"An initiation thing?"

"Yeah, they start ' em young. Automatics in the diapers. Speaking of which, I caught my little truant bastards on the Palms robbery- thirteen and fifteen. No doubt they'll get referred for some kind of therapy. Want a referral?"

"No, thanks."

"Cynic."

"Was there gang activity where Paprock was killed?"

"A little, on the fringes. It's mostly working-class tough- north end of Van Nuys. No one made the gang assumption in that one, but maybe if Van Nuys had talked to Southwest, they would have. Neither of them knew about the other case- still don't."

"Going to tell them?" I said.

"First I'm gonna read Shipler's file thoroughly, see what I can pull out of it. Then, yeah, I'll have to tell them, do the old network blah blah. Both cases are real cold- be interesting to see what kind of responses I get. Hopefully the whole thing won't deteriorate into endless memories. Though if "bad love' shows up anywhere in Stoumen's file, we've got interstate blah blah."

"Hear from Seattle, yet?"

"Very briefly. They're sending down records- it'll probably take a week or so. Both detectives on that one are retired and unavailable. Probable translation: burnouts gone fishing. If anything provocative comes up in the file, I'll bug 'em anyway."

"What about the FBI records on other "bad love' murders?"

"Not yet. Them gears grind slowly."

"A real estate agent, a janitor, and "bad love,' " I said. "I still think it has something to do with that conference. Or de Bosch himself- Paprock and Shipler could have been his patients."

"So why would someone kill them?"

"Maybe it's another patient, mad about something."

"Then what's your connection?"

"I don't know… Nothing makes sense, dammit."

"You learn anything from Jeffers?"

"No one at the center remembers Hewitt having any friends. But she referred me to Hewitt's lawyer and he gave me a name and possible address." I described my encounter with the people under the freeway.

"Gritz," he said. "As in hominy."

"With a "z.' Could be a first name or a last, or just a nickname."

"I'll run it through."

"The kid I spoke to said he's been gone about a week. He also said Gritz was talking and singing about getting rich."

"Singing?"

"That's what he said."

"Oh those romantic hoboes, strumming around the campfire."

"Maybe Gritz had some kind of job lined up, or maybe it's baloney. The kid could very well have been putting me on. For what it's worth, he said he'd ask around, I should come back later."

"Getting rich," he said. "Everyone talks and sings about it. That Calcutta place might be the dregs, but it's still L.A."

"True," I said. "But wouldn't it be interesting if Gritz really did expect to get paid for something- like killing my koi, and other nasties."

"Hitman on a fish? So who's doing the hiring?"

"The anonymous bad guy- I know, it's a ridiculous idea."

"At this point nothing's ridiculous, Alex, but if someone was looking to hire a nighttime skulker, would they choose a homeless nutcase?"

"True… Maybe what Gritz was hired for was to scream on tape- to imitate Hewitt because he knew what Hewitt sounded like."

"Imitate?" he said. "Those voice tracks sounded identical to me, Alex. Though we may never be able to verify it. I talked to the voiceprint guy over at the sheriff's, and screams are useless, legally. In order to make a match that can be used in court, you need two samples, minimum of twenty words on each and the exact same phrases. Even then, it gets challenged a lot and thrown out."

"What about for nonadmissible comparison?"

"Matching screams is still an iffy business. It's words that have unique characteristics. I asked the sheriff to give a listen anyway. He said he's backlogged but would try to get to it eventually… Why would someone want to imitate Hewitt?"

"I don't know- I can't help but think the tape's part of a ritual. Something ceremonial that means something only to the killer."

"What about the kid on the tape?"

"Could be a homeless kid- someone from Little Calcutta or some place like it. Living down there could explain the robot quality of the voice- despair. You should have seen it, Milo. The boy's teeth were rotting, he had a tubercular cough. The girl was naked, wrapped up in a sheet, trying to feed the baby. If I'd offered enough money, I probably could have bought the baby."

"I've seen it," he said softly.

"I know you have. I have too. It's all around. But I haven't really let it register for a while."

"What're you gonna do, solve everyone's problems? Plenty of your own to deal with, for the time being. You get names on the freeway people?"

"Not the girl. He calls himself Terminator Three."

He laughed. "No one else down there besides them and the baby?"

"No one I could see, and I was flashing ten-dollar bills."

"Real smart, Alex."

"I watched my back."

"Yeah."

"The kid said the place fills up at night. I could go back after dark and see if anyone else knows Gritz."

"You're really in the mood to get your throat cut, aren't you?"

"If I had a macho cop with me I'd be safe, right?"

"Don't count on it… Yeah, okay, it's probably a waste of time, but that makes me feel right at home."

• • •

Robin was still working in the garage, hunched over her bench, wielding shiny sharp things that resembled dental picks. Her hair was tied up and her goggles were lodged in her curls. Under her overalls, her T-shirt was tightened by perspiration. She said, "Hi, doll," as her hands continued to move. The dog was at her feet and he stood and licked my hand as I looked over Robin's shoulder.

A tiny rectangle of abalone was clamped to a padded section of the bench. The edges were beveled and the corners were inlaid with bits of ivory and gold wire. She'd traced the shell with minuscule curlicue shapes, cut out some of them, and was in the process of excising another.

"Beautiful," I said. "Fretboard inlay?"

"Uh-huh. Thanks." She blew away dust and cleaned the edge of a pick with a fingernail.

"You do root canal, too?"

She laughed and hunched lower. The tools clicked as she carved out a speck of shell. "Kind of baroque for my taste, but it's for a stockbroker who wants a showpiece for his wall."

She worked some more, finally put the tools down, wiped her forehead, and wiggled her fingers. "Enough for one day, I'm cramping up."

"Everything okay?" I rubbed her neck.

"Nice and quiet. How about you?"

"Not bad."

I kissed her. The wind got stronger and drier, ruffling the cypress trees and shooting a cold stream through the open garage. Robin unclamped the abalone, and put it in her pocket. Her arms were goosebumped. I put mine around them and the two of us headed for the house. By the time we got to the door, the wind was whipping the trees and stirring the dust, causing the bulldog to blink and sniff.

"Santa Ana?" she said.

"Too cold. Probably the tail end of something arctic."

"Brr," she said, unlocking the door. "Leave your jacket in the car?"

I shook my head. We went inside.

"You were wearing one, weren't you?" she said, rubbing her hands together. "That baggy brown tweed."

Artist's eye.

"Yup."

"Did you lose it?"

"Not exactly."

"Not exactly?"

"I gave it away."

She laughed. "You what?"

"No big deal. It was fraying."

"Who'd you give it to?"

I told her about Little Calcutta. She listened with her hands on her hips, shaking her head, and went into the kitchen to wash her hands. When she came back, her head was still moving from side to side.

"I know, I know," I said. "It was a bleeding-heart reflex, but they really were pitiful- it was a cheap old thing, anyway."