"Narrow things, huh?"

"I can't see it hurting."

He scraped a tooth with a fingernail. "Guess I could make a call to Malibu Sheriffs. It's a low-crime neighborhood, there shouldn't be too much paper to wade through, assuming they keep their old files. I can also look into any public records on Mr. Trafficant. When exactly was this party?"

"August- mid-August."

He took out his notepad and wrote it down. His beer glass was empty and he reached for a breadstick.

"Hope she heals," he said softly.

"Amen."

Twirling the breadstick, he put it down. "Haven't had lunch yet. You in any mood to eat?"

"Not really."

"Me neither."

11

He'd left his unmarked around the corner from the restaurant, in a loading zone, and a meter maid was approaching it with a predatory look in her eyes.

Milo flashed his badge, wagged his finger, and grinned. The meter maid snorted, returned to her buggy, and putt-putted away.

"Power!" he said. "Intoxicating as fine cognac and it won't damage your liver."

As he got in the car, I said, "Anything new on the Santa Ana murder?"

"Shwandt's lawyers are going to use it as grounds for a mistrial."

"You're kidding."

"In lawyer logic, the similarity between this one and the Bogeyman murders casts doubt on Jobe's guilt for all of them. We only had physical evidence on Carrie, Marie Rosenhut, and Berna Mendoza. All the others were circumstantial."

"So what? He still did those three."

"Three versus fifteen. The victim load- their phrase- prejudiced the jury against him and was responsible for the death penalty. They want a retrial on Carrie and the other two physicals, too- fruit of the poisoned tree or some shit like that."

"Absurd," I said. "Like you said, anyone who'd been at the trial or read the transcripts would have had enough information to copycat."

He put his hand on my shoulder.

"Logic has nothing to do with it. It's a game. There's a whole subspecies of sharpies makes a living filing death penalty appeals. They've got it down to a science, and we pay for it with our taxes."

He shook his head and laughed.

"What does that say about our society, Alex? A piece of shit like Shwandt can cut up women and kids, gouge their eyes out, shit on them, and get himself a supporting case of legal beagles, access to a law library, three squares, TV, magazines, nutritious snacks. I mean, let's cut through all the theology and ideology and tell me what reason can there possibly be to let someone like that live?"

"No argument from me."

"Does that mean you've finally converted?"

"To what?"

"The Church of Abject Hostility."

"Depends on what day you catch me."

He laughed and started his engine.

I said, "Do you think there's really any chance of a new trial?"

"Who the hell knows? The goddamn press corps loves the slimy fuck. He feeds them like trained seals."

I wondered how Lucy would react to the legal circus. Would she see it as diminishing what she'd done in that jury box?

Right now that seemed the least of her problems.

I called Woodbridge Hospital and used my title to cadge information from a nurse.

The patient was still sleeping. Dr. Embrey had not come in yet.

I tried to reach Peter Lowell. No answer.

Phoning my service, I discovered Dr. Wendy Embrey had left a message. My callback got her voice mail. I said I'd be happy to speak to her and returned to the Seville.

I couldn't rid myself of the thought that something had happened to Lucy that summer. Couldn't erase the idea of a little girl and a paroled killer thrown together. Heading north on Westwood Boulevard, I drove to Vagabond Books, parked in the back, and entered the store.

The owner was playing his sax. He looked up as I approached, not missing a note. Then he recognized me and said, "Hey."

The glass case of first editions fronting the register had something new in it, along with the books. Big silver automatic.

He saw me looking at it. "There's a guy running around robbing used bookstores. Comes in just before closing time, pulls a gun, beats and sodomizes the clerk, and takes the cash. Kid over at Pepys Books is getting tested for AIDS."

"God."

He fingered his ponytail. "So what can I do for you?"

"Terrence Trafficant. From Hunger to Rage."

He took the gun out, put it in his waistband, and stepped out from behind the counter. Ambling over to the rear of the store, he came back with a worn-looking paperback. Bright red cover, black title letters that resembled knife slashes.

Two cover blurbs:

"It stirs and jolts with all the cruel authority of the electric chair!"-Time

"Twisted, heroic, visionary, touched with genius, Trafficant holds us by the scruff and forces us to stare into our own nightmare. This may be one of the most important books of our century."- Denton Mellors, The Manhattan Book Review

"Doing some kind of psychology research?" he said, ringing up the sale. "You couldn't be reading for pleasure. It's really a piece of crap."

I opened the book. More raves from Newsweek, Vogue, The Washington Post, the Times on both coasts.

"The critics didn't think so."

"The critics are brainless sheep. Trust me, it's crap."

"Well," I said, paying him, "you've got the gun."

I got home at three, feeling antsy, yet tired. The ocean was green and silky. Putting the book on the coffee table, I went out, lay down on a lounge chair, caught a face full of ultraviolet, and fell asleep.

Robin kissed me awake.

"Someone on the phone for you."

"What time is it?"

"Five-fifteen."

"Must have dozed off."

She wiped my forehead. "You're really hot. Better watch that sun, honey."

I took the call in the kitchen, rubbing my eyes and clearing my throat. "Dr. Delaware."

"Doctor, this is Audrey from Dr. Wendy Embrey's office. Dr. Embrey said to tell you she'd like to meet with you concerning Lucretia Lowell, if you've got the time. Would sometime tomorrow be okay?"

"Tonight would be okay, too."

"Dr. Embrey's all over the place tonight- she attends at a bunch of different hospitals. How about tomorrow around lunchtime?"

"Sure. Where?"

"She'll be over at the university all morning. If it's convenient, she could meet you in the med school dining room at twelve-thirty."

"That would be fine."

"Good, I'll tell her."

"How's Ms. Lowell doing?"

"I'm sure she's doing as well as can be expected."

I read From Hunger to Rage over breakfast. The bookseller had been right.

Trafficant's style was crude and uncontrolled, boiling with junior-high revolutionary rhetoric and obscenities. His editor had left his faulty spelling and grammar intact, aiming, I suppose, for gritty authenticity.

In the first half, he worked two themes to the death: "Society screwed me" and "I'm getting even." The next fifty pages were letters he'd written to various celebrities and officials. Only two had answered, the congressman from Trafficant's home district in Oklahoma- who responded with a Dear Constituent form letter- and M. Bayard Lowell, who praised Trafficant's "bloody poetry."

The two men began to correspond, Trafficant ranting and Lowell commiserating. The final page was a photocopy of Trafficant's approved parole application.

A biography and picture were on the inside back cover, the mug shot the papers had run.