I wanted to tell him, listen you insecure, spoiled brat, I just called to do you a favor, to set your mind at ease. Don't hand me any of your delicate indignation. Instead, I tried flattery.

"Okay, just thought I'd call you to let you know, Rick. I know how important you are to Milo, and I thought he'd want me to."

"Uh, thanks. I really appreciate it." Bingo. "Please excuse me. I've just come off a twenty - four - hour shift myself."

"No problem." I'd probably woken the poor devil. "Listen, how about if we get together some time - you and Milo and my girlfriend and myself?"

"I'd like that, Alex. Sure. Send the big slob home when he sobers up and we'll work out the details." "Will do. Good talking to you." "Likewise." He sighed. "Goodnight."

At nine thirty Milo awoke with a wretched look on his face. He started to moan, turning his head from side to side. I mixed tomato juice, a raw egg, black pepper, and Tabasco in a tall glass, propped him up and poured it down his throat. He gagged, sputtered, and opened his eyes suddenly, as if a bolt of lightning had zapped him in the taiibone.

Forty minutes later he looked every bit as wretched but he was painfully sober.

I got him to the door and stuck the files of the nine psychopaths under his arm.

"Bedtime reading, Milo."

He tripped down the stairs, swearing, made his way to the Fiat, groped at its door handle and threw himself in with a single lurching movement. With the aid of a rolling start, he got it ignited.

Alone at last, I got into bed, read the Times, watched TV - but damned if I could tell you what I saw, other than that it had lots of flat punch lines and jiggling boobs and cops who looked like male models. I enjoyed the solitude for a couple of hours, only pausing to think of murder and greed and twisted evil minds a few times before drifting off to sleep.

11

"All right," said Milo. We were sitting in an interrogation room at West L.A. Division. The walls were pea - green paint and one - way mirrors. A microphone hung from the ceiling. The furniture consisted of a gray metal table and three metal folding chairs. There was a stale odor of sweat and falsehood and fear in the air, the stink of diminished human dignity.

He had fanned out the folders on the table and picked up the first one with a flourish.

"Here's the way your nine bad guys shape up. Number one, Rex Alien Camblin, incarcerated at Sole dad, assault and battery." He let the folder drop.

"Number two, Peter Lewis Jefferson, working on a ranch in Wyoming. Presence verified."

"Pity the poor cattle."

"That's a fact - he looked like a likely one. Number three, Darwin Ward - you'll never believe this - attending law school, Pennsylvania State University."

"A psychopathic attorney - not all that amazing, really."

Milo chuckled and picked up the next folder.

"Numero cuatro - uh - Leonard Jay Helsinger, working construction on the Alaska pipeline. Location likewise confirmed by Juneau P.D. Five, Michael Penn, student at Cal State Northridge. Him we talk to." He put Penn's file aside. "Six, Lance Arthur Shattuck, short - order cook on the Cunard Line luxury cruiser Helena, verified by the Coast Guard to have been floating around in the middle of the Aegean Sea somewhere for the past six weeks. Seven, Maurice Bruno, sales representative for Presto Instant Print in Burbank - another interviewee." Bruno's file went on top of Penn's.

"Eight, Roy Longstreth, pharmacist for Thrifty's Drug chain, Beverly Hills branch. Another one. And - last but not least - Gerard Paul Mendenhall, Corporal, United States Army, Tyler, Texas, presence verified."

Beverly Hills was closer than either Northridge or Burbank, so we headed for Thrifty's. The Beverly Hills branch turned out to be a brick - and - glass cube on Canon Drive just north of Wilshire. It shared a block with trendy boutiques and a Haagen Dazs ice - cream parlor.

Milo showed his badge surreptitiously to the girl behind the liquor counter and got the manager, a light skinned middle - aged black, in seconds flat. The manager got nervous and wanted to know if Longstreth had done anything wrong. In classic cop style, Milo hedged.

"We just want to ask him a few questions."

I had trouble keeping a straight face through that one, but the cliche seemed to satisfy the manager.

"He's not here now. He comes on at two - thirty, works the night shift."

"We'll be back. Please don't tell him we were here."

Milo gave him his card. When we left he was studying it like a map to buried treasure.

The ride to Northridge was a half - hour cruise on the Ventura Freeway West. When we got to the Cal

State campus, we headed straight for the registrar's office. Milo obtained a copy of Michael Penn's class schedule. Armed with that and his mug shot, we located him in twenty minutes, walking across a wide, grassy triangle accompanied by a girl.

"Mr. Penn?"

"Yes?" He was a good - looking fellow, medium height, with broad shoulders and long legs. His light brown hair was cut preppy short. He wore a light blue Izod shirt and blue jeans, penny loafers with no socks. I knew from his file that he was twenty - six but he looked five years younger. He had a pleasant, unlined face, a real All - American type. He didn't look like the kind of guy who'd try to run someone down with a Pontiac Firebird.

"Police." Again, the badge. "We'd like to talk to you for a few moments."

"What about?" The hazel eyes narrowed and the mouth got tight.

"We'd prefer to talk to you in private."

Penn looked at the girl. She was young, no more than nineteen, short, dark, with a Dorothy Hamill wedge cut.

"Give me a minute, Julie." He chucked her under the chin.

"Mike…?"

"Just a minute."

We left her standing there and walked to a concrete area furnished with stone tables and benches. Students moved by as if on a treadmill. There was little standing around. This was a commuter campus. Many of the students worked part - time jobs and squeezed classes in during their spare time. It was a good place to get your B.A. in computer science or business, a teaching credential or a master's in accounting. If you wanted fun or leisurely intellectual debates in the shade of an ivy - encrusted oak, forget it.

Michael Penn looked furious but he was working hard at concealing it.

"What do you want?"

"When's the last time you saw Dr. Morton Handler?"

Penn threw back his head and laughed. It was a disturbingly hollow sound.

"That asshole? I read about his death. No loss."

"When did you see him last?"

Penn was smirking now.

"Years ago, officer." He made the title sound like an insult. "When I was in therapy."

"I take it you didn't think much of him."

"Handler? He was a shrink." As if that explained it.

"You don't think much of psychiatrists."

Penn held out his hands, palms up.

"Hey listen. That whole thing was a big mistake. I lost control of my car and some paranoid idiot claimed I tried to kill him with it. They busted me, railroaded me and then they offered me probation if I saw a shrink. Gave me all those garbage tests."

Those garbage tests included the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory and a handful of project ives Though far from perfect, they were reliable enough when it came to someone like Penn. I had read his MMPI profile and psychopathy oozed from every index.

"You didn't like Dr. Handler?"

"Don't put words in my mouth." Penn lowered his voice. He moved his eyes back and forth, restless, jumpy. Behind the handsome face was something dark and dangerous. Handler hadn't misdiagnosed this one.

"You did like him." Milo played with him like a gaffed stingray.