A reduction in the eighty would have upset Lisa's investment plans.

Had Ramsey balked after Lisa got a job, threatened to take her back to court, and was that why she hadn't followed through?

Or was it something simple- she'd chosen another broker?

Not likely. Why would she have left the thousand sitting there with Ghadoomian?

Was money another issue between the Ramseys?

Money and thwarted passion- no better setup for murder.

She spent an hour on the phone talking to civil servants at the Hall of Records, finally located the original Ramsey divorce papers. The final decree had been granted a little over five months ago. No obvious complications, no petitions to alter support, so if Ramsey had balked, he hadn't made it official.

Then a message came through to call ID Division at Parker Center, no name.

The civilian clerk there said, “I'll put you through to Officer Portwine.”

She knew the name but not the face. Portwine was one of the prints specialists; she'd seen his signature on reports.

He had a reedy voice and a humorless, rapid delivery. “Thanks for calling back. This could be either a major-league screwup or something interesting, hope you can tell me which.”

“What's wrong?” said Petra.

“You sent us some material from the Lisa Boehlinger-Ramsey crime scene- food wrapper and a book. We obtained numerous prints, most likely female from the size, but no match in any of our files. I was just about to write you a report to that effect when I got another batch, supposedly from another case- burglary on North Gardner, latents from a kitchen knife and some food containers. I had a spare minute, so I looked at them, and they matched yours. So what I need to know is was there some kind of mix-up in the batch numbers, the forms getting screwed up? Because it's bizarre, two batches coming from Hollywood, one after the other, and we get the exact same prints. We caught hell about our cataloging last year. Even though we're careful, you know how much stuff we process. We've been bending over backwards, meaning if there is a problem on this one, it's on your end, not ours.”

How could a guy talk so fast? Enduring the speech, Petra had dug her nails into her palm.

“When was the burglary?” she said.

“Last night. A Six car handled it and referred it to one of your D's- W. B. Fournier.”

Petra looked over at Wil's desk. Gone and checked out.

“What kind of food containers were printed?”

“Plastic orange juice jug, the prints were on the paper label. And a pineapple- that was interesting, never printed a pineapple before. There're some other samples supposedly coming, says here a Krazy Glue tape from stainless steel plumbing fixtures, and a bottle of shampoo, also tape from… looks like a refrigerator, yes, a refrigerator. Sounds like a kitchen burglary. So what's the story?”

“I don't know a thing about the burglary. All we sent you from Ramsey were the food wrapper and the book and the victim's clothing.”

“You're telling me this other material isn't yours?”

“That is exactly what I'm telling you,” said Petra.

Portwine whistled. “Two sets of prints from the same person, two different crime scenes.”

“Looks that way,” said Petra. Her heart was racing. “Do you still have the Ramsey batch- specifically, the book?”

“Nope, sent it down to evidence yesterday at seventeen hundred hours, but I did keep a copy of the prints. Some pretty distinctive ridges, that's how I noticed the match.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“Welcome,” said Portwine, grudgingly. “At least we don't have a problem.”

She left Wil Fournier a note to get in touch. Still no message from Stu, and he didn't pick up his cell phone.

After driving downtown to Parker Center, she smiled her way into the employee parking lot and went up to the third-floor evidence room, where she filled out a requisition for the library book. The evidence warden was a dyed-blond black woman named Sipes who was unimpressed by the fact that the victim was L. Boehlinger-Ramsey and pointed out to Petra that she hadn't written in the case number clearly. Petra erased and rewrote and Sipes disappeared behind endless rows of beige metal shelving, returning ten minutes later, shaking her head. “That lot number hasn't been checked in.”

“I'm sure it has,” said Petra. “Last night. Officer Portwine from ID sent it over yesterday at five P.M.”

“Yesterday? Why didn't you say so? That would be in a different place.”

Another fifteen minutes passed before Petra had the evidence envelope in hand and Sipes's permission to take it.

Back in the Ford, she removed the book. Our Presidents: The March of American History.

Bag lady with an interest in government and burglary. Breaking into homes stealing food? Most likely schizo. She flipped pages, looking for notes in the margin, some overlooked bit of scrap. Nothing. Remarkably, the checkout card was still in the circulation packet.

The Hillhurst branch. She remembered that. No activity for nine months.

No activity since Bag Lady had lifted it?

Petra tried to imagine her living on the street, thieving, reading. Stealing food and knowledge. There was a certain crazy romanticism to that.

Squatting to pee on a rock. Schizo Girl-Thoreau.

She drove back to Hollywood, found the Hillhurst branch in a strip mall a few blocks south of Los Feliz. Strange setup, not what Petra thought of as a library. Windowless slab, pure government gray-think, right next to a supermarket. Loose shopping carts nearly blocked the front door. A sign said it was a temporary location.

She went in carrying the evidence packet and her business card. The place was one big room, a gray-haired female librarian at a desk in the corner talking on the phone, a younger woman at the checkout desk, one patron- a very old guy in a cloth cap reading the morning paper, a furled umbrella on the table near his elbow, though the June sky was baby blue and rain hadn't fallen in months.

Natural-birch bookshelves on rollers, reading tables of the same pale wood. Travel posters trying to take the place of windows- what a pathetic bit of pretense.

The older librarian was engrossed in her phone chat, and Petra headed for checkout. The young woman was Hispanic, tall, well dressed in a budget gray rayon suit that looked better than it deserved to, draped over her slinky form. She had a pleasant face, warm eyes, decent skin, but what caught Petra's attention was her hair- black, thick, straight, hanging below the hem of her miniskirt. Like that country singer- Crystal Gayle.

“May I help you?”

Petra introduced herself and showed the card.

“Magda Solis,” said the woman, clearly thrown by the Homicide designation.

Petra slipped the red book out and placed it on the counter. Magda Solis's right hand flew to her left bosom. “Oh no, has something happened to him?”

“Him?”

“The little boy who…” Solis looked over at the gray-haired librarian.

“The boy who stole it?” said Petra. Small body impression, small hands, not a woman, a kid- why hadn't she thought of it? Suddenly, she thought of the painting she'd begun last night, the tree full of lost children, and fought the shudder that began at her shoulders and snaked its way down to her navel.

Solis scratched her chin. “Can we talk outside?”

“Sure.”

Solis hurried over to the older woman in a slightly flat-footed gait that managed to be graceful, arms bent tensely, glorious hair flapping. She said something that made the boss librarian frown, and returned, gnawing her lip.

“Okay, I'm on break.”

Out in the strip mall, near Petra's Ford, she said, “I'm a trainee, didn't want my supervisor to hear. Did something happen to him?”