Bad Love

15

I heard the unhealthy-sounding engine from inside the house. Milo's Fiat, reduced to a squat little toy on the monitor.

I went outside. The wind had stopped. The car expelled a plume of smoke, then convulsed. It didn't look as if it would survive the evening.

"Figured it would blend in where we're going," he said, getting out. He carried a large, white plastic bag and was wearing work clothes. The bag smelled of garlic and meat.

"More food?" I said.

"Sandwiches- Italian. Just consider me your official LAPD delivery boy."

Robin was back in the garage, working under a funnel of fluorescence. The dog was there, too, and he charged us, heading straight for the bag.

Milo lifted it out of reach. "Sit. Stay- better yet, go away."

The dog snorted once, turned his back on us, and sank to his haunches.

Milo said, "Well, one out of three ain't bad." He waved at Robin. She raised a hand and put down her tools.

"She looks right at home," he said. "How 'bout you, Nick Danger?"

"I'm fine. Anything on Gritz in the records?"

Before he could answer, Robin came over.

"He's brought us dinner," I said.

"What a prince." She kissed his cheek. "Are you hungry right now?"

"Not really," he said, touching his gut and looking down at the ground. "Had a little appetizer while I waited."

"Good for you," she said. "Growing boy."

"Growing the wrong way."

"You're fine, Milo. You've got presence." She patted his shoulder. From the way her fingers were flexing I knew she was eager to get back to her bench. I was itchy, too, thinking of the freeway people. The dog continued to sulk.

"How 'bout you, hon?" she said to me. The dog came over, thinking- or pretending- it was meant for him.

"I can wait."

"Me, too. So let me stick this in the fridge and when you guys get back, we'll chow down."

"Sounds good." Milo gave her the bag. The dog tried to lick it and she said, "Relax, I've got a Milk-Bone for you."

Above the roofline, the sky was black and empty. Lights from the houses across the canyon seemed a continent away.

"You'll be okay?" I said.

"I'll be fine. Go." She gave me a quick kiss and a small shove.

Milo and I headed for the Fiat. The dog watched us drive away.

• • •

The sound of the gate clanking shut made me feel better about leaving her up there. Milo coasted to Benedict, shifted to first, then upward, squeezing as much speed as possible out of the little car. Shifting roughly, big hands nearly covering the top of the steering wheel. As we headed south, I said, "Anything on Gritz?"

"One possible citation- thank God it's an unusual name. Lyle Edward, male white, thirty-four years old, five six, one thirty, I forget the color of his eyes."

"Coburg said he was shorter than Hewitt."

He nodded. "Bunch of drunk and disorderlies from back when we still bothered with those, possession of narcotics, couple of shoplifting busts, nothing heavy."

"When did he come to L.A.?"

"First arrest was fourteen years ago. The computer gives him no known address, no parole officer, either. He got probation for some of his naughties, lived at county jail for the others, and paid his debt in full."

"Any mention of mental illness?"

"There wouldn't be unless he was classified as a mentally disordered sex offender or committed some other kind of violent psycho crime."

"I'll call Jean Jeffers Monday, see if I can find out if he ever got treated at the center."

"Meanwhile, we can talk to the offrampers, for what it's worth. All he is is a name, so far."

"Robin suggested we should bring them food. Increase the rapport."

He shrugged. "Why not. There's a minimarket over on Olympic."

We drove a bit more. He frowned and rubbed his face with one hand.

"Something the matter?" I said.

"Nah… just the usual. Justice got raped again- my truant scumbags. The old lady died this afternoon."

"I'm sorry. Does that make it murder?"

He pumped his gas pedal leg. "It makes it shit. She had badly clogged arteries and a big tumor growing in her colon. Autopsy said it was just a matter of time. That, her age, and the fact that the kids never actually touched her means the DA's office doesn't want to bother to prove it was an unnatural death. Once they hospitalized her, she was never well enough to get even a deathbed declaration, and without her testimony, there's not much of a case against the little bastards even for robbery. So they probably get a stern lecture and walk. Wanna make a bet by the time they start shaving, someone else'll be dead?"

He got to Sunset and joined the smooth, fast traffic flowing west from Beverly Hills. Amid the Teutonic tanks and cigarillo sports jobs, the Fiat looked like a mistake. A Mercedes cut in front of us and Milo swore viciously.

I said, "You could give him a ticket."

"Don't tempt me."

A mile later, I said, "Robin came up with a possible link between Paprock and Shipler. Both could have been in group therapy with de Bosch. Treatment for themselves, or some kind of parent's group to talk about problem kids. The killer could also have been in the group, gotten treated roughly- or thought he had- and developed a grudge."

"Group therapy…"

"Some kind of common problem- what else would draw two people from such different backgrounds to de Bosch?"

"Interesting… but if it was a parent's group, de Bosch didn't run it. He died in eighty, and Paprock's kids are six and seven years old now. So they weren't alive when he was. In fact, at the time Myra died, they were only babies. So what kind of problems could they have had?"

"Maybe it was a child-rearing program. Or some kind of chronic illness support group. And are you sure Paprock was only married once?"

"According to her file she was."

"Okay," I said. "So maybe Katarina was the therapist. Or someone else at the school- maybe the killer believes in collective guilt. Or it could have been an adult treatment group. Child therapists don't always limit themselves to kids."

"Fine. But now we're back to the same old question: what's your link?"

