He went over to the fridge, dog following.

Watching his slow trudge, I said, "You look wiped. New blood buckets?"

He got a Grolsch, opened it, and nodded. "Armed robbery, what I was working on in Palms. Little mom-and-pop grocery. Pop died a few months ago, mom's eighty, barely hanging on. Two little shits came in this afternoon, flashed knives, and threatened to rape her and cut off her breasts if she didn't hand over the cashbox. Old lady puts them at around thirteen or fourteen. She's too shook to say much else, chest pains, shortness of breath. They admitted her to St. John's for observation."

"Poor thing. Thirteen or fourteen?"

"Yeah. The timing of the robbery might mean the little assholes waited till after school to do it- how's that for your extracurricular activities? Or maybe they're just your basic truant psychopaths out for a fun day."

"Urban Huck and Tom," I said.

"Sure. Smoke a corncob of crack, gangbang Becky Thatcher."

He sat down at the table and sniffed the top of the beer bottle. The dog had remained at the refrigerator and was looking at him, as if contemplating approach, but Milo's tone and expression stilled him and he came over and settled at my feet.

I said, "So no one else's prints were on the tape."

"Not a one."

"What does that mean? Someone took the trouble to wipe it clean?"

"Or handled it with gloves. Or there were prints and they got smeared when you touched the tape." He stretched his legs. "So show me this brochure you found."

I went to the library, got the conference program, and gave it to him. He scanned it, "No one named Silk here."

"Maybe he was in the audience."

"You look intense," he said, pointing to my photo. "That beard- kind of rabbinic."

"Actually, I was bored." I told him how I'd become a co-chair.

He put down his bottle. "Nineteen seventy-nine. Someone carrying around a grudge all this time?"

"Or something happened recently that triggered a recollection from seventy-nine. I tried calling Katarina and Rosenblatt, to see if maybe they'd gotten anything in the mail, but she's closed up shop in Santa Barbara and he's no longer practicing in Manhattan. I found a psychologist in New York who may be his wife and left her a message."

He examined the brochure again. "So what could the grudge be about?"

"I have no idea, Milo. Maybe it's not even the conference, maybe it's someone who sees himself as victimized by the therapist- or the therapy. Maybe the grievance isn't even real- something paranoid- a delusion that would never occur to you or me."

"Meaning we're normal?"

"Everything's relative."

He smiled. "So you can't remember anything weird happening at the conference."

"Nothing at all."

"This de Bosch- was he controversial in any way? The kind to make enemies?"

"Not that I know, but my only contact with him was through his writings. They're not controversial."

"What about the daughter?"

I thought about that. "Yeah, she could have made enemies- a real sourpuss. But if she's the target of someone's resentment, why would I be? My only link to her was the conference."

He waved the brochure. "Reading this, someone could believe you were esteemed colleagues. She hemmed you in, huh?"

"Expertly. She had clout with the medical director of the hospital. My guess was that it was because she'd treated one of his daughters- a kid with problems- and called in a marker. But it could have been something else completely."

He put his beer bottle down on the coffee table. The dog looked up, then lowered his chin to the floor.

"The kid's voice on the tape," I said. "How does that figure in? And the guy who killed Becky Basille-"

"Hewitt. Dorsey Hewitt. Yeah, I know- what does he have to do with it?"

"Maybe he was treated by the de Bosches, too. Maybe "bad love' was a phrase they used in therapy. But what does that mean? A whole slew of therapy graduates freaking out- getting back at their doctors?"

"Wait a second," said Milo. "I'm sorry about your tape and your nut-call, but that's a far cry from murder." He handed the brochure back to me. "Wonder if Donald Wallace was ever treated by the de Bosches- still waiting for more info from the prison. How're those girls doing?"

"The kinds of problems you'd expect. Documenting a good case against visitation shouldn't be a problem. The grandmother's opening up a bit, too. I went out to the house this afternoon. Her latest husband looks like a retired cholo- lots of homemade tattoos." I described Rodriguez's skin art.

"Dealing with the elite," he said. "You and me both." He crossed his legs and glanced down at the dog: "C'mere, Rove."

The dog ignored him.

"Good dog," he said, and drank his beer.

• • •

He left at ten-thirty. I decided to put off installing the dog door till the next day. Robin called at ten-fifty and told me she'd decided, definitely, to come home early- tomorrow evening at nine. I wrote down her flight number and said I'd be at LAX to pick her up, told her I loved her, and went to sleep.

I was dreaming about something pleasantly sexual when the dog woke me just after three in the morning, growling and pawing the dust ruffle.

I groaned. My eyes felt glued shut.

He pawed some more.

"What?"

Silence.

Scratch scratch.

I sat up. "What is it?"

He did the old-man-choking bit.

Ingress and egress…

Cursing myself for not installing the door, I forced myself out of bed and made my way, blindly, through the dark house to the kitchen. When I opened the service porch door, the dog raced down the stairs. I waited, yawning and groggy, muttering, "Make it fast."

Instead of stopping to squat near the bushes, he kept going and was soon out of sight.

"Ah, exploring new ground." I forced one eye to stay open. Cool air blew in through the door. I looked outside, couldn't see him in the darkness.

When he didn't return after a minute or so, I went down to get him. It took a while to find him, but I finally did- sitting near the carport, as if guarding the Seville. Huffing, and moving his head from side to side.

"What is it, guy?"

Pant, pant. He moved his head faster but didn't budge his body.

I looked around some more, still unable to see much. The mixed smells of night-blooming plants hit my nose, and the first spray of dew moistened my skin. The night sky was hazy, just a hint of moonlight peeking through. Just enough to turn the dog's eyes yellow.

"Hound of the Basketballs," I said, remembering an old Mad magazine sketch.

The dog scratched the ground and sniffed, started turning his head from side to side.

"What?"

He began walking toward the pond, stopping several feet from the fence, just as he had during our first encounter. Then he came to a dead halt.

The gate was closed. It had been hours since the timed lights had shut off. I could hear the waterfall. Peering over the fence, I caught a glimpse of moonstreaked wetness as my eyes started to accommodate.

I looked back at the dog.

Still as a rock.

"Did you hear something?"

Head cock.

"Probably a cat or a possum, pal. Or maybe a coyote, which might be a little too much for you, no offense."

Head cock. Pant. He pawed the ground.

"Listen, I appreciate your watchfulness, but can we go back up now?"

He stared at me. Yawned. Gave a low growl.

"I'm bushed, too," I said, and headed for the stairs. He did nothing until I'd gotten all the way up, then raced up with a swiftness that belied his bulk.

"No more interruptions, okay?"

He wagged his stub cheerfully, jumped on the bed, and sprawled across Robin's side.

Too exhausted to argue, I left him there.

He was snoring long before I was.

• • •