"Explain to him that you need some time alone. He should understand."

"Yes," she said. "He should."

Milo called later that day. "Thought I'd give you some bits and pieces. Lowell's Mercedes was left in the long-term lot at Burbank Airport, so Ms. Nova probably flew the coop."

"Can't blame her."

"We're lifting prints from the house tomorrow, see if we can find out who she is. We can live without her testimony, but it wouldn't hurt to have it so we can add an assault-with-intent-to-kill to Graydon-Jones's trouble. We did locate Doris Reingold at her son's in Tacoma; police up there are watching her till she comes down next week. And Gwen Shea's lawyer called to let us know Tom phoned her from Mexico. Hanging out with his buddy- midlife crisis, casting off responsibilities. Supposedly, he begged Gwen for forgiveness, promised to fly back tomorrow. All three of them are being treated as material witnesses, no charges. The major good news is that Graydon-Jones is sticking to his guns on App- asshole finally figured out you can't share a sleeping bag with a cobra. App's lawyer is screaming and yelling, trying to void App's confession; the DA says there's a better-than-even chance it'll be ruled admissible. Major good news number two is that the feds are finishing up their bookkeeping on Mr. A, and he's got close to twenty mil in assets that can be snatched. So all in all he's in trouble."

"Still in prison?"

"Languishing."

"No pesto and arugula?"

"Oh, sure. And for dessert, they can move him into general pop. Find him a four-hundred-pound roommate named Bubba, see what cooks up then."

49

The next day I received a package from Englewood, New Jersey. Inside was a blue binder containing two hundred neatly typed photocopied pages. Taped to the front cover was a piece of white stationery with Winston Mullins, M.D. on the letterhead.

A handwritten note read:

This is Darnel's book. Hope you like it, W.M.

I read half. Clunky in places, but talent and grace shone through in others. The story line: a young man, half white, half black, makes his way through the academic and literary worlds, trying to define his identity through a series of jobs and sexual dalliances. Expletives, but no violence. The bride in question: art.

I put the binder down and called Lucy. No one home.

She probably hadn't the heart to disappoint Ken.

Or maybe she'd held her resolve and had gone away for some solitude.

Either way, I'd wait. We had our work laid out for us.

That evening, as I was playing guitar and waiting for Robin and Spike to come home, my service called in with an emergency message from Wendy Embrey.

Now what?

"Dr. Delaware?"

"Sure, put her on."

Click.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Wendy."

"How's Lucretia?"

"Fine, but-"

"You've seen her recently?"

"Yesterday."

"This may be nothing, but I just got off the phone with a woman I think you should talk to. I know there are two sides to every story, especially with this kind of thing, but after listening to what she said, I strongly advise you to call her."

"Who's the woman?"

She told me. "I reached her through her father- he's the head of the real estate company. I was trying to collect- not important. Anyway, I gave her your name, said you might call."

"Just in case I can't reach her, give me a summary of what she told you."

She did. "Which might explain a few things."

"Yes," I said, feeling cold. "It might."

I hung up and punched numbers frantically.

Then I scrawled a note to Robin and ran out to the Seville.

Lights shone from the second story of the house on Rockingham Avenue. Ken's Taurus was in the driveway, but no one answered the bell.

I ran around to the side gate. Locked. I climbed over.

He was out on the terrace, slumped in a chair, head down. Half a vodka bottle on the table, along with a glass full of melting ice.

When I got ten feet away, he looked up groggily. Then, as if a button had been pushed, he sat up mechanically.

"Doctor."

"Evening, Ken."

He looked at the bottle and pushed it away. "Little nightcap. Evening cap."

His voice wasn't slurred, but the words were coming out too carefully. His hair was mussed, his glen plaid button-down shirt wrinkled.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Just dropped by to see how Lucy's doing."

"Oh… she's not here."

"Where is she?"

"Dunno, out."

"Out driving?"

"Yeah, I guess." He sat up straighter, tried to finger-comb his hair.

"Any idea when she'll be back?"

"Nope, sorry. I'll be sure to tell her you stopped by. Everything okay?"

"Well," I said, sitting. "I'm not sure. That's why I'm here."

He moved his chair back. The wrought iron grated on the flagstone. He looked up at the second story.

"You're sure she's not here, Ken?"

"Of course." His faced changed, turning piggish.

Suddenly, his hand moved toward the bottle. Mine got there first and put it out of reach.

"Listen," he said, "I don't know what this is about, but I'm bushed, doc. All this crap we've been going through, a guy deserves some R and R, right?"

"We? You and Lucy?"

"Exactly. I don't know what your problem is, but maybe you'd better get out of here and come back when you have an appointment."

"Are you making her appointments now, Ken?"

"No, she- listen." He stood and smoothed his pants and smiled. "I know Lucy likes you, but this is my place, and I want some privacy. So…" Crooking a finger at the gate.

"Your place?" I said. "Thought it was the company's."

"That's right. Now-"

"I just spoke to your second ex-wife, Kelly. She told me you haven't worked for the company for over a year. She told me the company belongs to her father, and that since the divorce you've been persona non grata there. That's why the company's insurance doesn't cover you. That's why you've got an answering machine instead of a secretary. She also told me you stole computer records and that's how you get addresses of places to crash. Along with lots of other things."

"Oh, boy," he said, backing toward the doors to the house. "It's a divorce case. You believe her, you're as stupid as she is."

"I know," I said. "There are two sides to every story, but Kelly says there are court records that document your drinking and your violence. Not just to her. You beat up your first wife too. And she says it's also public record that you threatened your father-in-law and tried to run him down with your car. That you put your older girl, Jessica, in the hospital with a broken jaw."

"An accident. She-" He shook his head.

"Got in the way? Of what, your fist? Same way Kelly did when you ruptured her spleen? All accidents, Ken?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. They're all accident-prone; runs in the family."

"Ken, where's Lucy? Is she locked in her room because you convinced her she needed to be for her own safety?"

He slumped. Gave me a helpless look. Then he grabbed the glass and threw it at me. I ducked but there was no need, he was way off.

"Get the hell off my property!"

"Or what? You'll call the police? Lucy's up there and I'm going to get her."

He spread his arms and blocked the door. "Don't mess with me, asshole. You have no idea."