I was a ways back but still had to stop short, managing to avoid tire-squeal and skidding only slightly. The Toyota remained on the road, brake lights on. I pulled over to the right shoulder, kept the Seville in drive, and watched.

A car was coming from the opposite direction.

When it passed, the Toyota crossed Mulholland diagonally, rolling up a driveway and coming to rest on a wide concrete pad in front of a high iron gate.

Two faint lights- fixtures on brick posts. Everything else was foliage and darkness.

The Toyota's passenger door opened and the man got out, briefly revealed by the dome light, but his back was to me.

He walked up to one of the gateposts and touched it. Pushing a button.

As the gate started to slide open, I edged back onto the road and drove forward a bit.

Then the Toyota backed out and straightened and I waited til it drove off.

The gate was open and the man was walking through. With my lights still off, I zoomed past- just another bad driver. The sound made the man turn, as I'd hoped he would.

During the split second, I studied him, helped by the gatepost lights.

A face I'd seen before.

Lean, intelligent. Full lips. Long hair slicked back. Hollow cheeks, arched eyebrows.

James Dean with an attitude.

A short man, but not Cruvic.

Casey Locking, Hope's prize student.

He scratched his ear.

If I hadn't known about the skull ring, I wouldn't have seen it, glinting from his delicate white hand.

I sped back toward the Mulholland intersection.

Hope and Cruvic.

Hope's student with Cruvic's nurse.

Did Locking live behind the gates?

Nice digs for a grad student. Well-to-do parents? Or was it Cruvic's place, and time for a conference?

Stopping, I did a three-point turn and headed back toward the house, pausing far enough from the gateposts to make sure no one was outside, then rolling forward slowly. The address was marked by small white numbers on the left-hand post and I memorized them.

What would a psych grad student have to do with fertility or abortions?

Carrying on Hope's “consultation”?

Something corrupt in a big way? A wide enough net to snare Hope and Mandy Wright?

Or something benign- a shared academic project on unwanted pregnancies, the psychological effects of infertility, whatever.

But Locking had never mentioned anything like that and Hope hadn't published on those topics.

And scholarship didn't explain Locking getting a lift from Cruvic's nurse.

None of it made sense.

When I pulled up in front of the house Robin and Spike were climbing the steps. I'd forgotten about the pizza.

She waved and he whirled around and stacked himself, head out, feet planted, as if competing at a dog show. Glaring til he heard my “Hi!” Then he began straining at the leash and Robin let him run down to greet me.

As I rubbed his head, he bayed like a hound and butted. Finally he shook himself off and led me up to Robin.

I pulled her up against me and kissed her deeply.

“Boy,” she said. “What perfume did I put on this morning?”

“Forget perfume,” I said. “Eternal love.” I kissed her again, then she unlocked the door and let us in.

“How'd the emergency repair go?” I said.

She laughed and bent her head forward, flexing her neck and shaking out her curls. “Guitar 911, I salvaged most of the instruments. Poor Montana. Top of that I've got more work to do, tonight. Promised to fix Eno Burke's double-neck for a recording session tomorrow.”

“You're kidding.”

“Wish I was. At least they're paying me triple.”

I rubbed her shoulders. “All-nighter?”

“Hopefully not. I need a nap, first.”

“Want me to make you some coffee?”

“No, thanks, I've been coffeeing all day- sorry, Alex, were you planning on some quality time?”

“I'm always open-minded.”

She pressed her back against my chest. “How about a nap, together? You can tell me bedtime stories.”

Later that night, I sat in my robe in my office and went through the mail. Bills, liars trying to sell me things, and a long-overdue check from a lawyer who collected Ferraris.

I couldn't stop thinking of Locking and Nurse Anna… self-control.

I'd been unable to reach Milo anywhere. Then I remembered he was visiting clubs on the Strip tonight.

Lumbering among the beautiful people.

That brought a smile to my lips.

I checked in with my service.

Professor Julia Steinberger had called just after I'd left for Beverly Hills.

Had she remembered something?

She'd left a campus number and a Hancock Park exchange.

Her husband answered at the second ring and said, “She's not home, probably won't be back for a while. Why don't you try her tomorrow at her office.”

Friendly, but tired.

I left my name, put on sweats and a T-shirt, went over to Spike's resting place in the kitchen, and asked if he wanted to get a little exercise. He ignored me but when I took out his leash, he bounded to his stumpy feet and followed me to the door.

Outside, I could hear Robin hammering.

Spike and I took a long walk up the Glen, turned onto some dark side streets where the sweet smell of budding pittosporum trees was almost overpowering.

Stopping from time to time as he paused, looked around, growled at unseen things.

19

At 9:00 A.M. I tried Julia Steinberger's office but she wasn't in and the Chemistry Department office said she was teaching a graduate seminar til noon.

I had other things to do on campus.

In the Psychology office, three secretaries sat at computer screens but the receptionist's desk was empty. Mail was piled high on the counter and several students stood at the bulletin board reading employment ads.

I said, “Excuse me,” and the nearest typist looked up. Young, cute, redheaded.

Showing her my faculty card from the med school crosstown, I said, “This probably makes me persona non grata, but perhaps you'll be kind enough to help me anyway.”

“Ooh,” she said, smiling, still punching keys. “Treason, Doctor? Well, I don't care about football. What can I do for you?”

“I'm looking for a grad student named Casey Locking.”

“He's got an office down in the basement but he isn't here too often, mostly works out of his house.”

She made a trip to the back, came back empty-handed.

“That's funny. His folder's gone. Hold on.”

She typed, switched computer files, brought up a list of names. “Here we go. Room B-five-three-three-one, you can use the phone at the end of the counter.”

I did. No answer. I went downstairs, anyway. Most of the basement rooms were labs. Locking's was marked by an index card. No answer to my knock.

Back upstairs, I told the redhead, “Not in. Too bad. He applied for a job and I was going to set up an appointment.”

“Would you like his home number?”

“I guess I could try it.”

She wrote something down. Out in the lobby I read it: A 213 number with an 858 prefix. Hollywood Hills, east of La Cienega. Not the Mulholland house.

So he'd gone there to meet someone. Probably Cruvic.

His folder gone. I used a lobby pay phone and called the number. Locking's liquid voice said, “No one home. Speak or forget it.” Hanging up, I left the building.

Time to visit the History Department.

Hays Hall was one of the U's oldest buildings, just behind Palmer Library and, like Palmer, yellowish limestone grimy with pollution. Seacrest's office was on the top floor, up three flights and at the end of an echoing, musty hallway lined with carved mahogany doors. His door was open but he wasn't inside.