“Later,” she said.

He said nothing to that, just shrugged back at her. “Are you ready? We’re all meeting for dinner to exchange information.”

“I’m ready,” she said, and picked up the wool coat he’d bought her. He’d done too much for her, far too much, and he was offering to do more. It was hard to bear. She ran her hands over the soft wool. It felt wonderful. She kept stroking it even as she said over her shoulder, “I was always scared. I’d lie in one of the small cots on the second floor of the shelter, the allotted one blanket pulled to my ears, and I’d listen to people moving about downstairs. Sometimes there’d be yelling, fighting, screaming, and always, I huddled down and was afraid because violence seemed to be part of the despair, and the two always went together. Sometimes they’d bring their fights upstairs and they’d throw stuff or hit each other until some of the shelter staff managed to get things back under control.

“There were drug users, alcoholics, people who were mentally ill, people just ground down by circumstance, all mixed together. There was so much despair, it was pervasive, but the thing was-everyone wanted to survive.”

“And then there was you.”

“Yes, but I suppose you could say I was one of those who’d been ground down by circumstance.”

She stopped, looked down at her left hand, still stroking her wool coat. “The alcoholics and the addicts-they were self-destructive. It’s not that I didn’t feel sorry for them, but they were different from the other homeless people because they’d brought their misery on themselves. And they never seemed to blame themselves for what they’d become. It was the strangest thing. One of the shelter counselors said it was because if they ever had to face what they really were in the mirror, they wouldn’t be able to bear it. Everyone there had so little. But they were the ones responsible for what had become of them, responsible for where they were. And because they wouldn’t face the truth, there was no hope for them.

“The mentally ill people-they were the worst off. I truly can’t understand how we as a society allow people who are so ill they can’t even remember to take their medications or even know that they need medication, to just roam the streets. They suffer the most because they’re the most helpless.”

Dane said, “I remember when one of the New York mayors wanted to get the sick people off the streets and into safe houses, but the ACLU went nuts.”

Nick said, “I remember. The ACLU cleaned up this poor woman, dressed her like a normal person, fed her meds so she could pass muster, and they won. Except that poor woman lost. Within days she was back on the street, off her meds, cursing and spitting at people, vulnerable and helpless. I wonder if any of the lawyers at the ACLU lost a bit of sleep over that.”

“Who are you, Nick?”

She grew very still, didn’t move, just stood there when he opened the door to the Grand Am. She said, “My name is Nick, short for Nicola. I don’t want to tell you my real last name. All right?”

“You mean, if you tell me your real name I would have heard of it?”

“No. It means that you have a computer and access to information.”

So there was something on her, something to be found, something other than just who she was. What had happened to her?

When he was seated in the driver’s seat, the key in the ignition, he turned to her and said, “I want to know who you are, not just your name.”

She looked straight ahead, saying nothing, until he pulled out of the Holiday Inn parking lot onto the street.

She said, “I’m a woman who could be dead before the first day of spring.”

His hands tightened around the steering wheel. “Bullshit. You’re just being dramatic, and you’re wrong. I think by the first of spring, you’ll be doing what you were doing last month. What were you doing in December, Nick?”

“I was teaching medieval history.” She didn’t know why she said that. Well, he already knew she had a Ph.D., this much more wouldn’t tell him anything.

“Are you by any chance Dr. Nick?”

“Yes, but you already guessed that. You know that your brother loved history.”

“My brother was an impressive man, he was a very good man,” Dane said, and shut up, really fast. He could feel himself breaking apart, deep inside, where his brother’s blood and Dane’s own pain flowed together. He remembered Archbishop Lugano at Michael’s service, his hand on Dane’s shoulder, telling him to take it just one day at a time.

He concentrated on driving. He was momentarily distracted by a girl on roller skates, wearing shorts that showed half her butt cheeks, and she was waving to him, grinning and blowing him kisses over her shoulder. He waved back, grinned a bit, and said, “That’s some presentation.”

“Yes indeed, you’re right,” Nick said. “I agree, she does skate very well.”

Dane jerked around, surprised. “That was funny, Nick.”

She smiled. It was a small smile, but a smile nonetheless.

“Where are we going?”

“We’re all meeting at The Green Apple, over on Melrose.”

Nick sighed. “Doesn’t sound like they’ll have tacos, does it?”

“I just hope they don’t serve fried green apples. I’m an American, I love fat, but you know-my belly rebels fast if I eat even two pieces of KFC. It’s a bummer.”

“Don’t whine. It means you won’t ever have to worry about your weight.”

He smiled at her, then said, “I sure hope someone has found out something useful. The bottom line is that what you and I found out just leads to more questions.”

As it turned out, Sherlock and Savich had struck gold.

TWENTY-ONE

Sherlock said between bites of a carrot stick, “We dug up a guy who’s a real good friend of Weldon DeLoach’s. His name is Kurt Grinder. He’s a porn star. Yeah, yeah, I know-the name. I just couldn’t help myself so I asked him. He said it was, actually, his real name. He’s known Weldon for some eight years, ever since he came to LA. He said he saw Weldon DeLoach two and a half weeks ago at the Gameland Bowling Alley in North Hollywood. Said he and Weldon went bowling together every week, on Thursday night, said Weldon told him that bowling always relaxes him. He was getting worried because Weldon hadn’t called him and he couldn’t get an answer at Weldon’s apartment.”

Detective Flynn said, “I can see by that gleam in your eyes, Agent Sherlock, that there’s more to it than that, and you’re just leading us slowly down the garden path.”

“Enjoy it,” Savich said. “Let her string it out. I promise, it’s worth it.”

Sherlock waved her carrot stick, sat forward a bit. “Turns out that Kurt Grinder had some problem with his bowling shoes and had to stay awhile. Weldon left before he did. When Kurt came out of the bowling alley he saw this guy stop Weldon before he got to his car. They talked for a couple of minutes. Before Kurt could catch up, Weldon and this man went off together, in this man’s car, not Weldon’s.”

Delion said, thumping his fingers on the tabletop, “All right, Sherlock, what man?”

“Kurt said he’d never seen him before, but he got a real good look at him.” She dropped her voice so everyone had to lean forward to hear her. “Kurt said he looked to be in his thirties, had dark hair, lots of it. But what really stuck in his mind was that the guy’s skin was as white as a whale’s belly.”

“And that means,” Savich said, “that if Kurt is telling the truth, and as far as I could tell he had no reason to lie, that DeLoach could be connected to the killings.”

“Or maybe,” Dane said slowly, “someone’s setting him up. Don’t forget. We can’t find him. And him being the killer has always been too obvious.”

Savich nodded. “One of the first things we asked Mr. Grinder was had he ever seen Weldon with black hair and no tan. He laughed, said Weldon was always changing his look, that he loved disguises, but he’d never seen him go that far. Okay, Sherlock, the piece de resistance.”