"The dead man - the salesman, you said he volunteered at La Casa?"

"Yes. He had a certificate in his office."

"He was probably a member of the Gentleman's Brigade. It's something dreamed up by McCaffrey to get the business community involved with the place. He gets corporations to get their executives to volunteer weekend time with the kids. How much of it is voluntary on the part of the "Gentlemen' and how much is the result of pressure from the boss I don't know. McCaffrey gives them blazers and lapel pins and certificates signed by the mayor. They also get brownie points with their bosses. Hopefully the kids get something out of it too."

I thought of Bruno, the psychopath, working with homeless children.

"Is there any sort of screening?"

"The usual. Interviews, some paper - and - pencil tests. You know, dear boy, what that kind of thing is worth."

I nodded.

"Still, like I said, we never got any complaints. I'd have to give the place a B - minus, Alex. The major problem is that it's too big of an operation for the kids to get any personalized attention. A good foster home would definitely be preferable to having four to five hundred kids in one place at the same time - that's how many he's got. Aside from that, La Casa is as good as any."

"That's good to hear." But in some perverse way I was disappointed. It would have been nice to find out that the place was a hellhole. Anything to connect it with the three murders. Of course that meant misery for four hundred children. Was I becoming just another member of the child - hating society Olivia had described? Suddenly the strudel tasted like sugarcoated paper and the kitchen seemed oppressively hot.

"So, is there anything else you want to know?"

"No. Thanks."

"Now, darling." She turned to Robin. "Tell about yourself and how you met this impetuous fellow…"

We left an hour later. I put my arm around Robin. She let it lay there but was unresponsive. We walked to the car in silence as uncomfortable as a stranger's shoes.

Inside, I asked her:

"What's wrong?"

"Why did you bring me here tonight?"

"I just thought it would be nice…"

"Nice talking about murder and child abuse? Alex, that was no social call."

I had nothing to say so I started the car and pulled away from the curb.

"I'm worried sick about you," she said. "The things you were describing in there were hideous. What she said about sharks is true. You're like a little boy adrift on a raft in the middle of the ocean. Oblivious to what's going on around you."

"I know what I'm doing."

"Right." She looked out the window.

"What's wrong with my wanting to get involved in something other than hot tubs and jogging?"

"Nothing. But why can't it be something a little less hazardous than playing Sherlock Holmes? Something you know something about?"

"I'm a fast learner."

She ignored me. We cruised through darkened empty streets. A light drizzle speckled the windshield.

"I don't enjoy hearing about people getting their faces bashed in. Or children run down by hit - and - run drivers," she said.

"That's part of what's out there." I motioned toward the blackness of the night.

"Well, I don't want any part of it!"

"What you're saying is you'll go along for the ride as long as it's pretty."

"Oh, Alex! Stop being so damned melodramatic - that's right out of a soap opera."

"It's true, though, isn't it?"

"No, it's not - and don't try to put me on the defensive. I want the man I first met - someone who was satisfied with himself and not so full of insecurity that he had to run around trying to prove himself. That was what attracted me to you. Now you're like a - a man possessed. Since you've gotten involved in your little intrigues you haven't been there for me. I talk and your mind is somewhere else. It's like I told you before - you're going back to the bad old days."

There was something to that. The last few mornings had found me waking up early with a taut sense of urgency in my gut, the old obsessive drive to take care of business. Funny thing was, I didn't want to let go of it.

"I promise you," I told her, "I'll be careful." She shook her head in frustration, leaned forward and switched on the radio. Loud.

When we got to her door she gave me a chaste peck on the cheek.

"Can I come in?"

She stared at me for a long moment and gave a resigned smile.

"Oh, hell, why not?"

Upstairs in the loft I watched her undress in the meager share of moonbeam admitted by the skylight. She stood on one foot, undoing her sandal, and her breasts swung low. A diagonal stroke of illumination turned her white, then gray as she pivoted, then invisible as she slipped under the covers. I reached out for her, aroused, and pulled her hand down toward me. She touched me for a second, then removed her fingers, moved them upward, let them settle around my neck. I buried myself in the sanctuary between her shoulder and the arching sweetness under her chin.

We fell asleep that way.

In the morning her side of the bed was empty. I heard rumbling and grinding and knew she was downstairs in the shop.

I got dressed, descended the narrow stairs and joined her. She was wearing bib overalls and a man's work shirt. Her mouth was covered with a bandana, her eyes goggled.

The air was full of wood dust.

"I'll call you later," I shouted over the din of the table saw.

She stopped for a moment, waved, then resumed working. I left her surrounded by her tools, her machines, her art.

15

I called Milo at the station and gave him a full report of my interview with Raquel Ochoa and the Casa de los Ninos connection, including the information given to me by Olivia.

"I'm impressed," he said. "You missed your calling."

"So what do you think? Shouldn't this McCaffrey be looked into?"

"What a minute, friend. The man takes care of four hundred kids and one of them is killed in an accident. That's not evidence of major mayhem."

"But that kid happened to be a student of Elena Gutierrez. Which means she probably discussed him with Handler. Not long after his death Bruno began volunteering at the place. A coincidence?"

"Probably not. But you don't understand the way things work around here. I am in the toilet with this case. So far those bank records are showing nothing - everything in both their accounts looks kosher. I've got more work to do on it, but singlehanded it takes time. Every day the captain looks me up and down with that no - progress, Sturgis? stare. I feel like a kid who hasn't done his homework. I expect him to pull me off the case any day and stick me on some garbage detail."

"If things are so screwed up I'd expect you to jump for joy at the prospect of a new lead."

"That's right. A lead. Not conjecture or a string of flimsy associations."

"They don't look that damned flimsy to me."

"Look at it this way - I start snooping around about McCaffrey, who's got connections from Downtown all the way to Malibu. He places a few strategic phone calls - no one can accuse him of obstructing justice because I've got no legitimate reason to be investigating him - and I'm yanked off the case faster than you can spit."

"All right," I conceded, "but what about the Mexican thing? The guy was down there for years. Then all of a sudden he leaves, surfaces in L.A." and becomes a hotshot."

"Upward mobility is no felony, and sometimes a cigar is a cigar, Dr. Freud."

"Shit. I can't stand it when you get overly cute."

"Alex, please. My life is far from rosy. I don't need crap from you on top of it all."

I seemed to be developing a talent for alienating those close to me. I had yet to call Robin, to find out where last night's dreams had led her.