“Mightily.” He made the call to State Motor Vehicles, recited the plate, waited a while, wrote something down. “The plates belong to a two-year-old Jeep, so that’s kosher. Registered to the Playa del Sol Corporation. The address is right here in West Hollywood. I recognize it. Parking lot of the Healthy Foods market on Santa Monica. There’s a post–office box outlet there. I know because I used to rent there myself.”

“When?”

“Long time ago.”

A safe. A POB. All the new things I was learning about my friend.

“Dead number, shadow address,” I said. “Playa del Sol could be nothing more than a cardboard box in someone’s apartment, but it does have the ring of a real estate outfit.”

“As in the Cossacks.” He studied the card. “That and the call about my vacation time. Right after we talk to Marlene Baldassar. Maybe she can’t be trusted.”

Or maybe he hadn’t covered his trail. I said, “It could be just a pickup attempt.” But I knew that was wrong. Paris Bartlett had bounded out of his car with clear intention.

He slipped the card in his pocket. “Alex, I grew up in a big family, never got much attention, never developed a taste for it. I need some alone time.”

I drove him back to his place, and he hurtled out of the Seville, mumbled something that might’ve been, “Thanks,” slammed the door, and loped toward his front door.

I made it to my own front door thirty-five minutes later, told myself I’d be able to walk right past the phone. But the red blinking 1 on the answering machine snagged me, and I stabbed the message button.

Robin’s voice: “Looks like I missed you again, Alex. There’s another change in schedule, we’re adding an extra day in Vancouver, maybe the same in Denver. It’s crazy around here, I’ll be in and out.” Two-second delay, then several decibels lower: “I love you.”

Obligatory add-on? Unlike Pierce Schwinn, I didn’t need drugs to prime the paranoia pump.

I phoned the Four Seasons Seattle again and asked for Ms. Castagna’s room. This time if they gave me voice mail, I’d leave a message.

But a man answered. Young, one of those laughing voices. Familiar.

Sheridan. He of the ponytail, the cheerful outlook, and the Milk-Bone for Spike.

“Robin? Oh hi. Yeah, sure.”

Seconds later: “This is Robin.”

“And this is Alex.”

“Oh . . . hi. Finally.”

“Finally?”

“Finally we connect. Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s peachy,” I said. “Am I interrupting something?”

“What—oh, Sheridan? No, we were just finishing up a meeting. A bunch of us.”

“Busy busy.”

“I’ve got time, now. So how are you? Busy yourself?”

This was too much like small talk, and it depressed me. “Muddling along. How’s Spike?”