“You wanna talk to the ex, it’s fine with me. What about the Daneys? How’d they react to being warned?”

“They weren’t in.”

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s do this: You give the Daneys another try and— ah, here’s the coroner’s fax on Hannabee falling through the slot . . . looks like lots of paper, let me check it out, if anything interesting comes up, I’ll call you.”

* * *

I made two more attempts at the Daney residence. The phone kept ringing.

No machine. Considering all the foster kids they cared for, that seemed odd.

At a quarter to six, I called Allison at her office.

“One more patient, then I’m free,” she said. “Want to do something different?”

“Like what?”

“How about bowling?”

“Didn’t know you bowled.”

“I don’t,” she said. “That’s why it’s different.”

We drove out to Culver City Champion Lanes. The place was dark and black-lit, throbbing with dance music, and crowded with skinny, young, hair-gelled types who looked like reality show rejects. Lots of drinking and laughing and ass-grabbing, twelve-pound balls guttering, a few clackering hits.

Every lane taken.

“Studio night,” said the pouch-eyed, middle-aged attendant. “Metro Pictures has a deal with us. They toss the slaves a perk once a month. We make out good on booze.” He eyed the cocktail lounge on the alley’s north end.

“Who are the slaves?” said Allison.

“Messengers, gofers, assistant directors, assistants to assistant directors.” He smirked. “The industry.”

“How long does it last?” I said.

“Another hour.”

“Want to wait?” I asked Allison.

“Sure,” she said. “Let’s play that machine where you try to fish out cool prizes.”

* * *

I spent five bucks moving a flimsy robotic claw around a pile of twenty-cent toys, trying in vain to snag a treasure. Finally a tiny pink fleece troll-like thing with a dyspeptic smile managed to get an arm caught in a pincer.

Allison said “How cute,” dropped it in her purse, and touched her lips to mine. Then we entered the lounge and took a booth at the back. Red-felt walls, moldy carpeting so thin I could feel rough cement underneath. This far from the lanes, the technopop was reduced to a cardiac throb. Allison ordered a tuna sandwich and a gin and tonic and I had a beer.

She said, “What mischief have you been up to?”

I caught her up.

“The eight-year lag stayed in my mind,” she said. “How about this: The fact that Rand was being released set something off in Malley. Does he use amphetamines or coke?”

“Don’t know.”

“If he does, that could prime his rage further. He’d know about Rand’s release, right?”

“At least thirty days before,” I said. “So life stress made him do it?”

“We see it all the time with substance abuse patients. People fighting impulses and bad habits and doing fine. Then something hits them and they backslide.”