd put on some kind of rosewater cologne.

"Only the car, monsieur?"

"Unfortunately." I told her about the helicopter search.

Her eyes remained dry but she brushed them hastily with her knuckles.

I said, "She may still be in the park somewhere. If she is, they'll find her."

Madeleine said nothing, pulled at a finger joint until i