Her car was a dusty white Vega. She walked toward it carrying a stack of books and papers that reached up to her chin.

"Can I help you?"

She gave me the load, which must have weighed at least twenty pounds, and took a minute to find her keys. I noticed that she'd put on makeup - eye shadow that accentuated the depth of her orbs. She looked around eighteen.

"I haven't eaten yet," she said. It was less an angling for an invitation than a complaint.

"No brown bag?"

"I threw it out. I make a lousy lunch. On a day like today it's too lousy to take. There's a chop house on Wilshire."

"Can I drive you?"

She looked at the Vega.

"Sure, why not? I'm low on gas, anyway. Toss those on the front seat." I put the books down and she locked the car. "But I'll pay for my own lunch."

We left the school grounds. I led her to the Seville. When she saw it her eyebrows rose.

"You must be a good investor."

"I get lucky from time to time."

She sank back in the soft leather and let out a breath. I got behind the wheel and started up the engine.

"I've changed my mind," she said. "You pay for the lunch."

She ate meticulously, cutting her steak into tiny pieces, spearing each morsel individually and slipping it into her mouth, and wiping her mouth with her napkin every third bite. I was willing to bet she was a tough grader.

"She was my best friend," she said, putting down her fork and picking up her water glass. "We grew up together in East L.A. Rafael and Andy - her brothers - played with Miguel." At the mention of her dead brother her eyes misted then grew hard as obsidian. She pushed her plate away. She'd eaten a quarter of her food. "When we moved to Echo Park the Gutierrezes moved with us. The boys were always getting into trouble - minor mischief, pranks. Elena and I were good girls. Goody - goodies, actually. The nuns loved us." She smiled.

"We were as close as sisters. And like sisters there was a lot of competition between us. She was always better - looking."

She read the doubt in my face.

"Really. I was a scrawny kid. I developed late. Elena was - voluptuous, soft. The boys followed her around with their tongues hanging out. Even when she was eleven and twelve. Here." She reached into her purse and took out a snapshot. More photographic memories.

"This is Elena and me. In high school."

Two girls leaned against a graffiti - filled wall. They wore Catholic school uniforms - short - sleeved white blouses, gray skirts, white socks and saddle shoes. One was tiny, thin and dark. The other a head taller, had curves the uniform couldn't conceal and a complexion that was surprisingly fair.

"Was she a blonde?"

"Surprising, isn't it? Some German rapist way back, no doubt. Later she lightened it even more, to be really all - American. She got sophisticated, changed her name to Elaine, spent lots of money on clothes, her car." She realized she was criticizing the dead girl and quickly changed her tune. "But she was a person of substance underneath all of that. She was a truly gifted teacher - there aren't many like that. She taught EH, you know."

Educationally Handicapped classes were for children who weren't retarded but still had difficulties learning. The category could include everything from bright kids with specific perceptual problems to youngsters whose emotional conflicts got in the way of their learning to read and write. Teaching EH was tough. It could be constant frustration or a stimulating challenge, depending on a teacher's motivation, energy and talent.

"Elena had a real gift for drawing them out - the kids no one else could work with. She had patience. You wouldn't have thought it to look at her. She was - flashy. She used lots of makeup, dressed to show herself off. Sometimes she looked like a party girl. But she wasn't afraid to get down on the floor with the children, didn't mind getting her hands dirty. She got into their heads - she dedicated herself to them. The children loved her. Look."

Another photograph. Elena Gutierrez surrounded by a group of smiling children. She was kneeling and the kids were climbing on her, tugging at the hem of her skirt, putting their heads in her lap. A tall, well built young woman, pretty rather than beautiful, with an earthy, open look, the yellow hair a styled, thick shag framing an oval face, and contrasting dramatically with the Hispanic features. Except for those features she was the classic California girl. The kind who should have been lying face down in the Malibu sand, bikini top undone, smooth brown back exposed to the sun. A girl for cola commercials and custom van shows and running down to the market in halter and shorts for a six - pack. She shouldn't have ended up as savaged, lifeless flesh in a refrigerated drawer downtown.

Raquel Ochoa took the picture out of my hands and I thought I saw jealousy in her face.

"She's dead," she said, putting it back in her purse, frowning, as if I'd committed some kind of heresy.

"It looked like they adored her," I said.

"They did. Now they've brought in some old bag who doesn't give a damn about teaching. Now that Elena's - gone."

She started to cry, using her napkin to shield her face from my eyes. Her thin shoulders shook. She sank lower in the booth, trying to disappear, sobbing.

I got up, moved to her side and put my arms around her. She felt as frail as a cobweb.

"No, no. I'm all right." But she moved closer to me, burying herself in the folds of my jacket, burrowing in for the long, cold winter.

As I held her I realized that she felt good. She smelled good. This was a surprisingly soft, feminine person in my arms. I fantasized swooping her up, featherweight and vulnerable, carrying her to bed where I'd still her painful cries with that ultimate panacea: orgasm. A stupid fantasy because it would take more than a fuck and a hug to solve her problems. Stupid because that wasn't what this encounter was all about. I felt an annoying heat and tension in my groin. Tumescence rearing its ugly head when least appropriate. Still, I held her until her sobbing slowed and her breathing became regular. Thinking of Robin, I finally let her go and moved back to my side.

She avoided my eyes, took out her compact and fixed her face.

"That was really dumb."

"No it wasn't. That's what eulogies are for."

She thought for a moment then managed a faint smile.

"Yes, I suppose you're right." She reached across the table and placed a small hand on mine. "Thank you. I miss her so much."

"I understand."

"Do you?" She drew her hand away, suddenly cross.

"No, I guess not. I've never lost anyone to whom I was that close. Will you accept a serious attempt at empathy?"

"I'm sorry. I've been rude - from the moment you walked in. It's been so hard. All of these feelings - sadness, and emptiness and anger at the monster who did it - it had to be a monster, didn't it?"

"Yes."

"Will you catch him? Will that big detective catch him?"

"He's a very capable guy, Raquel. In his own way, quite gifted. But he's got little to go on."

"Yes. I suppose I should help you, shouldn't I?"

"It would be nice."

She found a cigarette in her purse and lit it with trembling hands. She took a deep drag and let it out.

"What do you want to know?"

"For starts, how about the old cliche - did she have any enemies?"

"The cliched answer: No. She was popular, well liked. And besides, whoever did this to her was no acquaintance - we didn't know anyone like that." She shuddered, confronting her own vulnerability.

"Did she go out with a lot of men?"

"The same questions." She sighed. "She dated a few guys before she met him. Then it was the two of them all the way."

"When did she begin seeing him?"

"She started as a patient almost a year ago. It's hard to know when she began sleeping with him. She didn't talk to me about that kind of thing."