"No," she said. "Why? You think he was manufacturing the dope back there? Or cutting it, whatever it is they do to that crap?"

"Anything's possible, ma'am."

"No, it's not," she snapped. "Very few things are possible. Oscar Levant will not rise from the dead. That cancer in George Gershwin's genius brain will not- Never mind, why am I wasting my time. No, I never heard drilling or sawing. I never heard a damn thing, because during the day, when I sleep, I keep the music on-got one of those programmable CD players, six discs that keep repeating. It's the only way I can go to sleep, block out the damn birds, cars, all that daytime crap. It was when I was up that he bothered me. The lights. Trying to get through my scales and the damn headlights are shining right on the keyboard."

Milo nodded. "I understand, ma'am."

"Sure you do," she said. "Too late, too little."

"Anything else you can tell us?"

"That's it. Didn't know I was going to be tested."

Milo showed her Claire's picture. "Ever see her with Orson?"

"Nope," she said. "She looks like a schoolteacher. Is she the one he killed?"

The crime-scene crew arrived ten minutes later. Itatani sat in his Oldsmobile, looking miserable. Marie Sinclair had gone back inside her house, but a few other neighbors had emerged. Milo asked them questions. I followed as he walked up and down the block, knocking on doors. No new revelations. If George Orson had been running a dope house, Marie Sinclair had been the only one to notice.

A pleasant old woman named Mrs. Leiber turned out to be the owner of Buddy, the missing dog. She seemed addled, disappointed that we weren't here to investigate the theft.-

Convinced Buddy had been dognapped, though an open gate at the side of her house indicated other possibilities.

Milo told her he'd keep his eyes open.

"He's such a sweetie," Mrs. Leiber said. "Got the courage but not any meanness."

We returned to the green house. The criminalists were still unpacking their gear. Milo showed the stains in the garage to the head tech, a black man named Merriweather, who got down and put his nose to it.

"Could be," he said. "If it is, it's pretty degraded. We'll scrape. If it is blood, should be able to get a basic HLA typing, but DNA's a whole other thing."

"Just tell me if it's blood."

"I can try that now."

We watched him work, wielding solvents and reagents, swabs and test tubes.

The answer came within minutes:

"O-positive."

"Richard Dada's type," said Milo.

"Forty-three percent of the population," said Merriweather. "Let me scrape around here and inside the house, it'll take us the best part of the day, but maybe we can find you something interesting."

Back in the unmarked, Milo phoned DMV again, cross-referencing vehicle registrations with the Shenandoah address. No match.

Gunning the engine, he pulled away from the curb, tires squealing. Less urgency than frustration. By the time we were back on Pico, he'd slowed down.

At Doheny, we stopped for a red light and he said, "Richard's blood type. Orson's cutting out on the rent could explain why Richard was cut in half and Claire wasn't. By the time he did her, he'd lost his machine shop, didn't have the time-or the place-to set up… All that stolen movie junk. He has to keep it somewhere. Time to check out storage outfits… Be nice if Itatani could've LD.'d Claire as the woman in the car."

"If she was, Itatani saw her shortly before she was murdered. Maybe she and Orson did go shopping at the center, and that's why he dumped her there. What stores are there?"

"Montgomery Ward, Toys 'R' Us, food joints, the Stereos Galore she was found behind."

"Stereos Galore," I said. "Might they sell cameras?" He looked in his rearview mirror, hung an illegal U-turn.

The front lot was jammed and we had to park on the far end, near La Cienega. Stereos Galore was two vast stories of gray rubber flooring and maroon plastic partitions. Scores of TV's projected soundlessly; blinking, throbbing entertainment centers spewed conflicting backbeats; salespeople in emerald-green vests pointed out the latest feature to stunned-looking customers. The camera section was at the rear of the second floor.

The manager was a small, dark-skinned, harried-looking man named Albert Mustafa with a precise black mustache and eyeglasses so thick his mild brown irises seemed miles away. He shepherded us into a relatively quiet corner, behind tall displays of film in colorful boxes. The cacophony from below filtered through the rubber tiles. Marie Sinclair would have felt at home.

Claire Argent's picture evoked a blank stare. Milo asked him about substantial video purchases.

"Six months ago?" he said.

"Five or six months ago," said Milo. "The name could be Wark or Crimmins or Orson. We're looking for a substantial purchase of video equipment or cameras."

"How much is substantial?" said Mustafa.

"What's your typical sale?"

"Nothing's typical. Still cameras range from fifty dollars to nearly a thousand. We can get you set up with basic video for under three hundred, but you can go high-tech and then you're talking serious money."

"Every sale is in the computer, right?"

"Supposed to be."

"Do you categorize your customers based upon how much they spend?"

"No, sir."

"Okay," said Milo. "How about checking video purchases over one thousand dollars, four to six months ago. Start with this date." He recited the day of Claire's murder.

Mustafa said, "I'm not sure this is legal, sir. I'd have to check with the home office."

"Where'sthat?"

"Minneapolis."

"And they're closed by now," said Milo.

"I'm afraid so, sir."

"How about just spooling back to that one day, Mr. Mustafa, see what comes up."

"I'd really rather not."

Milo stared at him.

"I don't want to lose my job," said Mustafa. "But the police help us… Just that day."

Eight credit-card purchases of video equipment that day, two of them over a thousand dollars. No Crimmins, Wark, or Orson, or Argent. Nothing that brought to mind a scrambled director's name. Milo copied down the names and the credit card numbers as Mustafa looked on nervously.

"What about cash sales? Would you have records of those?"

"If the customer purchased me extended warranty. If he gave us his address so we could put him on the mailing list."

Milo tapped the computer. "How about scrolling back a few days."

Mustafa said, "This isn't good," but he complied.

Nothing for the entire week.

Mustafa pushed a button and the screen went blank. By the time Milo thanked him, he'd walked away.

Chapter 32

A few more detectives had returned to the Robbery-Homicide room. I pulled a chair up next to Mile's desk and listened as he called Social Security and the Franchise Tax Board. Two hits: tax refunds had been sent to George Orson. Place of employment: Starkweather State Hospital.

"The checks were sent to an address on Pico-ten thousand five hundred. Commercial zone, ten to one a mail drop. Also, close to Richard's dump site… Okay, okay, something's happening here. I need to get more specific, find out if he still works at Starkweather."

"What about Lindeen the receptionist?" I said. "She likes you. Must be that masculine cop musk."

He grimaced. "Yeah, I'm a musk ox… Okay, why not?" He jabbed the phone. "Hello, Lindeen? Hi, it's Milo Sturgis. Right… Oh, muddling along, how 'bout you… Well, that's terrific, yeah I've heard about those, sounds like fun, at least you get to solve something… Uh, well, I'm not sure I have anything to… Think so? Well, okay, if I can get some free time-after I clear Dr. Argent's case… No, wish I could say I was… Speaking of which, does a psych tech named George Orson still work there?" He spelled the surname. "Nothing major, but I heard he might've been a friend of Dr. Argent's… I know she didn't, but his name came up from another party, they said he worked at Starkweather and knew her… No?" He frowned. "Could you? That'd be great."