Raising her voice. The coffee shop was nearly empty, but the few patrons present turned to stare. Milo glared at them until they turned away.

“Go through what, ma’am?”

Gallegos whimpered and wiped her eyes. “Legal stuff, the courts- I never want to see an affidavit again. Please keep me out of it.”

“I’m not out to cause you grief, Ms. Gallegos, but I do need to talk to anyone Gavin had conflict with.”

Gallegos shook her head. “There was no conflict. I never yelled at Gavin, never complained. It’s just that the problem got out of hand. He needed to deal with it.”

“Did he stop?” I said.

“Yes.”

“Completely?”

“Completely.”

Her eyes danced to one side. I said, “You never heard from him again?”

She picked at her napkin, shredded the corners, created a small pile of confetti that she collected and placed on her saucer.

“It was basically over,” she said. “It was over.” Her voice shook.

Milo said, “Beth, you’re obviously a good person. That means you’re also a very poor liar.”

Gallegos glanced at the coffee shop door, as if plotting her escape.

Milo said, “What happened?”

“It was just once,” she said. “A month ago. Not really a problem call, a nothing call, that’s why I never told anyone.”

“Where’d he find you?”

“Here. At the office. I was between patients, and the secretary handed me the phone. He told her he was a friend. She has no idea about my… history with Gavin. When I heard his voice I… it made my heart pound, and I broke into a sweat. But he was… okay. Nothing weird. He said he was sorry for what he’d done, wanted to apologize. Then he told me he’d met someone and was getting his life together, and he hoped I’d forgive him. I said I already had, and that was that.”

“You figure he was telling the truth?” said Milo. “About meeting someone.”

“He sounded sincere,” she said. “I told him congratulations, I was happy for him.” She exhaled. “He sounded more… mature. Settled.”

“Did he tell you about the person he’d met?”

“No. He sounded happy.”

“He’s happy, he doesn’t bug you.”

“That, too,” she said, “but at the time what I thought was, ‘Gavin’s finally getting it together.’ ” She touched the handle of her teacup, swirled the bag. “I never disliked him, Lieutenant. All I ever felt for him was pity. And fear, when things got really intense. But I was happy things were working out for him.”

I said, “Anson’s probably happy, too.”

“I didn’t tell Anson about the call.”

“Too upsetting.”

“He’s been through enough with me,” she said. “We just started dating when the stalking began. It’s not a great way to start a relationship.”

Milo said, “Anson must’ve been pretty upset.”

“Wouldn’t anyone be?” Gallegos’s eyes got clearer. “You’re not going to talk to him, are you?”

“We are, Beth.”

“Why?”

“Like I said, anyone who had conflict with Gavin.”

“Anson didn’t have conflict- please, don’t go there- don’t draw Anson into this. He’d never hurt Gavin, or anyone else. He’s not like that.”

“Easygoing?” said Milo.

“Mature. Disciplined. Anson knows how to control himself.”

“What kind of work does he do?”

“Work?” said Gallegos.

“His job.”

“You’re actually going to talk to him?”

“We have to, ma’am.”

Beth Gallegos placed her face in her hands and kept it there for several moments. When she revealed herself again, she’d gone pale. “I’m so, so sorry Gavin got killed. But I really can’t stand any more of this. When Gavin had his trial I was subpoenaed; it was horrible.”

“Testifying was rough.”

“Being there was rough. The people you see in the halls. The smells, the waiting. I waited an entire day and never was called to testify. Thank God. It really wasn’t much of a trial, Gavin admitted what he’d done. Later, he and his parents walked right past me and his mother looked at me as if I was the guilty one. I didn’t even tell Anson I was going, didn’t want him to lose a day’s work.” Her attention shifted to the left. She bit her lip. “No, that’s not the real reason. I didn’t want the case to… pollute my relationship. I want Anson to see me as someone strong. Please let us be.”

Milo said, “Beth, I have no interest in adding stress to your life. And there’s no reason to believe you- or Anson-will be involved any further. But this is a homicide investigation, and I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t talk to him.”

“Okay,” Gallegos said, barely audible. “I understand… stuff happens.”

“What’s Anson’s address?”

“We live together. At his place. Ogden Drive, near Beverly. But he won’t be there, he’s working.”

“Where?”

“He teaches martial arts,” she said. “Karate, tae kwan do, kickboxing. He was a regional kickboxing champ back in Florida, just got hired by a dojo near where we live. Wilshire near Crescent Heights. He also does youth work. On Sunday, for a ministry in Bell Gardens. We’re both Christians, met at a church mixer. We’re getting married in September.”

“Congratulations.”

“He’s a great guy,” said Gallegos. “He loves me and gives me my space.”

CHAPTER 18

I drove east, toward Anson Coniff’s dojo.

Milo said, “Gavin had found someone to rock his world.”

“At least he saw it that way.”

“If we’re talking about the blonde, he was seeing straight. Why can’t I find out who the hell she is?”

A moment later: “A martial arts instructor. Maybe you can show off your whatchamacallit- those karate dances-”

“Katas,” I said. “It’s been years, I’m out of shape.”

“You make it to black belt?”

“Brown.”

“Why’d you stop?”

“Not angry enough.”

“I thought martial arts helped control anger.”

“Martial arts is like fire,” I said. “You can cook or burn.”

“Well let’s see if Mr. Conniff’s the smoldering type.”

STEADFAST MARTIAL ARTS AND SELF-DEFENSE

One large room, high-ceilinged and mirrored, floored with bright blue exercise mats. Years ago, I’d taken karate from a Czech Jew who’d learned to defend himself during the Nazi era. I had lost interest, lost my skills. But walking into the dojo, smelling the sweat and the discipline, brought back memories and I found myself mentally reviewing the poses and the movements.

Anson Conniff was five-four, maybe 130, with a boyish face, a toned body, and long, lank, light brown hair highlighted gold at the tips.

Surfer-dude, slightly miniaturized. He wore white karate togs, a black belt, spoke in a loud, crisp voice to a dozen beginners, all women. An older, white-haired Asian informed us the class would end in ten minutes and asked us to stand to one side.

Conniff ran the women through a half dozen more poses, then released them. They dabbed their brows, collected their gym bags, and headed out the door as we approached.

Conniff smiled. “Can I help you, gentlemen?”

Milo flashed the badge, and the smile disintegrated.

“Police? What about?”

“Gavin Quick.”

“Him,” said Conniff. “Beth read about him in the paper and told me.” He laughed.

“Something funny, Mr. Conniff?”

“Not his death, I’d never laugh at that. It’s just funny that you’d be talking to me about it- kind of like a movie script. But I guess you’re just doing your job.”

Conniff flipped hair out of his face.

Milo said, “Why’s that?”

“Because the idea of my killing anyone- hurting anyone- is absurd. I’m a Christian, and that makes me prolife and antideath.”

“Oh,” said Milo. “I thought you might be laughing about Gavin Quick being dead. Because of what he did to Beth.”

The height disparity between Milo and Conniff was conspicuous. Karate and other martial arts teach you how to use an opponent’s size to your advantage, but pure conversation put Conniff at a disadvantage. He tried to draw himself up.