He'd spoken to Kruvinski at home and the piece helped explain the porn broker's business shift out of live entertainment.

“We moved into video,” said the once-robust entrepreneur from his multilevel redwood/glass Sausalito-lair-with-a-bay-view. “Guys don't want to go to a theater anymore, put up with all the harassment.”

Then with typical Micky K. generosity and a Slavic smile as wide as the Embarcadero, he offered me a scotch-21 y.o. Chivas in the true-blue bottle, of course- even though he couldn't partake, himself. Liver problems. Heart. Kidneys. Last year's transplant, his second, was a beacon in the fog, but it didn't take.

I refused the booze but Micky wouldn't hear about abstinence in the name of empathy. An affectionate “Honey,” brought Mrs. Micky, the beauteous, tanned, and aerobi-toned former actress-and-model Brooke Hastings out from her state-of-the-culinary-art galley, smiling and reflecting Sausalito sunlight as she wiped Micky's brow and murmured soothing, wifey words.

“His favorite thing is watching the sea lions,” she confided in me, while pouring a generous dollop of the divine Chiv. Bros. blended brew. “Has fresh fish brought down to them every morning. He loves animals. Anything organic and alive. That's what attracted me to him.”

Then she kissed the big guy's pate in a way that went way beyond spousal duty and he smiled and looked out a picture window as big as the stage of the Love Palace Theater. Almost dreamily, and maybe he was dreaming- who's this scrivener to testify otherwise. The former Miss H. put her arm around him and he kept looking. Looking and dreaming. Like at a movie. Different from the movies he produces, but just as sensual in its own way. T.F. Miss H. crossed shapely gams and yours truly sipped Chivas, feeling the warm fire flow down ye olde deadline slave's gullet like Scottish lava. All in all, not a bad day in Xanadu. We can only hope Micky has lots more.

Brooke Hastings. An “actress” taking the name of hubby's stock-and-fertilizer company. Kruvinski's joke- had she known to what he was comparing her?

Family joke, Junior using the same name for the institute he'd supposedly attended during the year between residencies, the year after he'd left the University of Washington.

I finished the rest of the articles. No mention of the first wife, the doctor son, or any other relatives. Ending with Big Micky's health problems, enough pathos to gag a talk-show junkie.

Where was the old man, now? Moved down to L.A., so Junior could take care of him? In the big house on Mulholland, hidden behind gates?

But no kidney function meant dialysis. Equipment, monitoring.

A home clinic?

Was that where Anna the nurse had driven, the night I saw her in the car with Locking?

Private nurse for a very private patient?

Junior doctoring Senior…

But Junior was a gynecologist. Was he qualified?

A gynecologist who'd started out to be a surgeon.

Why had he left the U of Washington residency program?

And how had he filled the year?

I returned home and phoned Seattle.

The head of the surgery residency program was a man named Arnold Swenson but his secretary told me he was new to the job, having arrived the year before.

“Do you recall who the head was fourteen years ago?”

“No, because I wasn't around, either. Hold on, let me ask.”

Seconds later an older-sounding woman came on.

“This is Inga Blank, how may I help you?”

I repeated the question.

“That would be Dr. John Burwasser.”

“Is he still in practice?”

“No, he's retired. May I ask what this is concerning?”

“I'm working with the Los Angeles Police Department on a homicide case. We're trying to get information on one of your former residents.”

“A homicide case?” she said, alarmed. “Which resident?”

“Dr. Milan Cruvic.”

Her silence was worth more than words.

“Ms. Blank?”

“What has he done?”

“We're just trying to find out some background information.”

“He was only in the program briefly.”

“But you remember him well.”

More silence. “I can't give out Dr. Burwasser's number, but if you leave me yours, I'll give him the message.”

“Thank you. Isn't there something you can tell me about Dr. Cruvic?”

“I'm sorry, no.”

“But you're not surprised that the police would be interested in him.”

I heard her throat clear. “Very little surprises me nowadays.”

Not expecting any return call and figuring Milo was still with Barone, I got into jogging clothes and prepared to sweat off the frustration.

The phone rang just as I closed the door behind me and I rushed back into the house and caught it before the service picked up.

“Dr. Delaware.”

“This is Dr. Burwasser,” said a dry, testy voice. “Who are you?”

I started to explain.

“Sounds fishy,” he said.

“If you'd like, I can have Detective Sturgis call you-”

“No, I'm not wasting any time on this. Cruvic was with us for under a year, fourteen years ago.”

Not around fourteen. Brief but memorable?

“Why'd he leave?” I said.

“That's no one's business.”

“It will be soon. He was intimate with a woman who was murdered and he's a possible suspect. The more effort it takes to get the information, the more public it'll be.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Not at all, just a statement of fact, Dr. Burwasser. Did Cruvic do something to disgrace the surgery program?”

Instead of answering, he said, “I'm not impressed by murder, seen plenty of things in my day.”

“What did Dr. Cruvic do?”

“He never murdered anyone here.”

“Did he murder someone somewhere else?”

“No, of course not- is this being taped?”

“No.”

“Not that it matters, nothing I tell you is libelous because it's true, all on the record.”

“Exactly,” I said.

He didn't answer.

“What'd he do, Dr. Burwasser?”

“He stole.”

“From whom?”

“That I will not tell you because the dead are entitled to their dignity.”

That took a moment to process. “He stole from a corpse?”

“Tried to.”

“How much?”

He laughed shallowly, as if needing the release. “Hard to say, the market varies.”

“Jewelry?”

“Of sorts.” Another laugh. “Family jewels. Organs. We caught the little bastard trying to remove a heart. The only problem was, the donor wasn't quite dead.”

“My God.”

“Don't get dramatic, I said it wasn't murder. The patient was terminal- flat-lining. We were getting ready to turn off the machines and pronounce but we couldn't locate next of kin.”

“But the heart was still going.”

“Of course it was, otherwise why bother taking it out? Nice and strong. Young fellow, head trauma- motorcycle accident. Turned out to be a tourist from Germany, the idiot could have caused an international incident.”

“Who'd he try to steal the heart for?”

“Not who. What. Research. He'd conned us into giving him some lab space, said he wanted to practice gall-bladder resections on dogs, write a paper.”

“Not true?” I said.

“Oh, he worked on a few beagles but that wasn't the real reason. Idiot fancied himself a transplant surgeon, future Christiaan Barnard. I put an end to that pipe dream despite the pressure.”

“Pressure from who?”

“Politicians from California.” The last word delivered with even more contempt than the first.

“San Francisco?”

“Yup. Lots of calls from greasy characters. Apparently his father was some sort of big shot. No matter to me. Do something like that, you're out.”

“How was he caught?”

“A nurse walked in on him, got him red-handed, the fool. Middle of the night. He had a surgical kit laid out next to the patient's bed, had even made the initial incision. Lord knows how he thought he could have gotten away with it- enough, that's all I'm saying. I don't need this grief, go bother Swenson.”