I’d downed a couple of beers during the game and was nearly dozing on my living room sofa. The distinctive squawk of the business phone roused me. Generally, I let my service pick up. Why I answered, I still can’t say.

“Dr. Delaware?”

I didn’t recognize his voice. Eight years had passed.

“Speaking. Who’s this?”

“Rand.”

Now I remembered. The same slurred voice deepened to a man’s baritone. By now he’d be a man. Some kind of man.

“Where are you calling from, Rand?”

“I’m out.”

“Out of the C.Y.A.”

“I, uh . . . yeah, I finished.”

As if it had been a course of study. Maybe it had been. “When?”

“Coupla weeks.”

What could I say? Congratulations? God help us?

“What’s on your mind, Rand?”

“Could I, uh, talk to you?”

“Go ahead.”

“Uh, not this . . . like talk . . . for real.”

“In person.”

“Yeah.”

The living room windows were dark. Six forty-five p.m. “What do you want to talk about, Rand?”

“Uh, it would be . . . I’m kinda . . .”

“What’s on your mind, Rand?”

No answer.

“Is it something about Kristal?”

“Ye-ah.” His voice broke and bisected the word.

“Where are you calling from?” I said.

“Not far from you.”

My home office address was unlisted. How do you know where I live?

I said, “I’ll come to you, Rand. Where are you?”

“Uh, I think . . . Westwood.”

“Westwood Village?”

“I think . . . lemme see . . .” I heard a clang as the phone dropped. Phone on a cord, traffic in the background. A pay booth. He was off the line for over a minute.

“It says Westwood. There’s this big uh, a mall. With this bridge across.”

A mall. “Westside Pavilion?”

“I guess.”

Two miles south of the village. Comfortable distance from my house in the Glen. “Where in the mall are you?”

“Uh, I’m not in there. I kin see it across the street. There’s a . . . I think it says Pizza. Two z’s . . . yeah, pizza.”

Eight years and he could barely read. So much for rehab.

It took awhile but I got the approximate location: Westwood Boulevard, just north of Pico, east side of the street, a green and white and red sign shaped like a boot.

“I’ll be there in fifteen, twenty minutes, Rand. Anything you want to tell me now?”

“Uh, I . . . can we meet at the pizza place?”

“You hungry?”

“I ate breakfast.”

“It’s dinnertime.”

“I guess.”

“See you in twenty.”

“Okay . . . thanks.”

“You sure there’s nothing you want to tell me before you see me?”

“Like what?”

“Anything at all.”

More traffic noise. Time stretched.

“Rand?”

“I’m not a bad person.”

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 2

What happened to Kristal Malley was no whodunit.