“Bill came upon the scene once the poor girl was dead, saw what had been done to her.”

“Was Caroline with him?”

He hesitated. “Yes. They were together at the party. She was allowed to be at the party because he was supervising her.”

“Supervising?”

“Keeping an eye on her. Her brothers paid him for that.”

“Drug pusher baby-sitting the strange little sister?” I said.

Bert nodded.

I said, “So she tagged along with Burns, followed her brothers and their pals to the neighboring estate, came upon the kill spot. The killers saw them, had to be worried they’d unravel. Caroline, because her psychiatric history made her unreliable, Burns because he was a junkie. But instead of eliminating Caroline, they hospitalized her. Probably because even though the Cossacks had participated in murder, they couldn’t quite bring themselves to murder their sister. They would’ve killed Burns, but he disappeared into the ghetto, and being rich white kids, they had no easy way to find him. Burns was scared, tried to make a big score, took too many risks and got arrested, made quick bail thanks to LAPD connections and Boris Nemerov’s goodwill, and vanished again. But then, a few months later, he surfaced—got himself a job at Achievement House so he could see Caroline. The boys found out and decided the big step had to be taken. But before they could arrange the hit, Burns was gone again. He and Caroline managed to remain in contact. Eventually, he got her out of Achievement House, and the two of them hid out in Watts. How am I doing so far?”

“A-plus, Alex. As always.”

“But something doesn’t make sense, Bert. Why would Burns put himself in terrible jeopardy by wangling a job at Achievement House? Why in the world would he risk his life?”

Bert smiled. “Irrational, wasn’t it? That’s what I mean about human beings being hard to categorize.”

“Why’d he do it, Bert?”

“Very simple, Alex. He loved her. Still does.”

“Present tense?” I said. “They’re still together? Where is she?”

“They’re very much together. And you’ve met her.”

He brought me back into the house. The front room was empty and the push door remained shut. Bert held it open, and I stepped into a corn yellow bedroom not much bigger than a closet.

Tiny bathroom off to one side. In the sleeping area were two single beds placed side by side, each made up with thin, white spreads. A stuffed bear sat atop a low dresser painted hospital green. The wheelchair was positioned at the foot of the nearer bed, and the man who called himself Bill remained seated, the nearly empty Snapple bottle in one hand, the other grasped by the pudgy, white fingers of a heavyset woman wearing an oversize, royal blue T-shirt and gray sweatpants.