The north side of the street was houses; the south, dry field. Numbers 1 through 7 were cabin courts in various stages of disrepair. Elsa Campos's house was larger, a two-story redwood bungalow with a screen porch flanked by a pair of massive cedars. The surrounding earth was crusted hardpan without a stitch of landscaping. Seven-foot-high chain link surrounded the small property. The BEWARE OF DOG sign on the gate was made extraneous by the pack of twenty or so barking, jumping, mewling canines lined up behind the fence.

Terriers, spaniels, a sleek red Doberman, mongrels of all shapes and sizes, something huge and black and bearish that hung back and nosed the soil.

The noise was deafening but none of them looked mean- on the contrary, tails wagged, tongues lolled, and the smaller dogs leaped gaily and scratched at the fence.

I got out of the Seville. The racket intensified and some of the dogs ran back, circled, and charged.

At least two dozen, all decently groomed and in good health. But with that many animals, there were limits to maintenance and I could smell the yard well before I got to the gate.

No bell, no lock, just a simple latch. The dogs continued to bark and leap and several of them nuzzled the links. I could see mounds of turd forming tiny hills on the bare yard but a ten-foot radius around the house had been cleared, the rake marks still evident.

I offered my hand, palm down, to one of the spaniels, and he licked it. Then a retriever mix's tongue shot through the fence and slurped my knuckle. The Doberman ambled over, stared, walked away. Other dogs began competing for tongue space and the gate rattled. But the big black creature still held back.

As I wondered whether to enter, the front door of the screen porch opened and an old woman in a pink sweatshirt and stretch jeans came out holding a broom.

The dogs whipped around and raced to her.

She said, “Aw, get a life,” but reached into her pocket and tossed handfuls of something onto the clean dirt.

“Find it!”

The dogs scattered and began sniffing frantically around the yard. The scene looked like an early Warner Brothers cartoon. The old woman turned in my direction and came forward, dragging the broom in the dirt.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi.” It sounded like mimicry. Squinting, she continued to inspect me. Five seven and thin, she had black hair tied back in a waist-long braid; sunken, sallow cheeks that looked as dry as the dirt; claw hands barbecued brown, the nails thick and yellow. The sweatshirt said RENO! White tennies bottomed stick-legs that gave the pants no incentive to stretch.

The big black dog came over, now, in a slow, rolling gait, so hairy its eyes were hidden by pelt. Its head reached her waist and its tongue was the size of a hot-water bottle.

“Forget it, Leopold,” the woman said in a sandy voice. “Go work for treats like everyone else.”

The dog cocked its head just the way Spike does and looked up at her, eyes wet with melodrama.

“Nope, no way. Find it.”

The massive head rubbed against her belt. Reminding me of something- Mrs. Green's bullmastiff. This was my week for old women and big dogs. A deep moan escaped from beneath the hairy mouth. I could see hard muscle under black fur.

The woman looked around at the other dogs, who were still searching. Reaching into a jeans pocket, she brought out another handful- nutmeg-colored broken bits of dog biscuit.

“Find it,” she said, flinging. The dogs in the yard circled faster but the big black dog stayed put. After another surreptitious glance, the woman pulled a whole biscuit out and stuck it hurriedly into the beast's mouth.

“Okay, Leopold, now get.”

The black dog chewed contentedly, then walked away slowly.

“What is it, some kind of sheepdog?” I said.

“Bouvier des Flandres. Belgian. Can you believe someone abandoned it?”

“Must be hot under all that coat.”

She gave me a skeptical look. “They're hardy. Protective, too.”

“I've got a French bulldog,” I said. “A lot smaller but the same basic approach to life.”

“Which is what?”

“I'm a star. Feed me.”

Her face stayed impassive. “French bulldog- those are the little ones with the big ears? Never had one. That your only one?”

I nodded.

“Well, I've got twenty-nine. Counting three sick ones inside.”

“Rescues?”

“You bet. Some from pounds, the rest I pick up driving around.” She sniffed the air. “Pretty putrid, time to spread the enzyme- got this new chemical that eats up the poop. So who are you and what do you want?”

“I've been told you used to teach school here, Ms. Campos.”

“Who told you that?”

“Sheriff Botula and his-”

She snorted. “Those two. What else did they tell you? That I'm the town nut?”

“Just that you might be able to help me find out some information on a woman who grew up here. Unfortunately she's been murdered and the L.A. police have asked me to-”

“Murdered? Who are we talking about?”

“Hope Devane.”

That sucked the color out of her face. She looked back at the dogs and when she turned to me again her expression was a mixture of innocence shattered and pessimism confirmed.

“What happened to her? When?”

“Someone stabbed her in front of her house three months ago.”

“Where?”

“L.A.”

“Figures. Tell me, did she turn out to be a doctor of some kind?”

“She was a psychologist.”

“That's almost the same thing.”

“She had plans to be a doctor?” I said.

She stared past me, across the street, at the dry, empty field. Touching her cheeks with both hands, she drew back the skin, stretching it, and for a moment I saw a younger woman. “Murdered. That's unbelievable. Any idea who did it?”

“No, it's a dead end so far. That's why the police are trying to get as much background about her as they can.”

“So they asked you to come up here.”

“Right.”

“You talk about the police in third person. Meaning you're not one of them? Or are you just pompous?”

“I'm a psychologist, too, Ms. Campos. Sometimes I consult to the police.”

“Got some proof of that?”

I showed her my ID.

She studied it and handed it back. “Just wanted to make sure you weren't a reporter. I despise them because they once did a story on my dogs and painted me as a nut.”

She touched her sharp chin. “Little Hope. I don't claim to remember all my students, but I remember her. Okay, come on in.”

She began walking to the house, leaving me to open the gate for myself. The Bouvier had ambled nearly to the back of the property but as I turned the latch, it wheeled around and raced toward me.

“He's okay, Lee,” said Elsa Campos. “Don't eat him. Yet.”

I followed her up the porch and into a dim parlor crowded with cheap furniture and feed bowls. Shelves full of pottery and glass, the smell of wet fur and antiseptics. A cuckoo clock over the mantel looked more Lake Arrowhead than Switzerland.

Small room, the kitchen was three steps away. She told me to sit and headed in there. On the counter sat a blow-dryer, several squeeze bottles of canine shampoo, a microwave oven, and a plastic dog-crate. Inside the crate was something small and white and still. On top were glass ampules, plastic-capped syringes, rolls of bandages.

“Hey,” said Elsa Campos, sticking a finger through the wire door. The little dog stuck its tongue out and whimpered.

She cooed to it awhile. “Little girl Shih Tzu, one year old. Someone cracked her head with a stick, paralyzed the rear quarters, left her on a trash heap. Her legs got infected. When I got her she was a bag of bones, the pound was ready to gas her. She'll never be normal, but we'll get her adjusted to the others. Leopold will see to that. He's the alpha- head dog of the pack. He's good with weak things.”