“He was a freak, Alex. Pilfered death shots from the evidence room and cataloged them for personal enjoyment. For all I know he got a sexual kick out of the book, then he grew old and couldn’t get it up anymore and decided to share.” He frowned. “I don’t think Marge knew about the murder book. He wouldn’ta wanted her to think of him as a freak. That means someone else sent it to you, Alex. She made like the two of them had built this little domestic cocoon, but I think she was real wrong.”

“Another woman,” I said.

“Why not? Someone he visited when he wanted out from hilltop nirvana. This is a guy who tumbled with whores in the backseat while on duty. I don’t have that much faith in transformation.”

“If there was another woman,” I said, “she might live far from Ojai. This is a small town, too hard to be discreet. That would explain the L.A. postmark.”

“Bastard.” He cursed under his breath. “I never liked the guy, and now he’s yanking my chain from the grave. Let’s say he did have some big moral epiphany about Janie. What does the book communicate? Where am I supposed to take it? Screw this, I don’t have to play this game.”

We didn’t talk until I was back on the freeway. At Camarillo, I shifted to the fast lane, pushed the Seville to eighty. He mumbled, “Pedal to the metal . . . bastard starts feeling righteous, and I’ve got to jump like a trained flea.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” I said.

“Damn right, I’m an Amurrican. Entitled to life, liberty and the pursuit of unhappiness.”

We crossed the L.A. county line by midafternoon, stopped at a coffee shop in Tarzana for burgers, got back on Ventura Boulevard, hooked a right at the newsstand at Van Nuys, continued to Valley Vista, and on to Beverly Glen. Along the way, I had Milo call my service on his cell phone. Robin hadn’t called.

When we reached my house, Milo was still in no mood to talk, but I said, “Caroline Cossack sticks in my mind.”

“Why?”

“A girl poisoning a dog is more than a prank. Her brothers are all over the papers, but she doesn’t get a word of newsprint. Her mother ran a debutante ball, but Caroline wasn’t listed as one of the debs. She wasn’t even included in her mother’s funeral. If you hadn’t told me the poisoning story, I’d never know she existed. It’s as if the family spit her out. Maybe for good reason.”

“The neighbor—that cranky old lady doc—Schwartzman—might’ve been overly imaginative. She had no use for any of the Cossacks.”

“But her most serious suspicions were of Caroline.”