Weider was no longer at the Public Defender’s and I found no home or office listing for her. Lauritz Montez was still a P.D. but he’d moved uptown to the Beverly Hills office.

He answered his own extension, just the way he’d done years ago. This time, my name evoked silence. When I asked him if he’d heard about Rand, he said, “Oh . . . you’re the psychologist. No, what about him?”

“He was murdered.”

“Shit,” he said. “When?”

“Nine days ago.”

His voice went flat as lawyer’s wariness took over: “You didn’t call just to inform me.”

“I’d like to talk to you. Could we meet?”

“What about?”

“It would be better in person,” I said.

“I see . . . when were you thinking?”

“Sooner’s better than later.”

“Okay . . . what is it now, four-thirty, I’ve got paperwork but I need to eat. Know where the Bagel Bin is on Little Santa Monica?”

“I’ll find it.”

“Bet you will. Five sharp.”

* * *

The place was New Age Deli: glass cases of smoked fish and meat and all the right salads, but the stainless-steel/vinyl ambience was autopsy room. Maybe that was honest; lots of creatures had died to feed the early-dinner throng.

I arrived on time but Lauritz Montez was already at the counter ordering. I hung back and let him finish.

His hair was now completely gray but remained long and ponytailed. The same waxed mustache fanned across his bony face; the chin fuzz was gone. He wore a wrinkled cream linen suit, a pink button-down shirt, and a bottle-green bow tie. Two-tone olive suede and brown leather wingtips graced narrow feet; the left shoe tapped the floor rapidly.

He paid, got an order slip, turned, nodded.

“You look pretty much the same,” he said, motioning me toward the single open table.

“So do you.”

“Thanks for lying.”

We sat and he began arranging the salt and pepper shakers and the sugar bowl into a tight little triangle. “I did some checking and found out Rand’s a West L.A. homicide case but no one will tell me anything. You must be wired right into the cops.”

“I’m consulting on the case.”

“Who’s the detective?”

“Milo Sturgis.”

“Don’t know him.” He studied me. “Still a prosecution groupie, huh? How long was Rand out of custody before he got killed?”

“Three days.”

“Jesus. How’d it happen?”

“He was shot in the head and dumped near the 405 North in Bel Air.”

“Sounds like an execution.”

“It does.”

“Any physical evidence?” he said.

“You’d have to ask Detective Sturgis.”

“Such discretion. What do you want from me?”

A kid in a paper hat and an apron brought his order. Sliced pumpernickel bagel, baked salmon, sides of coleslaw and baked beans, Styrofoam cup of tea.

I said, “There are no real suspects, but there is a hypothesis. And speaking of discretion— ”