Bartell slammed his door.

Milo said, “Your friendly neighborhood policeman, making friends and spreading good cheer wherever he goes.”

As we drove away, he said, “Interesting how Bartell assumed Gavin had done something to Kayla. You used the word ‘obsessive.’ ”

“Bartell’s hostility could just be resentment at someone sniffing around his angel. But obsessiveness can be a side effect of head injury.”

“What about that pigsty room? Kid’s mother claims he used to be neat. That fits with brain damage?”

“Catch a strong blow to the frontal lobes, and there can be all sorts of changes.”

“Permanent?”

“Depends on the severity of the injury. In most cases, it’s temporary.”

“Gavin got hurt ten months ago.”

“Not a good sign,” I said. “I’d like to know how he was functioning, in general. The student ID in his pocket was two years old. Assuming he dropped out, what’s he been doing since then?”

“Maybe getting on the bad side of the wrong people,” he said. “Getting obsessive. I’ll have another go-round with Sheila. Bartell said she was weird. You spot anything?”

“The context we saw her in, anything less than breakdown would be weird.”

“Yeah… I’ll check the father out when he gets back from Atlanta… I love my job- enough for one night. Drop me back at the Glen and nighty-night.”

I got onto Sunset and crossed the border into Holmby Hills. Milo said, “The big question right now is, who was the girl? And why impale her and not Gavin?”

“That and the way she was left says a sexual thing,” I said. “Eliminate the male, have your way with the female.”

“Think the coroner will find evidence of sexual assault?”

“If we’re dealing with a sexual psychopath, the impalement might suffice.”

“Surrogate penetration?”

I nodded.

“So maybe it’s a twisted thing,” he said. “Nothing to do with the victims, they were just a couple of kids happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“It could go that way,” I said.

He laughed softly. “And I volunteered for this one.”

“Who better than you?” I said.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning you’ll do a good job on it.”

He didn’t answer. I slowed down for a couple of turns, got on a straight stretch, and glanced at him. The merest excuse for a smile wormed its way across his lips.

“What a pal,” he said.

The following morning I had an early breakfast with Allison Gwynn before her first patient. Her office is in Santa Monica, on Montana, east of Boutique Row, and we met at a pastry shop nearby. It was 7:40 A.M., and the place hadn’t yet filled with people of leisure. Allison had on a white linen suit and white sandals that set off her long black hair. She never goes out without makeup and an assortment of serious jewelry. Today it was coral and gold, pieces we’d picked up on a recent trip to Santa Fe.

She was there when I arrived, had finished half a cup of coffee. “Good morning. Don’t you look handsome.”

I kissed her and sat down. “Morning, Gorgeous.”

We’d been seeing each other for a little over six months, were still in that stage where the pulse quickened and the body flushed.

We ordered sweet rolls and set about getting into conversational gear. At first it was small things, then sexual banter, then work. Shoptalk can kill a relationship, but so far I’d enjoyed it.

She went first. Busy week, grading papers for the courses she taught, a full patient load, volunteering at a hospice. Eventually, we got around to talking about the previous night. Allison takes an interest in what I do- more than an interest. She’s attracted to the ugliest aspects of human behavior, and sometimes I wonder if that isn’t part of what cements us. Maybe it’s life experience. She was sexually humiliated as a teenager, widowed in her twenties, carries a gun in her purse, and loves to shoot at paper human targets. I don’t think much about it. Too much analysis, and there’s no time to live.

I described the crime scene.

She said, “ Mulholland Drive. When I went to Beverly, we used to go up there to park all the time.”

“We?”

She grinned. “Me and the other alleged virgins.”

“A religious experience.”

“Not back then, you can be sure of that,” she said. “Young boys and all that- too much enthusiasm, not enough finesse.”

I laughed. “So it was a well-known make-out spot.”

“That you missed out on, you poor Midwest boy. Yup, my dear, Mulholland was the make-out spot. Probably still is, though there’s probably less lover’s lane stuff going on because kids are allowed to do it in their own rooms. I’m amazed at how many of my patients go along with that. You know the rationale: Better I should know where they are.”

“There are two families who probably feel that way right now.”

She pushed hair behind her ear. “Tragic.”

The sweet rolls arrived, coated with almond slivers, warm. She said, “A vacant house. That creative we weren’t. They probably spotted the FOR SALE sign and the open gate, seized the opportunity. Poor parents. First the boy’s accident, now this. You said he changed. In what way?”

“His room was a sty, and his mother claimed he’d once been neat. She didn’t say much. It wasn’t the time to press.”

“No, of course not.”

I said, “His ex-girlfriend’s father described him as obsessive.”

“In what way?”

“Showing up at the girl’s house unexpectedly. When she wasn’t home, he’d bug the father, hang around asking questions. The father also implied Gavin had been overly persistent with his daughter. His first reaction when he thought his daughter was dead was that Gavin had done something to her.”

“That could be more like Protective Dad.”

“Could be.”

“Was there any postconcussive syndrome?” she said. “Loss of consciousness, blurred vision, disorientation?”

“Some transitory memory loss is all the mother mentioned.”

“The crash was ten months ago,” she said. “And the mother’s still talking about him as changed.”

“I know,” I said. “The damage might’ve been permanent. But I’m not sure any of that matters, Ally. Make-out spots attract voyeurs and worse. Either Gavin and the girl were interrupted midcoitus, or they were positioned to look that way.”

“A sicko.” She studied her sweet roll but didn’t touch it. Smiled. “To be technical.”

“It’s a little early in the day for technical,” I said.

“ Mulholland Drive,” she said. “The things we do when we think we’re immortal.”

We strolled the three blocks to her office. Allison’s hand clasped my biceps. Her open-toed white shoes had generous heels, and that brought the top of her head to my bottom lip. A bit of ocean breeze lifted her hair, and soft strands brushed against my face.

She said, “ Milo volunteered for this one?”

“He didn’t seem to need any convincing.”

“I guess it makes sense,” she said. “He’s been looking pretty bored.”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

“You’d know better, but that’s how it’s seemed to me.”

“He’ll be getting plenty of stimulation on this one.”

“So will you.”

“If I’m needed.”

She laughed. “Be good for you, too.”

“I’ve been looking bored?”

“More like restless. All that caged animal energy.”

I growled and beat my chest with my free hand and let out a low-volume Tarzan roar. Two women power-walking our way scrunched up their lips and gave us wide berth as they passed.

“You just made their day,” she said.

Milo , bored. He griped so much about work stress, personal stress, the state of the world, anything at hand, that I’d never considered the concept.