“Rich kids stay rich,” he said. “Big surprise. I also looked for Melinda Waters. She’s on no state files, and neither is her mother, Eileen. That may not mean much if she got married and/or Mom got remarried and they both changed their names. I wish I knew the name of Melinda’s Navy dad, but I never learned it. The guy had shipped out to Turkey, good luck tracing that. I did locate Bowie Ingalls, and he’s definitely dead. Nineteen years dead.”

“A year after Janie,” I said. “What happened?”

“Single-motorist vehicular accident up in the hills. Ingalls plowed into a tree and went through the windshield. Blood alcohol four times the legal limit, dozen Bud empties in the car.”

“Up in the hills where?”

“Bel Air. Near the reservoir. Why?”

“Not that far from the party house.”

“So maybe he was reminiscing,” he said. “The facts still say drunk driver. The whole Cossack angle was pure supposition. For all I know, Janie and Melinda went to a whole other party. Or Schwinn was right and there was no Westside link at all, they got picked up by a psychopath and slaughtered nearer to the dump site. I’m tired, Alex. Gonna head home.”

“What’s the plan with Marge Schwinn?”

“She’s got my message.”

“And if she doesn’t return it?”

“I’ll try again.”

“If Schwinn is dead, maybe Marge sent the murder book,” I said. “She could’ve come across it in his effects, along with a reference to you and me—”

“Anything’s possible, my friend.”

“If you do reach her, mind if I tag along?”

“Who says I’m visiting her?”

I didn’t answer. He said, “What, you’ve got nothing better to do?”

“Not a thing.”

He humphed.

“Robin called,” I said. “We talked.”

“Good,” he said, putting a question mark on the end of it.

I swerved back into safe territory: “By the way, did you have time to run the prints on the murder book?”

“Just one set that I can see.”

“Mine.”

“Well,” he said, “I’m no ace powder man, but I have printed you, and those whorls look familiar.”

“So whoever sent it wiped it clean,” I said. “Interesting. Either way.”

He knew exactly what I meant: a careful cop, or a fastidious, taunting killer.

“Whatever,” he said. “Nighty-night.”

“Have some sweet dreams, yourself.”

“Oh, sure. Here come the sugarplum fairies.”

CHAPTER

13

I didn’t expect to hear from him anytime soon, but the following morning at eleven, he showed up at my front door, wearing a navy windbreaker over a plaid shirt and baggy jeans. Below the jacket, his gun bulged his waistline, but otherwise he looked like a guy with a day off. I was still in my robe. No call, so far, from Robin.

“Ready for fresh air?” he said. “Horse manure? All of the above?”

“The second Mrs. Schwinn got back to you.”