“Sounds like adolescent searching.”

“I guess it was, but I never went through it. Always middle-of-the-road. The boring child.”

“How'd your parents react to Nolan's changes?”

“They were pretty cool about it. Tolerant. I don't think they really ever understood Nolan but I never saw them put him down.” She smiled. “Sometimes it was funny- the passion he put into each new phase. But we never made fun.”

She crossed her legs.

“Maybe the reason I never went through any of that was I felt Nolan was so unpredictable that I owed it to Mom and Dad to be stable. Sometimes it did seem that the family was divided into two segments: the three of us, and Nolan. I always felt close to my parents.”

She swiped at her eyes with the tissue. “Even when I was in college I'd go places with them, go out to dinner with them. Even after I was married.”

“And Nolan wasn't part of that?”

“Nolan stopped hanging out with us when he was twelve. He always preferred to be by himself, do his own thing. Now that I think about it, he always kept his life private.”

“Alienated?”

“I guess so. Or maybe he just preferred his own company because he was so smart. Which is another reason becoming a cop seems so strange. Who's more establishment?”

“Cops can be pretty alienated as a group,” I said. “Living with all that violence, the us-them mentality.”

“Doctors and nurses develop an us-them, too, but I still feel part of society.”

“And you don't think Nolan did?”

“Who knows what he felt? But life must have been pretty damn bleak for him to do what he did.”

Her voice was tight, dry as kindling.

“How could he, Dr. Delaware? How could he get to the point where he didn't feel tomorrow was worth waiting for?”

I shook my head.

“Dad's depressions,” she said. “Maybe it's all genetic. Maybe we're just prisoners of our biology.”

“Biology is strong but there are always choices.”

“For Nolan to make that choice he must have been profoundly depressed, wouldn't you say?”

“Men sometimes do it when they're angry.” Cops sometimes do it when they're angry.

“Angry about what? Work? I've been trying to find out more about his work record, see if he went through any bad work situations. I called the police department to get hold of his file and they referred me to his original training officer, a Sergeant Baker. He's at Parker Center, now. He was nice enough, said Nolan had been one of his best trainees, there'd been nothing out of the ordinary, he couldn't understand it either. I also went after Nolan's medical records, contacted the department insurance office and used some of my nursing skills to pry them loose. Back when I was still hoping for a disease. Nolan hadn't been treated for any medical conditions but he had seen a psychologist for two months before he died. Up til a week before. So something was wrong. A Dr. Lehmann. Do you know him?”

“First name?”

“Roone Lehmann.”

I shook my head.

“He's got an office downtown. I left him several messages but he hasn't called back. Would you have any problem calling him?”

“No, but he may not break confidentiality.”

“Do dead people have confidentiality?”

“It's an open question but most therapists don't breach even after death.”

“I guess I knew that. But I also know that doctors talk to doctors. Maybe Lehmann would be willing to tell you something.”

“I'll be happy to try.”

“Thank you.” She handed me the number.

“One question that I have, Helena, is why Nolan transferred from West L.A. to Hollywood. Did Sergeant Baker say anything about that?”

“No. I didn't ask him. Why? Is that strange?”

“Most officers consider West L.A. a plum. And Nolan went from the day shift to the night shift. But if he liked excitement, he could have wanted an assignment with more action.”

“Could be. He did like action. Roller coasters, surfing, motorcycling… Why why why, all these whys. It's stupid to keep asking questions that can't be answered, isn't it?”

“No, it's normal,” I said, thinking of Zev Carmeli.

She laughed, a jarring sound. “I saw this cartoon in the paper, once. That Viking, Hagar the Horrible? He's standing on a mountaintop, with rain and lightning all around, holding his hands up to the heavens, shouting, “Why me?' And down from the heavens comes the answer: “Why not?' Maybe that's the ultimate truth, Dr. Delaware. What right do I have to expect a smooth ride?”

“You have a right to ask questions.”

“Well, maybe I should do more than ask. There's still Nolan's stuff to go through. I've been putting it off, but I should start.”

“When you're ready.”

“I'm ready now. After all, it's all mine, now. He left everything to me.”

She made an appointment for next week and left. I called Dr. Roone Lehmann's number and gave my name to his service, asking for the office address.

“Seventh Street,” said the operator, reciting a number that put it near Flower, in the heart of the downtown financial district. Unusual location for a therapist but if he got lots of referrals from LAPD and other government agencies, I guess it made sense.

Just as I hung up, Milo called, his voice charged with some kind of energy.

“Got another case. Retarded girl, strangled.”

“Pretty quick-”

“Not from the files, Alex. I'm talking brand-new, here and now. Caught the radio call a few minutes ago and I'm headed over to Southwest Division- Western near Twenty-eighth. If you come by now you might get a look at the body before they take it away. It's a school. Booker T. Washington Elementary.”

11

Southwest Division was twenty miles and a universe away from the park where Irit Carmeli had lost her life. I took Sunset to La Cienega, headed south down San Vicente, and picked up the Santa Monica Freeway east at La Brea. Exiting at Western, I covered the next few blocks of inner city with relative speed. Few cars were on the street as I passed shuttered buildings and burned-out lots that hadn't been rebuilt since the riots and maybe never would be. The sky was very pale gray, almost white, looked as if it had given up on blue.

Washington Elementary was old, dun-colored, and cruelly graffitied. Set on acres of potholed playground, the entire property was surrounded by twelve-foot chain-link fencing that hadn't prevented vandals from pretending they were artists.

I parked on Twenty-eighth, near the main gate. Wide open but guarded by a uniform. Squad cars, technical vans, and the coroner's station wagon had converged at the south end of the playground, between the monkey bars and the swings. Yellow tape divided the lot in two. On the northern half children ran and played under the eyes of teachers and aides. Most of the adults watched the activity across the field. Few of the kids did and the yard was filled with laughter and protest, the scrappy doggerel of childhood.

No media cars, yet. Or maybe a murder down here just wasn't good enough copy.

It took a while to get past the uniform but finally I was allowed to make my way to Milo.

He was talking to a gray-haired man in an olive suit and writing in his notepad. A stethoscope hung around the other man's neck and he talked steadily, without visible emotion. Two black men with badges on their sportcoats stood twenty feet away, looking at a figure on the ground. A photographer snapped pictures and techs worked under the swing set with a portable vacuum, brushes, and tweezers. Other uniforms crowded the scene but they didn't seem to have much to do. Among them was a short, bearded Hispanic man around fifty, wearing gray work clothes.

As I came closer, the black detectives stopped chatting and watched me. One was fortyish, five nine and soft-heavy, with a head shaved clean, bulldog jowls, and a dyspeptic expression. His jacket was beige over black trousers and his tie was black printed with crimson orchids. His companion was ten years younger, tall and slim with a bushy mustache and a full head of hair. He wore a navy blazer, cream slacks, blue tie. Both had analytic eyes.