"Oh."

"Oh," she said, laughing and hugging me. "Pretty profound, huh? Are you mad at me for not wanting to go to Ojai?"

"No, just disappointed."

"You go anyway. Promise to be careful?"

"I promise."

"Good," she said. "That's important."

18

We had dinner at an Indian place near Beverly Hills' eastern border with L.A., washing the meal down with clove tea and driving home feeling good. Robin went to run a bath and I phoned Milo at home and told him about Jean's call.

"She has something to tell me but wouldn't elaborate over the phone- sounded nervous. My guess is she found something about Hewitt that scares her. I'm meeting her at one, and I'll ask her about Gritz. When were you planning to see Ralph Paprock?"

"Right around then."

"Care to make it earlier?"

"Dealership won't be open. I suppose we could catch him just as he comes in."

"I'll pick you up."

• • •

Sunday morning I drove to West Hollywood. Milo's and Rick's place was a small, perfectly kept Spanish house at the end of one of those short, obscure streets that hide in the grotesque shadow of the Design Center's blue-green mass. Cedars-Sinai was within walking distance. Sometimes Rick jogged to work. Today, he hadn't: the white Porsche was gone.

Milo was waiting outside. The small front lawn had been replaced by ground cover and the flowers were blooming bright orange.

He saw me looking at it and said, "Drought resistant," as he got into the car. "That "environmental designer' I told you about. Guy would upholster the world in cactus if he could."

I took Laurel Canyon up into the Valley, passing stilt-box houses and postmodern cabins, the decaying Palladian estate where Houdini had done tricks for Jean Harlow. A governor had once lived right around there. None of the magic had rubbed off.

At Ventura, I turned left and traveled two miles to Valley Vista Cadillac. The showroom was fronted by twenty-foot slabs of plate glass and bordered by a huge outdoor lot. Banners were strung on high-tension wire. The lights were off, but morning sun managed to get in and bounce off the sparkling bodies of brand-new coupes and sedans. The cars out on the lot were blinding.

A trim black man in a well-cut navy suit stood next to a smoke-gray Seville. When he saw us get out of my seventy-nine, he went over to the front door and unlocked it, even though business hours hadn't begun. When Milo and I stepped in, his hand was out and his smile was blooming brighter than Milo's lawn.

He had a perfectly trimmed pencil mustache and a pin-collar shirt as white as an avalanche. Off to the side of the showroom, beyond the cars, was a warren of cubicles, and I could hear someone talking on the phone. The cars were spotless and perfectly detailed. The whole place smelled of leather and rubber and conspicuous consumption. My car had smelled that way once, even though I'd bought it used. Someone had told me the fragrance came in aerosol cans.

"That's a classic you've got," said the man, looking through the window.

"Been good to me," I said.

"Keep it and garage it, that's what I'd do. One of these days you'll see it appreciate, like money in the bank. Meanwhile, you can be driving something new for every day. Good lines this year, don't you think?"

"Very nice."

"Got those foreign deals beat hands down. Get folks in to actually test drive, they see that. You a lawyer?"

"Psychologist."

He gave an uncertain smile and I found a business card in my hand.

John Allbright

Sales Executive

"Got a real good suspension this year, too," he said. "With all due respect to your classic, I think you'll find it a whole other world, drive-wise. Great sound system, too, if you go for the Bose option and-"

"We're looking for Ralph Paprock," said Milo.

Allbright looked at him. Squinted. Put his hand to his mouth and compressed his smile manually.

"Ralph," he said. "Sure. Ralph's over there."

Pointing to the cubicles, he walked away fast, ending up in a glass corner, where he lit up a cigarette and stared out at the lot.

The first two compartments were empty. Ralph Paprock sat behind a desk in the third. He was in his late forties, narrow and tan, with sparse gray-blond hair on top and a bit more of it on the sides, combed over his ears. His double-breasted suit was the same cut as Allbright's, olive green, just a bit too bright. His shirt was cream with a long-point collar, his tie crowded with parrots and palm trees.

He was hunched over some papers. The tip of his tongue protruded from the corner of his narrow mouth. The pen in his right hand tapped his blotter very fast. His nails were shiny.

When Milo cleared his throat, the tongue zipped in and an eager grin took hold of Paprock's face. Despite the smile, his face was tired, the muscles loose and droopy. His eyes were small and amber. The suit gave them a khaki tint.

"Gentlemen. How can I help you?"

Milo said, "Mr. Paprock, I'm Detective Sturgis, Los Angeles police," and handed him a card.

The look that took hold of the salesman next- What are you hitting me with this time?-made me feel lousy. We had nothing to offer him and plenty to take.

He put his pen down.

I caught a side view of a photo on his desk, propped up next to a mug printed with the Cadillac crest. Two round-faced, fair-haired children. The younger one, a girl, was smiling, but the boy seemed to be on the verge of tears. Behind them hovered a woman of around seventy with butterfly glasses and cold-waved white hair. She resembled Paprock, but she had a stronger jaw.

Milo said, "Sorry to bother you, Mr. Paprock, but we've come across another homicide that might be related to your wife's and wondered if we could ask you a few questions."

"Another- a new one?" said Paprock. "I didn't see anything on the news."

"Not exactly, sir. This crime occurred three years ago-"

"Three years ago? Three years and you've just come across it? Did you finally get him?"

"No, sir."

"Jesus." Paprock's hands were flat on the desk and his forehead had erupted in sweat. He wiped it with the back of one hand. "Just what I need to start off the week."

There were two chairs facing his desk. He stared at them but didn't say anything else.

Milo motioned me into the office and closed the door behind us. There was very little standing room. Paprock held a hand out to the chairs and we sat. A certificate behind the desk said he'd been a prizewinning salesman. The date was three summers ago.

"Who's the other victim?" he said.

"A man named Rodney Shipler."

"A man?"

"Yes, sir."

"A man- I don't understand."

"You don't recognize the name?"

"No. And if it was a man, what makes you think it has anything to do with my Myra?"

"The words "bad love' were written at the crime scene."

" 'Bad love,' " said Paprock. "I used to dream about that. Make up different meanings for it. But still…"

He closed his eyes, opened them, took a bottle out of his desk drawer. Enteric aspirin. Popping a couple of tablets, he dropped the bottle into his breast pocket, behind the colored handkerchief.

"What kind of meanings?" said Milo.

Paprock looked at him. "Crazy stuff- trying to figure out what the hell it meant. I don't remember. What's the difference?"

He began moving his hands around, stirring the air very quickly, as if searching for something to grab. "Was there any- some sign of- was this Shipler… what I'm getting at is, was there something sexual?"

"No, sir."

Paprock said, " 'Cause that's what they told me they thought it might mean. The first cops. Some psychotic thing- using- sex in a bad way, some sort of sex nut. A pervert bragging about what he did- bad love."