But she couldn’t share her secret, not yet. Not until she knew how it impacted her family—above all, Richard.

“All I found was a nest of skeletons in my cellar,” she said. “Isn’t that enough?”

“Of course it is.” Draper didn’t sound quite sure.

“Well”—Parkinson started to rise—“I suppose it could just be...”

His voice trailed away as Jennifer became aware of a peculiar thrumming sound.

“Oh hell,” Parkinson added. “I hate these.”

Hate what? she thought, and then an aftershock shuddered through the cellar, rattling the walls, dislodging showers of dust from the plumbing pipes in the ceiling.

She took a step toward the staircase, but when no one else moved she forced herself to stand still and wait it out.

Slowly the wave passed, leaving the cellar intact.

“I hate them, too,” she heard herself say. It seemed strange to comment on something Parkinson had said hours ago. Except it hadn’t been hours, but only a few seconds.

“I kind of enjoy them.” That was Casey. “They’re a nice little break in the day.”

“That’s probably why the ground was disturbed,” Draper said. “Either the quake itself or an aftershock spilled fresh dirt onto that spot.”

“Yes.” Parkinson resumed rising. “That must be it.”

Casey reached out to assist him, but Draper warned him off with a shake of his head. As the pathologist rose, Jennifer saw that he’d stashed a pair of metal crutches by his side. He leaned on them as he struggled upright.

Jennifer glanced down and saw plastic leg braces extending below the pathologist’s pants legs to his shoes. When she looked up, she saw Parkinson watching her eyes.

“M.S.,” he said wryly. “Ironic, isn’t it?”

“How so?”

“That it’s not Parkinson’s. You’d think if I had to have a degenerative nerve disease, I’d at least get the one bearing my name.”

Multiple sclerosis could strike at any age, but typically the first symptoms appeared before age forty. Parkinson looked to be about forty-five. “How long have you had it?” she asked.

“Onset was two years ago. It’s progressing fast. No remissions as yet. And yes, it’s likely to get a lot worse.”

She thought of Richard, the rapid progress of his disease, and how it had destroyed his life. She thought that healthy people didn’t appreciate how lucky they were. They should give thanks every day. Every single day.

The four of them started up the stairs, climbing without hurry in deference to Parkinson’s slow gait.

She fell into step in front of Casey. Over her shoulder she murmured to him. “You’re acting like an asshole.”

His position on the lower stair served to equalize their height. His breath tickled her ear. “Who says I’m acting?”

“Look, I’m sorry if I was rude yesterday—”

“Rude? Rude’s nothing. I deal with rude all the time. That’s no biggie.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“The problem is...forget it.”

“Just tell me.”

“The problem is, you know how I feel about you. And you don’t take it seriously. You treat me like a joke.”

That stung. “I don’t mean to.”

“Exactly what did I do yesterday that was so unacceptable? I mean, besides rushing over here to check out your problem when I had a million other priorities?”

“I never asked you—”

“You didn’t have to ask. I wanted to help.”

“Now you’ve got me feeling like an asshole.”

“Turnabout is fair play, Tiny Dancer.”

“Don’t call me Tiny Dancer,” she said automatically, but her heart wasn’t in it.

They emerged from the cellar through the trapdoor. “For the time being,” Parkinson said as Draper helped him up, “the remains will have to be left where they are. Later today, or first thing tomorrow, our forensic anthropologist will disinter the specimens.”

Jennifer wished he wouldn’t call them specimens. “Is there any chance they can be identified from medical records?”

“Unfortunately, no. Hospitals sold off their old X-rays back in the seventies, for their silver content.”

“What’s the point, anyway?” Casey asked. “Like Roy said, there’s nobody to prosecute.”

“The point”—Parkinson’s tone turned frosty—“would be to give these women a proper burial.”

“Does that really matter?”

Draper answered. “It matters. When you think about it, it’s the very least they deserve.”

sixteen

The shaken city was a traffic-snarled mess. It took her an hour to reach Sirk’s house in the Hollywood Hills.

Small but immaculately landscaped, the house lay at the end of a cul-de-sac, overhanging one of the canyons on stilts that looked no stronger than matchsticks.

When she rang the bell, the door opened almost at once.

“Jennifer,” Harrison Sirk said with a slightly bleary smile. Though it was only two o’clock, he seemed to have been drinking. “Good of you to come so promptly.”

“My pleasure.” She extended her hand, but he didn’t take it.

“Sorry, I don’t shake hands. Germs, you know. It’s nothing personal.” Weaving a little, he led her inside. “I’ve always been averse to dirt and disease. Hospitals terrify me. All those sick people—frightful.”

The house was uncomfortably warm, the thermostat dialed high. Cats—at least three of them—slinked among a clutter of modernistic statuary and potted ferns. The heat, the profusion of plants, and the glare through the wide windows made her feel she was in a hothouse.

“And yet you’ve been to crime scenes,” she said.

“Oh, crime scenes don’t trouble me at all. I would rather spend two hours at a homicide scene than two minutes in a doctor’s waiting room. I suppose a psychologist could explain why. But then, you’re a psychologist, aren’t you?”

“Don’t worry, I’m not planning to diagnose you.”

“I’m relieved to hear it. There are some depths best left unplumbed. I much prefer to remain an enigma, to others and myself.”

He escorted her into his den, its curtains shut against the light. It was even hotter, and there were two more cats. The walls were crowded with framed book covers—his own, naturally—and photos from L.A.’s past.

She settled on a sofa. He offered her a drink. She declined.

“Now what can I do for you?” he asked as he lowered himself into an overstuffed armchair like a king taking his throne. A cocktail glass rested on the adjacent table, ice cubes melting in what was probably scotch.

“To begin with, you can tell me how you knew I have an interest in Jack the Ripper.”

“I could perhaps convince you that I possess psychic powers, but the truth is more mundane. I’m a regular patron of the Purloined Letter Bookshop. I was in there earlier today. As is my wont, I inquired of the proprietor if anyone had purchased one of my books. He told me he’d made a sale to a charming young lady, who also bought a slew of books on Jack the Ripper. Rather indiscreetly, he mentioned that the lady’s companion had promised to broker a meeting with me. And so I put the pieces together, much like Sherlock Holmes, whose methods were equally unremarkable once explained.”

He picked up his drink and swallowed a third of it in a noisy slurp.

“Maura tells me,” he added, “that you’re a consultant to law enforcement agencies. A sort of document examiner cum handwriting analyst cum behavioral profiler.”

“That’s a bit of an exaggeration.”

“Still, a most interesting career path. You dissect the criminal mind. Shine a searchlight into the dark crevasses.”

She couldn’t tell if he was mocking her. “It’s a living.”

“I would imagine it’s your family background that got you interested in such matters.”

“My family?”

“Your father, I mean.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“Perhaps I’m mistaken. I’d assumed your father was Aldrich Silence. Your surname is not a very common one—”

“Aldrich Silence was my father.” She leaned forward. “What are you driving at?”