Corn and beans and tomatoes and peppers. The sign says it's for the animals, so they'll have fresh food. I've seen chimps eating corn, so gorillas probably do, too, and that gets me thinking.

I also love corn, steamed sweet, but we never had it at home. Once, when I was in sixth grade, the school threw a Thanksgiving brunch out in the play yard- turkey and corn and sweet potatoes with marshmallows for anyone who paid. Everything piled high on long tables, moms in aprons spooning it out. I went into town to have a look, even though I had no money to buy anything. I hung around till the end, found a couple of loose quarters and played some ski-bowl, but lunch was out of the question- five dollars.

But one of the PTA ladies saw me looking at the corn and gave me a whole ear, daisy-yellow and shiny with butter, along with a turkey leg big enough for a family. I took it under a tree and ate, and that was the best Thanksgiving I ever had.

Now I move closer to the vegetable patch and look around.

Clear.

Quickly, I hop over the rope, go straight to the corn, break off three ears, and stuff them in my pockets. They stick out, so I tuck them under my T-shirt, hop back over like nothing happened, and walk slowly till I find a bathroom.

I go into one of the stalls, close the door, sit on the toilet lid, and take out one of the corns, peeling off the leaves and that hairy stuff and wondering what it'll taste like raw.

It's pretty good. Hard, crunchy, not nearly as delicious as steamed corn with butter, but it does have a sweet corn taste. I eat two ears quickly, the third more slowly, chewing hard and getting every bit down while reading the cuss-word graffiti all over the walls. When I'm finished, I lick all the corn taste from the cobs, toss them into the corner of the stall, take a leak, and use the bathroom sink to wash my face and hands. Then I roll up my jeans and wash the sides of my legs, too.

My stomach hurts, but differently.

Too full. I pigged out.

Your lunch is now mine, gorilla.

Revenge is as sweet as corn!

17

Walking back to the squad room, Stu said, “He only beat her once. What a guy.”

“Going over us, to Schoelkopf,” said Petra. “Manipulative.” Being collegial, then telling herself to hell with it. Say what was really on her mind.

She stopped and leaned against a locker. “Why'd you bring up the book?”

Stu leaned, too. “It was something tangible, and I didn't want one of his lectures on wishful thinking versus evidence.”

“We got a lecture anyway.”

He shrugged.

She said, “He thinks the book's bull. You agree with him, don't you?”

He straightened and, with one hand, pinched the knot of his tie. “Do I think it's thunder and lightning? No, but the lab will run prints on the book, and if it's a homeless guy, there's a chance he's got a file somewhere so maybe we can locate him. If it turns out to be nothing, we're no worse off.”

She didn't answer.

He said, “What's the matter?”

“It threw me, your bringing it up like that.”

“Hey, even I can be full of surprises.” His eyes didn't yield. He walked away, not looking back to see if she'd followed.

Petra stood there, hands clenched. She recalled Kathy's curtness last night on the phone. If it was a marital thing, she couldn't expect him to let it ride. Okay, cool down, concentrate on the job. But she hated surprises.

Of the twenty-five other Hollywood detectives on the morning roster, six were at their desks, sorting mug shots, typing at newly donated and still-baffling computers, muttering into phones, reading murder books. All looked up as Petra and Stu entered, and shot sympathetic looks.

Any detective who loved mysteries going into the job had a quick change of heart. The Ramsey case was the worse kind of whodunit. The room smelled exactly like what it was: a windowless space seasoned by mostly male frustration.

A black D-II named Wilson Fournier said, “Knew you were gonna have fun when the boss came in early chewing gum but with no gum in his mouth.”

Petra smiled at him, and he resumed scanning gangbanger photos. Stu was at his desk facing hers, at the rear. She sat down and waited.

Stu said, “What do you want to do about looking for similars?”

“Not much.”

He hooked his thumbs under his suspender straps. His 9mm was nestled in a high shoulder holster. Petra was wearing hers the same way. It hurt her arm, and she removed it.

“The way I see it,” said Stu, “we've got two choices. Go over to Parker and pull microfiche all week, then we'd still have to get on the horn in order to check out Burbank and Atwater and Glendale or any county district. Or do it all telephonically with every homicide D we can find. Schoelkopf said two or three years; let's do two. We could get lucky and move through it within the week. Personally, I'd rather talk to real people than deal with the files downtown, but it's up to you.”

“The realer the better,” said Petra. “How do we prioritize? Do I call around first or try to reach this Darrell?”

“Let's devote mornings to the scut, do real work in the afternoon.” He glanced at his watch. “You check out Darrell, and I'll start nosing around the studios.”

Petra stared down the length of the room. “Speaking of real people, we can start with our colleagues here. It's a waste of time, but so's the rest of it.”

“Charity begins at home. Go for it.”

She stood up, pushed hair back from her face, cleared her throat dramatically. Three of the six detectives looked up.

“Gentlemen,” she announced, and the remaining three stopped what they were doing.

“As you know, Detective Bishop and I have been assigned a fascinating case, one so fascinating that word has come from above to be extra thorough. In order to establish the proper context.” Snickers. “Because we will- quote unquote- be graded.”

Grim looks all around.

“Detective Bishop and I desire a good grade, and so we request your help in locating the unknown perpetrator of this nefarious crime- who, of course, is totally unknown and must be sought out with the utmost care so as not to prejudice the investigation.”

Knowing smiles. She described the crime scene, Lisa's wounds, and said, “Any 187's within the last two years bear any resemblance?”

Head shakes.

A detective named Markus said, “Where was O.J. at the time?”

Laughter.

“Thank you, gentlemen.” She sat down to light applause.

Stu was clapping, too. He looked fine now, the blue eyes warm again. Maybe he was just sleep-deprived.

“Six down,” he said. “A few hundred to go- how about we divide up the districts on the vertical. I take east of here and you take west?”

There was lots more crime east of Hollywood- more detectives, more files. He was giving himself the lion's share of the scut. Feeling guilty? Petra said, “You've got all the studios; I've only got Darrell. I'll take east.”

“No, it's okay,” he said. “I told Kathy not to expect me soon.” He blinked rapidly, as if his eyes hurt, and picked up the phone.

A divorce after all this time? Petra wanted to reach out to him. She said, “Noon break before we go our separate ways? Musso and Frank?”

He hesitated. Then: “Sure, we deserve it.” Starting to punch numbers, he stopped himself. “Someone should also call those sheriff's guys- De la Torre and Banks- find out if they learned anything about Lisa's DV complaint.”

“The news broadcast said she never filed a formal complaint.”

“There you go,” said Stu. “The news broadcast always tells the truth.”

She called Downtown Sheriff's Homicide and asked for Hector De la Torre or Detective Banks, not remembering- or knowing- the younger one's first name. Banks came on the line, greeting her with surprising warmth. “Thought you might call.”