“Something about Hope?” I said.

“Yes. Something- remember how I told you I'd had an intuition about her possibly having been abused?”

“The fierce look.”

“That was true,” she said. “She had that look. But… I- there was something else. It was last year- at the Faculty Club. Not the welcoming tea, something else- some guest lectureship, who remembers.”

Walking to her desk, she braced her palms on the top. Looked at the doll she'd fondled the first time, but made no move toward it.

“We chatted a bit, then Hope moved on to circulate and Gerry and I found someone else to talk to. Then, maybe an hour later, at the end of the evening, I went to the ladies' room and she was in there, standing at the mirror. There's an entry room before you get into the main bathroom, also mirrored, and the way it's set up, you can get a look into the bathroom as you pass. It's carpeted, I guess she didn't hear me.”

She lowered her eyes.

“She was in there, examining herself. Her arms. Her dress was cut low on the shoulders but with elbow-length sleeves. I'd noticed it, very elegant, figured it had cost a fortune. She'd pulled one of the shoulders down and was looking at her upper arm. There was a strange look in her eyes- almost hypnotized- and her expression was blank. And on the arm was a bruise. A large one. Black-and-blue. Right here.”

She touched her own bicep. “Several marks, actually. Dots. Finger marks. As if she'd been squeezed very hard. Her skin was extremely white- beautiful skin- so the contrast was dramatic, almost like tattoos. And the bruises looked fresh- hadn't yet turned that greenish-purple color.”

She hurried back to the door, fighting tears. “That's it.”

“How'd she react when you walked in?” I said.

“She yanked up the sleeve, her eyes came back into focus, and she said, “Hi, Julia,' as if nothing had happened. Then she made happy talk and put on her makeup. Chatting on and on about how different things would be if men were expected to always be in perfect face. I agreed with her and we both pretended nothing had happened. What was I supposed to say? Who did that to you?”

She opened the door. “Maybe it was nothing. Maybe she just had delicate skin, bruised easily… but when she asked me to be on the committee, I just felt as if I owed it to her.”

Dark bruises on white skin.

Seacrest's sudden anger.

I got back in the Seville and onto the 405 north.

Pasadena eats more than its share of smog but today the air was clean and the office buildings on Cordova Street shone as beautifully as a Richard Estes painting.

Storm Realty and Investment was a one-story neo-Spanish surrounded by brilliant flower beds and jacaranda trees still in purple bloom. The accompanying parking lot was pristine. I pulled in next to Milo's unmarked just as he got out. He was carrying his briefcase and a tape recorder and was wearing a gray suit, white button-down shirt, red-and-blue rep tie.

“Very GOP,” I said, looking down at his desert boots and trying not to smile.

“When in businessland, do as the businessmen. Speaking of commerce, I found a couple of Sunset Strip bars Mandy Wright just might have frequented.”

“Might?”

“No ID yet but a couple of promising maybes. We're talking big hair, perfect bodies, so an ugly girl would have stood out better. As is, I was lucky to find two bartenders who'd been working there a year ago. Neither would swear it was her, just that she looked familiar.”

“Was she working or hanging out?”

“Her line of work, is there a difference? And if she was working, they wouldn't admit it and jeopardize the liquor license. The thing that makes me think it could be a valid lead is the places were only a block apart, so maybe she was cruising. Club None and the Pit. Trouble is, neither barkeep can remember seeing her with anyone.”

“But it does put her in L.A.”

He crossed his fingers. “The other thing is, I spoke to Gunderson, the Temple City detective who handled Tessa's complaint against her old man. He's an assistant chief now, barely remembered the case, but he pulled the file and said his notes indicate they never took the complaint seriously. Considered Tessa a head case. He started to remember the father vaguely. As a nice guy- admitted to a juvenile record when he didn't have to, very up-front about everything. So Muscadine is looking increasingly righteous and let's finish with the damned committee- ready for Master Storm?”

“Before we begin, I've got some evidence of Hope being abused.” I told him Steinberger's story, then my few minutes with Seacrest.

“Bruises and a bad temper,” he said, frowning. “What, specifically, got him so pissed?”

“He was pissed at the outset, got red in the face when I told him I wanted to talk about the relationship.”

“Good. Maybe we're getting under his skin. Maybe I should work him a little more… Wouldn't that be something, he roughs her up for years and she writes the book telling women how to defend themselves.”

“Wouldn't be the first time,” I said.

“For what?”

“Style over substance. Little boxes. But if she and Seacrest were having problems, the book, all the attention it got her, could have crystallized her dissatisfaction, made her decide to finally break away. Maybe in that sense, fame was her death sentence. But as to what that has to do with Mandy Wright, I still can't come up with anything. And here's another complication: Last night I took another drive by Cruvic's office. He wasn't in but Nurse Anna was. Along with Casey Locking.”

I told him about the Mulholland house and he copied down the address.

“Shit,” he said. “Just when you thought it was safe to go back into hypothesisland- okay, I'll find out who owns it. Meanwhile, let's go persecute a mouthy kid.”

We crossed a long, quiet reception area to get to Kenneth Storm Sr.'s office, past a pair of secretaries who looked up from their keyboards resentfully, talk radio in the background.

The Storms were a testament to genetics, both bull-necked and wide-shouldered with sandy crew cuts and small, suspicious eyes that locked in place for long stretches.

Senior was fiftyish with the dissolute, puffy look of a fullback gone sedentary. He wore a navy blazer with gold buttons and a Masonic pin in the lapel. Junior's jacket was dark green, his buttons as bright as his father's.

They were both positioned behind Senior's canoe-shaped blond-oak desk, which had been cleared of everything but a cowboy bronze and a green onyx pen-and-pencil set. The office was too big for the furniture, walled in oak veneer and carpeted in beige shag. Real-estate and life-insurance achievement awards were Senior's idea of self-validation. A cigar smell filled the room but no ashtrays were in sight.

Standing in front of the desk was a rangy, hawk-nosed, gray-haired man wearing a three-piece charcoal suit, French-cuffed powder-blue shirt, and a silk tie in someone's idea of power pink. He introduced himself as Pierre Bateman, Storm's attorney, and I recalled his name from the complaint against the conduct committee. Before we had a chance to sit, he began laying down stipulations for the interview in a slow, droning voice. Kenneth Storm Jr. yawned and scratched behind his ears and stuck his index finger in and out of a buttonhole. His father stared down at the desktop.

“Furthermore,” said Bateman, “with regard to the substance of this proced-”

“Are you a criminal lawyer, sir?” said Milo.

“I'm Mr. Storm's attorney of record. I handle all his business affairs.”

“So you regard this as a business affair?”

Bateman bared his teeth. “May I continue, Detective?”

“Has Mr. Storm Jr. engaged you formally?”

“That's hardly relevant.”

“It might be if you're going to stand around making up rules.”