“You’re thinking some real estate honcho. The Cossacks. Or Larner.” He told me about Playa del Sol, rubbed his face. “I remember a few of the hotels down there. The scuzziest ones were on or near Main, between Third and Seventh. SRO flops, full of winos. The Exeter, the Columbus—there must’ve been a good half dozen, mostly propped up by Federal subsidies . . . so now I’m supposed to solve a twenty-year-old rape with no victim as well as a murder. Don’t think so, Alex.”

“Just tossing out suggestions,” I said. “Isn’t that what you pay me for?”

He forced a smile. “Sorry. I’m feeling hemmed in. Unable to do my usual investigative thing because it puts me in the crosshairs.”

“Paris Bartlett and the call from Personnel.”

“And the level of the players. That dinner with Obey, I don’t imagine they were convening to crochet samplers. Bacilla and Horne live for graft, and if Walt Obey’s involved in something, it has lots of zeros attached to it. Broussard wasn’t at the restaurant, but his hand’s been in this right from the beginning. He’s Obey’s neighbor, and Obey was one of his biggest supporters. All that makes me a flea. And guess what: A rumor’s circulating around the department about an HIV-positive detective about to retire soon. ‘Stay healthy,’ huh?”

“Oh my,” I said. “Subtle.”

“Cop’s subtlety. We train with nightsticks, not scalpels. Looks like I couldn’t have picked a worse time to stir the ashes, Alex. The hell of it is I’ve accomplished nothing . . . you finished? Let’s get back to the smog. This city’s too damn pretty.”

During the drive back to Albuquerque, he was glum and unreachable. The taverna’s food had been excellent, but I’d finished more of my plate than he had, and that was a first.

He spent the flight to L.A. dozing. When we were back in the Seville, he said, “Finding Melinda was progress in terms of motive, means, and opportunity. But what the hell’s all that worth when I have no idea where my suspects are? If I had to bet, my money would be on Willie Burns in some unmarked grave. The money folks behind Caroline would have seen him as a threat, and even if they never got to him, there was his heroin habit. Crazy Caroline, who could also be dead, or anywhere from the Bahamas to Belize. Even if I found her, what could I prove? They’d bring in one of your colleagues, and she’d go right back to some plush-padded room.”

“Sounds bleak,” I said.

“Some therapist you are.”

“Reality therapy.”

“Reality is the curse of the sane.”

I took Sepulveda to Venice, got onto Motor Avenue going south, drove past Achievement House.

“Talk about subtle,” he said.

“It’s a shortcut.”