“The relationship between foster care and suicide. The articles I published years ago on stress and abuse would make it a natural.”

“You still do research?”

“Haven’t for a while, but I’m a full professor and full professors get to do what they want.”

“When did you get promoted?”

“Last year.”

“You never mentioned it.”

“No big deal,” I said. “It’s a clinical appointment. What it boils down to is once in a while they ask me to supervise an intern or a grad student, serve on an ad hoc committee, or read a research proposal.”

“You get paid for that?”

“No,” I said. “It’s my way of giving back.” I formed a halo with my hands and held it over my head.

“What a guy,” he said. “You don’t look a day over associate professor.”

His phone beeped. “Sturgis. Oh hi . . . yeah, long time . . . you’re kidding. That’s great. Thanks a mill. I owe you big time.”

Wide smile. Long time since I’d seen that.

“That was Coroner’s Investigator Nancy Martino, R.N. She found tissue samples from Kristal Malley’s autopsy stored in a cooler. Kidney and stomach sections. Some of it looks degraded but there might be enough for analysis. They’ll hold it until I give them the word.”

“Congratulations,” I said.

“For what it’s worth.” His smile died.

“Now what?”

“What’s the DNA really gonna do, Alex? Confirm what we already know from the eye color: The cowboy wasn’t Kristal’s daddy. What it won’t accomplish is get me any closer to Malley for Rand. Or to Daney for whatever bad stuff he did.”

He tapped a calypso beat against the beer bottle. “Two bad guys, no leads, life is beautiful.”

“Better than no bad guys.”

“How comforting,” he said. “You must be a therapist.”

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 33

I copied down Leticia Hollings’s phone number in Temecula and Milo got Elisabeth Mia Scoggins’s last-known address from the DMV in Santa Monica; it matched a phone book listing for Scoggins, E.

Chucking his beer bottle, he saw himself out.

Beth Scoggins lived in an apartment on Twentieth Street near Pico. Low-rent section of the beach city, but the thought that she’d achieved some sort of independence was encouraging.

It was seven-fifteen p.m. Allison’s office was on Montana, the high-rent north end of Santa Monica. I knew she was booked with patients until nine but her usual dinner break was at eight. If I managed to set up a meeting with Beth Scoggins, maybe I’d have time to drop in later. . . .

Mr. Halo.

* * *

A young woman picked up the phone, sounding wary.

“Ms. Scoggins?”

“This is Beth.”

I gave her my name and my title, asked if she’d be willing to talk about her experiences in foster care.

“How’d you find me?” she said.