“Pardon—oh, yes, definitely. As a matter of fact, I did get on-line early this morning. Came upon an old Portuguese gitarra on eBay that looks intriguing, if it can be restored. Tuned differently than a guitar, but you might be able to get some sound out of it. If I get it at the right price, I’ll let you know and you can come up here and we’ll make music.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I said. Happy to have any.

CHAPTER

50

The next few days degraded to a blur of solitude and missed opportunity. I took a long time to muster the energy to call Robin, never found her in.

She didn’t call back, not once, and I wondered if a new level had been descended.

I tried not to think about Janie Ingalls or any of the others, did a pretty decent job of cutting myself off, knew it was unlikely Allison Gwynn had read about Michael Larner’s death in the Santa Barbara News-Press and that I should tell her. I couldn’t dredge up the initiative for that, either.

I buried myself in housecleaning, yardwork, clumsy jogs, TV hypnosis, obligatory, tasteless meals, perusals of the morning paper—not a word of print about the bloody night in Ojai, the Larners, the Cossacks. Continued sniping at John G. Broussard by politicians and pundits were the only links to what had been my reality since receiving the murder book.

On an uncommonly mild Tuesday, I took an afternoon run and came back to find Robin sitting in the living room.

She had on a black T-shirt, black leather jeans, and the pair of lizard-skin boots I’d given her two birthdays ago. Her hair was long and loose, and she was made up and lipsticked and looked like a beautiful stranger.

When I went over to kiss her, I kept the bruised side of my face out of view. She offered me her lips but kept them closed. Her hand rested briefly on the back of my neck, then dropped off.

I sat down beside her. “Tour over early?”

“I took a day off,” she said. “Flew in from Omaha.”

“How’s it going?”

She didn’t answer. I took her hand. Her fingers were cool and limp as they brushed against my burnt palm.

“Before we get into anything,” she said, “I’m going to tell you about Sheridan. He knew to bring a Milk-Bone because he’d met Spike before, has dogs of his own.”

“Robin, I’m—”

“Please, Alex. Just listen.”

I let go of her hand, sat back.