"We haven't done any hypnosis yet. Melody and I are just getting to know each other."

I drew her aside.

"Mrs. Quinn, hypnosis requires trust on the part of the child. I usually spend a little time with children beforehand. Melody was very cooperative."

"She didn't tell you nothin'?" She reached into the breast pocket of her shirt and pulled out another cigarette. I lit it for her and the gesture surprised her.

"Nothing of importance. With your permission I'd like to come over some time tomorrow and spend a little more time with Melody."

She eyed me suspiciously, chewed on the cigarette, then shrugged.

"You're the doctor."

We rejoined Milo and the child. He was kneeling on one leg and showing her his detective's badge. Her eyes were wide.

"Melody, if it's okay with you, I'd like to come by tomorrow and play with you some more."

She looked up at her mother and began sucking her thumb again.

"It's fine with me," Bonita Quinn said curtly. "Now run along."

Melody sprang for her room. She stopped in the doorway and gave me a tentative look. I waved, she waved back and then she disappeared. A second later the TV began blaring.

"One more thing, Mrs. Quinn. I'll need to talk to Dr. Towle before I do any hypnosis with Melody."

"That's okay."

"I'll need your permission to talk with Dr. Towle about the case. You realize he's professionally bound to keep this confidential, just as I am."

"That's okay. I trust Dr. Towle."

"And I may ask him to take her off her medicine for a couple of days."

"Oh all right, all right." She waved her hand, exasperated.

"Thank you, Mrs. Quinn."

We left her standing in front of her apartment, smoking frantically, taking the towel off her head and shaking her hair loose in the midday sun.

I took the wheel of the Seville and drove slowly up toward Sunset.

"Stop smirking, Milo."

"What's that?" He was looking out the passenger window, his hair flapping like duck wings.

"You know you've got me hooked, don't you? A kid like that, those big eyes like something out of a Keene painting."

"If you want to quit right now, it wouldn't make me happy, Alex. But I wouldn't stop you. There's still time for gnocchi."

"The hell with gnocchi. Let's talk with Dr. Towle."

The Seville was consuming fuel with customary gluttony. I pulled into a Chevron self - serve at Bundy. While Milo pumped gas I got Towle's number from information and dialed it. I used my title and got through to the doctor in a half - minute. I gave him a brief explanation of why I needed to talk with him and told him we could chat now over the phone.

"No," he said. "I've got an office full of kids." His voice was smooth and reassuring, the kind of voice a parent would want to hear at two in the morning when the baby was turning blue.

"When would be a good time to call you?"

He didn't answer. I could hear the bustle of activity in the background, then muffled voices. He came back on the line.

"How about dropping by at four - thirty? I've got a lull around then."

"I appreciate your time, Doctor."

"No bother." And he hung up.

I left the phone booth. Milo was removing the nozzle from the rear of the Seville, holding it at arm's length to avoid getting gasoline on his suit.

I settled in the driver's seat and stuck my head out the window.

"Catch the windshield for me, son."

He made a gargoyle face - not much of an effort and gave me the finger. Then he went to work with paper towels.

It was two - forty and we were only fifteen minutes from Towle's office. That left over an hour to kill. Neither of us was in a good enough mood to want first rate food, so we drove back to "West L.A. and went to Angela's.

Milo ordered something called a San Francisco Deluxe Omelette. It turned out to be a bright yellow horror stuffed with spinach, tomatoes, ground beef, chilies, onions and marinated eggplant. He dug into it with relish while I contented myself with a steak sandwich and a Coors. In between bites he talked about the Handler murder.

"It's a puzzler, Alex. You've got all the signs of a psychotic thrill killer - both of them trussed up in the bedroom, like animals ready for the slaughter. And stuck about five dozen times. The girl looked like she ran into Jack the Ripper with her - "

"Spare me." I pointed to my food.

"Sorry. I forget when I'm talking to a civilian. You get used to it after wading in it for a few years. You can't stop living, so you learn to eat and drink and fart through all of it." He wiped his face with his napkin and took a long, deep swallow of his beer. "Anyway, despite the craziness, there's no sign of forced entry. The front door was open. Normally that would be very puzzling. Except in this case with the victim being a psychiatrist, it might make sense, his knowing the bad guy and letting him in." "You think it was one of his patients?"

"It's a good possibility. Psychiatrists have been known to deal with crazies."

"I'd be surprised if it turned out that way, Milo. Ten to one Handler had a typical West Side practice - depressed middle - aged women, disillusioned executives, and a few adolescent identity crises thrown in for good measure."

"Do I detect a note of cynicism?"

I shrugged.

"That's just the way it is in most cases. High priced friendship - not that it's not valuable, mind you. But there's very little real mental illness in what most of us - psychiatrists, psychologists - see in practice. The real crazies, the really disturbed ones, are hospitalized."

"Handler worked at a hospital before he went out on his own. Encino Oaks."

"Maybe you'll dig up something there," I said doubtfully. I was tired of being the wet blanket so I didn't tell him that Encino Oaks Hospital was a repository for the suicidal progeny of the rich. Very little sexual psychopathy, there.

He pushed his empty plate away and motioned for the waitress.

"Bettijean, a nice slab of that green apple pie, please."

"A la mode, Milo?"

He patted his gut and pondered.

"What the hell, why not. Vanilla."

"And you, sir?"

"Just coffee, please."

When she had gone he continued, thinking out loud more than talking to me.

"Anyway, it appears as if Dr. Handler let someone in to his place sometime between midnight and one and got ripped up for his efforts."

"And the Gutierrez woman?"

"Your quintessential innocent bystander. Being in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"She was Handler's girlfriend?"

He nodded.

"For about six months. From the little we've learned she started out as a patient and ended up going from couch to bed."

A not uncommon story.

"The irony of it was that she was hacked up worse than he was. Handler got his throat slit and probably died relatively quickly. There were a few other holes in him but nothing lethal. It looks as if the killer took his time with her. Makes sense if it's a sexual crazy."

I could feel my digestive process come to a halt. I changed the subject.

"Who's your new love?"

The pie came. Milo smiled at the waitress and attacked the pastry. I noticed that the filling was indeed green, a bright, almost luminescent green. Someone in the kitchen was fooling around with food dyes. I shuddered to think what they could do with something really challenging, like a pizza. It would probably end up looking like a mad artist's palette.

"A doctor. A nice Jewish doctor." He looked heavenward. "Every mother's dream."

"What happened to Larry?"

"He's gone off to find his fortunes in San Francisco."

Larry was a black stage manager with whom Milo had conducted an on - again, off - again relationship for two years. Their last half - year had been grimly platonic. "He's hooked up with some show sponsored by an anonymous corporation. Something racy for educational television, along the lines of "Our Agricultural Heritage: Your Friend the Plough." Hot stuff."