"Glendale, Sylmar, Northridge, downtown," I said. "Orson's spreading himself all over the city. It might also mean he's a restless driver. Consistent with a fun-killer. Anyone remember him?"

"Not a one. The crimes were duly documented, police reports were filed, but no one bothered to check for similars, no one spent much energy following up. Next item: the lab has complete HLA typing from the stains in the garage. I sent over samples of Richard's blood for comparison. Nothing showed up in the rest of the house. Too many cleanings by Mr. Itatani-where are negligent slumlords when you need them?"

Spike emitted a pulsating, froglike croak. Milo's left hand slid across the table. Slurp, munch.

"Finally: the lovely and outgoing Ms. Sinclair did indeed report the nighttime traffic at the house. A dozen complaints, cruisers were sent out seven times, but all the blues saw were some cars in the driveway, no dope transactions. I spoke to one of the sergeants. He considers Sinclair a crank. I have cleaned up his language. Apparently, bitching's her main hobby. One time she called in at two A.M. about a mockingbird in a tree she claimed was singing off-key intentionally- some bird plot to throw off her piano playing. In the warrant application I thought it best not to describe her psychological status in too much detail, called her a 'neighborhood observer.' But what a whack job; you guys will never be out of work."

"Too bad Mrs. Leiber didn't notice anything," I said.

"Who's Mrs. Leiber?"

"The lady with the lost dog."

"Oh, her. All she cared about was the dog."

"I keep thinking about the dog."

"What do you mean?"

"His face stays with me. Don't know why. It's as if I've seen him before."

"In a past life?"

I laughed because it was the right thing to do. Milo slipped Spike a long strip of mozzarella.

Robin came out with iced coffee and chocolate ice cream. Milo finished the pizza and joined us sipping and spooning. Soon, he'd slid down in his chair, nearly supine, eyes closed, head hanging over the back of the chair.

"Ah," he said, "the good life."

Then his beeper went off.

Chapter 33

"Swio," he said, returning from the kitchen.

"Someone told him about Peake's Jesus pose," I said, "and he's going to make your life a living hell if you don't stay away."

"On the contrary. He offered a personal invitation to come over. Now."

"Why?"

"He wouldn't say, just 'Now.' Not an order, though. A polite request. He actually said please."

I looked at Robin. "Have fun."

She said, "Oh, please. You'll be pacing the house, end up having one of your sleepless nights." To Milo: "Take care of him, or no more beer."

He crossed his heart. I kissed her and we hurried down to the car.

As he sped down to the Glen and headed south, I said, "Were you shielding Robin, or did he really not say?"

"The latter. One thing I didn 't say in front of her. He sounded scared."

Ten P.M. The night was kind to the industrial wasteland. A hospital security guard was waiting on the road just outside the turnoff, idly aiming a flashlight beam at the ground. As we drove up, he illuminated the unmarked's license plate and waved us forward hurriedly.

"Straight through," he told Milo. "They're waiting for you."

"Who's they?"

"Everyone."

The guard in the booth flipped the barrier arm as we approached. We drove through without being questioned.

"No surrendering the gun?" I said. "When do they unfurl the red rug?"

"Too easy," said Milo. "I hate it when things go too easy."

At the parking lot, a black tech with salt-and-pepper hair pointed out the closest parking space. Milo muttered, "Now I have to tip him."

When we got out of the car, the tech said, "Hal Cleveland. I'll take you to Mr. Swig."

Hurrying toward the inner fence without waiting. Running ahead the way Dollard had done, he kept checking to see if we were with him.

"What's the story?" Milo asked him.

Cleveland shook his head. "I'll leave that to Mr. Swig."

At night, the yard was empty. And different, the dirt frosty and blue-gray under high-voltage lights, scooped in places like ice cream. Cleveland half-jogged. It was nice being able to cross without fear of some psychotic jumping me. Still, I found myself checking my back.

We reached the far gate and Cleveland unlocked it with a quick twist. The main building didn't look much different- still ashen and ugly, the clouded plastic windows gaping like an endless series of beseeching mouths. Another guard blocked the door. Armed with baton and gun. First time I'd seen a uniform-or weapons-inside the grounds. He stepped aside for us, and Cleveland hurried us past Lindeen's cleared desk, past the brassy flash of bowling trophies, through the silent hallway. Past Swig's office, all the other administrative doors, straight to the elevator. A quick, uninterrupted ride up to C Ward. Cleveland wedged himself in a corner, played with his keys.

When the elevator door opened, another tech, big and thick and bearded, was positioned right in front of us. He stepped back to let us exit. Cleveland stayed in the lift and rode it back down.

The bearded tech took us through the double doors.

William Swig stood midway up the corridor. In front of Peake's room. Peake's door was closed. Another pair of uniformed guards was positioned a few feet away. The bearded man left us to join two other techs, their backs against the facing wall.

No men in khaki. But for the hum of the air conditioner, the ward was silent.

Swig saw us and shook his head very hard, as if denying a harsh reality. He had on a navy polo shirt, jeans, running shoes. The filmy strands atop his head puffed at odd angles. Overhead fluorescents heightened the contrast between his facial moles and the pallid skin that hosted them. Dark dots, like braille, punctuating the message on his face.

Nothing ambiguous about the communication: pure fear.

He opened Peake's door, winced, gave a ringmaster's flourish.

Not that much blood.

A single scarlet python.

Winding its way toward us from the far right-hand corner of the cell. About three feet from the spot where Peake had played Jesus.

Otherwise the room looked the same. Messy bed. Wall restraints bolted in place. That same burning smell mixed with something coppery-sweet.

No sign of Peake.

The blood trail stopped halfway across the floor, its point of origin below the body.

Stocky body, lying facedown. Plaid shirt, blue jeans, sneakers. A head full of coarse gray hair. Arms outstretched, almost relaxed-looking. Thick forearms. The skin had already gone grayish-green.

"Dollard," said Milo. "When?"

"We don't know," said Swig. "Someone discovered him two hours ago."

"And you called me forty-five minutes ago?"

"We had to conduct our own search first," said Swig. He picked at a mole, brought a rosy flush to its borders.

"And?"

Swig looked away. "We haven't found him."

Milo was silent.

"Look," said Swig, "we had to do our own search first. I'm not even sure I should've called you. It's sheriff's jurisdiction-actually, it's our jurisdiction."

"So you did me a favor," said Milo.

"You had an interest in Peake. I'm frying to cooperate."

Milo stepped closer to the body, kneeled, looked under Dollard's chin.

"Looks like one transverse cut," he said. "Has anyone moved him?"

"No," said Swig. "Nothing's been touched."

"Who found him?"

Swig pointed to one of the three techs. "Bart did." The man stepped forward. Young, Chinese, delicately built, but with the oversized arms of a bodybuilder. His badge photo was that of a stunned child. B.L. Quan, Tech II.