“I’d say, ‘So when are you opening at the Comedy Store?’ ”

“All those women dead, John. And maybe the Vanders-a kid, John, maybe with his hand hacked clean off.”

Nguyen looked at his steak and sighed.

Milo said, “Public’s gonna love us wimping out on this.”

“You can’t tap her, Milo. She’s his lawyer, not his girlfriend.”

Reed said, “Who knows?”

“You’ve got evidence of an intimate relationship?”

“Not yet.”

“Find that-find anything that shows me she’s behaved illegally.”

Milo said, “If she’s his girlfriend, she’s the dumbest smart person in the world. His sexual partners tend to end up dead and dismembered.”

“And facing east,” I said, wondering if Nguyen would find that interesting.

He didn’t. “I really wish I could help you, guys. Maybe you should forget about Debora and find Huck the old-fashioned way.”

Milo said, “Meaning?”

“Shoe leather, interviewing street people-whatever you guys do that brings in the goods.” He made a try for his steak. Chewed without apparent pleasure. “There’s another reason not to piss Debora off.

Once you do get Huck, we could be contending with her at the defense table. Then I’ll be the one with the ulcer.”

“You see her putting aside her corporate clients and taking him on?”

“From what you’ve told me, she believes in him,” said Nguyen. “Even if she’s not chief defense counsel, she’ll play a role. I know Debora.”

“Tenacious,” I said.

“Beyond belief, Doctor.”

“Ferrari, Maybach,” said Reed. “She can afford to play Wonder Woman.”

“Must be nice,” said Nguyen.

CHAPTER 32

I’ve ridden in a few funeral processions. The drive back to the station had that same stunned, dispirited feeling.

Milo said, “Smart woman like that and she’s taken in by his bullshit.”

Reed said, “Like those losers who hook up with cons in prison. What’s behind it, Doc?”

“Usually really low self-esteem and a desire for attention.” Neither of which applied to Wallenburg, but why intrude on their resentment?

Milo rubbed his face. “All that dough, but her life’s empty so she wants to feel righteous again.”

“Limousine liberals,” said Reed.

The corners of Milo ’s mouth twitched but gave up short of a smile. “Haven’t heard that one in a while, Moses.”

“That’s what my mother said my father used to call them.”

Milo said, “Any suggestions about changing Wallenburg’s mind, Alex?”

“With someone else, I’d try piling on the gory details-victim photos, autopsy shots, emphasize the suffering the women went through. In Wallenburg’s case, it’s likely to solidify her resistance.”

“Because she sees herself as Iron Maiden.”

“Saving Huck was a major event in her life, so viewing him as a vicious killer is too threatening. But if you do get some serious evidence-something that appeals to her rationality-you could crack her denial.”

“That’s what you were getting at in her office. Huck’s not the same innocent kid, no fault of hers.”

Reed said, “We’ve got blood in the drain.”

Milo said, “I thought of telling her, didn’t want to give her anything to work with. First thing out of her mouth would be ‘ABO typing’s not DNA.’ ”

Reed said, “We get a full confession, she’ll probably still stand behind him. Poor little victim of the system.” He shook his head. “Ferrari Debby.”

Milo said, “Feel like following her, Moses?”

“Sure,” said Reed. “Department paying for a Maserati? She gives me the slip, conventional wheels aren’t going to cut it.”

“Long as you can get it for thirty bucks a day.”

“I could boost some hot wheels,” said Reed. “But God forbid I should be heavy-handed.”

Back home and away from their ill humor, I wondered if Debora Wallenburg had lied about not knowing Huck’s whereabouts.

Smart people made foolish mistakes all the time; my profession thrived on that fact. But if Wallenburg had overstepped by harboring a dangerous fugitive, my guess was we’d never find out.

I thought about Huck, rootless, haunted. The cameo performance as a superhero.

Saving a baby.

Debora Wallenburg’s initial act of kindness had created a longterm bond between her and Huck. What if the same was true for Huck and Brandi Loring’s family?

No Internet hits popped up for Anita and Lawrence Brackle but Larry Brackle appeared on a three-year-old police blotter from the Daily News. Arrestee, age forty-three, a Van Nuys DUI bust.

No follow-up on that but an image scan brought up a two-year-old photo of Brackle celebrating the “Turkey Tenpin Fest of the Meadowlark Association Bowling Club” at a Canoga Park alley.

A dozen beaming keglers. Brackle had earned front-row center because size mattered. Even compared with the slight women flanking him, he was a small man-skinny, wiry, with black hair slicked back and sideburns reaching to his jawline.

I plugged in Meadowlark Association and came up with the home-owners’ group at a condo development in Sherman Oaks.

Eighty-nine “deluxe” units on three acres north of Ventura Boulevard, just east of the 101 freeway. Prices ranged from mid-six-figures for a one-bedroom “Hacienda Suite” to nearly a million for “3 Br. 2 Ba. Rancheros.”

High-def photos showcased white, red-roofed modules softened by ferns, palms, banana plants, and rubber trees. “Gracious path-ways for strolling,” three pools, two with “whirlpool soaking spas,” as well as a screening room, a gym “with sumptuous steamroom and sauna.”

Nice upgrade from the Silverlake rental Brackle and his family had called home a decade ago.

I checked the names of the other bowlers. None of the women was Anita Brackle. Maybe she had no use for tenpins. Or Larry’s drinking had continued, driving her away.

Along with Baby Brandeen?

I searched Brackle’s face for signs of dissolution, saw only a skinny little bespectacled man happy to be among his peers.

Copying down The Meadowlark address, I told Robin I’d be stepping out.

She said, “This time it’s not just restlessness. You’ve got that heat in your baby blues.”

I told her about Brackle.

She said, “Huck helped the family, so they’re helping him?”

“I’m grasping.”

“No grasp, no get.” She kissed me. “Be careful.”

When I reached the door, she said, “Be great if the baby’s thriving.”

The reality of The Meadowlark was white stucco grayed by time and pollution, a profusion of plants in need of trim, a constant overlay of freeway flatulence.

Security was mechanical but effective: a deadbolted iron mesh gate. I checked the roster of residents, failed to find Brackle’s name, figured him for long gone, or a sublet.

Then a listing at the bottom caught my eye.

Ranchero Five. One of the high-priced units.

I was deliberating whether or not to try the direct approach when a FedEx guy came charging through the gate. I caught it before it could swing shut, made my way past the first two swimming pools, both unoccupied and leaf-littered.

The Haciendas were a collection of two-story units tucked into the northeast corner and segregated by a low wall of cut-out cement blocks.

The orange door to Five was nearly hidden by the broad leaves of a banana that had managed to thrive in the shade but would never bear fruit.

I rang the bell. A female voice said, “Larry? Forget your key again?”

I murmured something that could’ve been “Uh-huh” or “Uh-uh.”

The door opened on a perilously thin, brown-haired, middle-aged woman wearing an oversized white jersey top and black yoga pants, and holding a cigarette. Bare feet, pink toenails, red polish for the tips of her spidery fingers. A gold chain rested on the arch of one varicose foot. A face perched on a long, graceful neck bore the aftershocks of beauty. Puckers around her wide, thin mouth gave her a capuchin look. Shadows under her eyes spoke of stories that could never be untold.