If she was tired of the publish-or-perish grind, then why not do some private practice? Neuropsych skills were highly prized, and well-trained neuropsychologists could do forensic work, consult to lawyers on injury cases, bypass the HMO's and earn five, ten times what Starkweather paid.

Even if money hadn't been important to her, what about job satisfaction? Why had she subjected herself to shift after shift in the ugly gray building? And the drive to Starkweather- day after day past the slag.

There had to be some other reason for what I couldn't stop thinking of as a self-demotion.

It was almost as if she'd punished herself. For what?

Or had she been fleeing something? Had it caught up with her?

Chapter 7

It was just after two P.M. when we left the house. Outside, the air felt alive.

Milo connected to Laurel Canyon, headed south to Sunset, drove west on the Strip. An accident near Holloway and the usual jam of misery ghouls slowed us, and it was nearly three by the time we crossed through Beverly Hills and over to Beverly Glen. Neither Milo nor I was saying much. Talked out. He zoomed up the bridle path to my house. Robin's truck was in the carport.

"Thanks for your time."

"Where are you headed?"

"Hall of Records, look for real estate paper, see what else comes up on Mr. Stargill. Then a call to Heidi Ott."

He looked tired, and his tone said optimism was a felony. I said, "Good luck," and watched him speed away.

I walked up to my new house. Three years, and I still thought of it as a bit of an interloper. The old house, the one I'd bought with my first real earnings, had been an amalgam of redwood and idiosyncrasy. A psychopath out to kill me torched it to cinders. Robin had supervised the construction of something white, airy, a good deal more spacious and practical, undeniably charming. I told her I loved it. For the most part, I did. One day, I'd stop being secretly stodgy.

I expected to find her out back hi her studio, but she was in the kitchen reading the morning paper. Spike was curled up at her feet, black-brindle pot-roast body heaving with each snoring breath, jowls flowing onto the floor. He's a French bulldog, a miniature version of the English breed, with upright bat ears and enough vanity for an entire opera troupe. He lifted one eyelid as I entered-Oh, you again-and let it drop. A subsequent sigh was laden with ennui.

Robin stood, spread her arms, and squeezed me around the waist. Her head pressed against my chest. She smelled of hardwood and perfume, and her curls tickled my chin. I lifted a handful of auburn coils and kissed the back of her neck. She's a charitable five three but has the long, swanlike neck of a fashion model. Her skin was hot, slightly moist.

"How'd it go?" she said, putting her hand in my hair.

"Uneventful."

"No problem from the inmates, huh?"

"Nothing." I held her closer, rubbing the taut musculature of her shoulders, moved down to delicate vertebrae, magical curves, then back up to the clean line of her jaw and the silk of her eyelids.

She stepped away, took my chin in one hand. "That place made you romantic?"

"Being out of there makes me romantic."

"Well, I'm glad you're back in one piece."

"It wasn't dangerous," I said. "Not even close."

"Five thousand murderers and no danger?"

"Twelve hundred, but who's counting."

"Twelve hundred," she said. "How silly of me to worry." At the last word, her voice rose a notch.

"Sorry," I said. "But really, it was fine. People go to work there every day and nothing happens. Everyone seems to think it's safer on the wards than out on the streets."

"Sounds like rationalization to me. Meanwhile, that psychologist gets stuffed in a car trunk."

"There's no indication, so far, that her work had anything to do with it."

"Good. The main thing is, you're back. Have you eaten yet?"

"No. You?"

"Just juice in the morning."

"Busy day?"

"Pretty busy, trying to finish that mandolin." She stretched to her full height. She had on a red T-shirt and denim overalls, size six Skechers. Small gold hoops glinted from her ears. She took them off when she worked. Not planning to return to the studio.

"I'm hungry now," she said. "Hint, hint."

"Let's go out," I said.

"A mind reader!"

"Just call me the Answer Man."

We gave Spike a chewbone and drove to an Indian buffet in Santa Monica that was open all afternoon. Rice and lentils, kulcha bread stuffed with onions, curried spinach with soft cheese, spicy eggplant, hot milky tea. Some sort of chant played in the background-a single male voice keening, maybe praying. The two ectomorphs in the next booth got up and left and we were the only patrons. The waiter left us alone.

Halfway through the pile on her plate, Robin said, "I know I'm harping, but next time you go somewhere like that, please call the minute you get out."

"You were really that worried?"

"Ax murderers and vampires, Lord knows what else?"

I covered her hand with mine. "Rob, the men I saw today were submissive." Except for the bearded fellow on the yard who'd come toward me. The fight in the hall. Plastic windows, S &R rooms.

"What makes them submit?"

"Medication and a structured environment."

She didn't seem comforted. "So you learned nothing there?"

"Not so far. Later we went to Claire Argent's house." I described the place. "What do you think?"

"About what?"

"The way she lived."

She drank tea, put the cup aside, thought awhile. "Would I want to live like that? Not forever, but maybe for a short stretch. Take a nice vacation from all the complications."

"Complications," I said.

She smiled. "Not you, honey. Just… circumstances. Obligations, deadlines-life piling up. Like when I was handling all the construction. Or now, when the orders stack up and everyone wants results yesterday. Sometimes life can start to feel like too much homework, and a little simplicity doesn't sound bad at all."

"This was more than simplicity, Robin. This was… bleak. Sad."

"You're saying she was depressed?"

"I don't know enough to diagnose her," I said. "But the feeling I got from the place was-inorganic. Blank."

"Did you see any evidence she was neglecting herself?" she said.

"No. And everyone describes her as pleasant, dependable. Distant, but no obvious pathology."

"So maybe inwardly she was fine, too."

"Maybe," I said. "The only things she did amass were books. Maybe intellectual stimulation was what turned her on."

"There you go. She trimmed things down to concentrate on what mattered to her."

I didn't answer.

"You don't think so," she said.

"Pretty severe trim," I said. "There was nothing personal in the entire house. Not a single family photo."

"Perhaps she wasn't close to her family. Or she had problems with them. But even so, how different does that make her from millions of other people, Alex? She sounds to me more like… someone cerebral. Living in her head. Enjoying her privacy. Even if she did have social problems, what does any of that have to do with her murder?"

"Maybe nothing." I spooned more rice onto my plate, played with grains of basmati, took a bite of bread. "If she wanted intellectual stimulation, why switch from a research job to Starkweather?"

"What kind of research was she doing?"

"Alcoholism and how it affects reaction time."

"Anything earth-shattering?"

"Not to me." I summarized the studies. "Actually, it was pretty mundane."

"Could be she came to a realization: she'd been a good little girl, doing what was expected of her since grad school. She got tired of hacking it out. Wanted to actually help someone."