“You’re bringing them into it?”

“Not yet,” he said. “Not until I get closer to Daney for murder. But the pedophilia thing could turn out to be good leverage.”

“How long can you sit on it?”

“Eight girls living on Galton Street bothers my sleep, but I can’t risk screwing things up by moving without evidence. First order of business is to get DNA from Daney. Any suggestions about how to approach it?”

“Arrange a meet by playing his ego. You’ve bought into his suspicions of Barnett Malley but Malley remains a mystery man; ask him if he has any other suggestions.”

“That part’s true. Still researching Malley and can’t come up with a damn thing. Okay, a face-to-face with Dynamic Drew. Then what? Swipe his toothbrush for the sample?”

“That’s the easy part,” I said. “He likes doughnuts.”

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 36

Rain fell the next morning, and the temperatures dropped into the high fifties. L.A. finally auditioning for winter. When Milo pulled the unmarked into the Dipsy Donut lot at ten a.m., the sky had closed and Vanowen Boulevard smelled of wet laundry.

Drew Daney was there, drinking coffee at the same aluminum table. Exact position he’d occupied the first time— a man of patterns.

He had on a brown corduroy car coat, rested his denim haunches on newspaper he’d spread to soak up dampness from the bench. When he saw us, he smiled and waved.

Warm smile. It spread his stubbly silver beard. His eyes crinkled.

This was the face of evil. He could’ve served as a model for a tool supply catalog.

Milo pumped his hand as if they were longtime buddies. “Morning. Not hungry?”

Daney winked. “Waiting for you guys.”

“How about I get us an assortment?”

“Sounds good, Lieutenant.”

Milo left and I sat down opposite Daney. My assignment, should I choose to take it, was to check out nonverbal cues and whatever “psych stuff” I came up with.

“Way I figure, Alex, having you along will play to his ego. Make him feel like a peer . . . even though you’re peerless.”

I watched Daney’s teeth disappear as his smile shifted to a closemouthed one. “Thanks for meeting with us on such short notice.”

“Hey, anything I can do to help.” Under his car coat he wore a spotless yellow polo shirt, tight across his broad chest. Well-developed musculature. His complexion glowed and his eyes were clear.

Picture of vitality; sometimes— too often— good things happen to bad people.

I said, “How’s your wife doing?”

The question made him blink. “In terms of?”

“Rand’s death. She seemed pretty affected.”

“Of course she was,” he said. “We all are. It’s a process— healing.”

“Your foster kids were affected?”

“Definitely. Rand wasn’t with us long, but he was a presence. You know what it’s like.”

“Dealing with death?”

“That and kids in general,” he said. “The developmental stages they go through.”