"Has to be the conference. The killer's gotten severely paranoid- let his rage get out of control. To him, anyone associated with de Bosch is guilty, and where better to start than a bunch of therapists paying public homage to the old man? Maybe Stoumen's hit-and-run was no accident."

"What? Major-league mass murder? The killer's going after patients and therapists?"

"I don't know- I'm just grasping."

He heard the frustration in my voice. "It's okay, keep grasping. Doesn't cost the taxpayers a dime. For all I know we're dealing with something so crazy it'll never make sense."

We rode for a while. Then he said, "De Bosch's clinic was private, expensive. How could a janitor like Shipler afford getting treatment there?"

"Sometimes private clinics treat a few hardship cases. Or maybe Shipler had good health insurance through the school system. What about Paprock? Did she have money?"

"Nothing huge, as far as I can tell. Husband worked as a car salesman."

"Can you get hold of their insurance records?"

"If they had any, and haven't been destroyed."

I thought of two motherless grade-school children and said, "How old, exactly, were Paprock's children at the time of her murder?"

"Don't remember exactly- little."

"Who raised them?"

"I assume the husband."

"Is he still in town?"

"Don't know that either, yet."

"If he is, maybe he'll be willing to talk about her, tell us if she was ever a therapy patient at de Bosch's clinic."

He hooked a finger toward the rear seat. "Got the file right there. Check out the address."

I swung around toward the darkened seat and saw a file box.

"Right on top," he said. "The brown one."

Colors were indistinguishable in the darkness, but I reached over, groped around, and came up with a folder. Opening it, I squinted.

"There's a penlight in the glove compartment."

I tried to open the compartment, but it was stuck. Milo leaned across and slammed it with his fist. The door dropped open and papers slid to the floor. I stuffed them back in and finally found the light. Its skinny beam fell on a page of crime-scene photos stapled to the right-hand page. Lots of pink and red. Writing on a wall: a closeup of "bad love" in big, red block letters that matched the blood on the floor… neat lettering… a bloody thing below.

I turned to the facing page. The name of Myra Paprock's widower was midway through the intake data.

"Ralph Martin Paprock," I said. "Valley Vista Cadillac. The home address is in North Hollywood."

"I'll run it through DMV, see if he's still around."

I said, "I need to keep looking for the other conference people to warn them."

"Sure, but if you can't tell them who and why, what does that leave? "Dear Sir or Madam, this is to inform you you might be bludgeoned, stabbed, or run over by an unidentified, revenge-crazed psycho?"

"Maybe one of them can tell me the who and why. And I know I'd have liked to have been warned. The problem is finding them. None of them are working or living where they were at the time of the conference. And the woman I thought might be Rosenblatt's wife hasn't returned any of my calls."

Another stretch of silence.

"You're wondering," he said, "if they've been visited, too."

"It did cross my mind. Katarina's not been listed in the APA directory for five years. She could have just stopped paying dues, but it doesn't seem like her to just drop out of psychology and close up the school. She was ambitious, very much taken with carrying on her father's work."

"Well," he said, "it should be easy enough to check tax rolls and Social Security records on all of them, find out who's breathing and who ain't."

He reached Hilgard and turned left, passing the campus of the university where I'd jumped through academic hoops for so many years.

"So many people gone," I said. "Now the Wallace girls. It's as if everyone's folding up their tents and escaping."

"Hey," he said, "maybe they know something we don't."

• • •

The strip-mall at Olympic and Westwood was dark except for the flagrant white glare from the minimart. The store was quiet, with a turbaned Pakistani drinking Gatorade behind the counter.

We stocked up on overpriced bread, canned soup, lunch meat, cereal, and milk. The Pakistani eyed us unpleasantly as he tallied up the total. He wore a company shirt printed repetitively with the name of the mart's parent company in lawn green. The nametag pinned to his breast pocket was blank.

Milo reached for his wallet. I got mine out first and handed the clerk cash. He continued to look unhappy.

"Whatsamatter?" said Milo. "Too much cholesterol in our diet?"

The clerk pursed his lips and glanced up at the video camera above the door. The machine's cyclops eye was sweeping the store slowly. The screen below filled with milky gray images.

We followed his gaze to the dairy case. An unkempt man stood in front of it, not moving, staring at cartons of Half-and-Half. I hadn't noticed him while shopping and wondered where he'd come from.

Milo eyed him for a long moment, then turned back to the clerk.

"Yeah, police work's strenuous," he said in a loud voice. "Got to shovel in those calories in order to catch the bad guys."

He laughed even louder. It sounded almost mad.

The man at the dairy case twitched and half turned. He glared at us for a second, then returned to studying the cream.

He was gaunt and hairy, wearing a dirt-blackened army jacket, jeans, and beach sandals. His hands shook and one clouded eye had to be blind.

Another member of Dorsey Hewitt's extended family.

He slapped the back of his neck with one hand, turned again, tried to match Milo's stare.

Milo gave a salute. "Evening, pal."

The man didn't move for a second. Then he shoved his hands into his pockets and left the store, sandals slapping the vinyl floor.

The clerk watched him go. The cash register gave a computer burp and expelled a receipt. The clerk tore off the tape and dropped it into one of the half-dozen bags we'd filled.

"Got a box for all this?" said Milo.

"No, sir," said the clerk.

"What about in back?"

Shrug.

We carried the food out. The gaunt man was at the far end of the lot, kicking asphalt and walking from store to store, staring at black glass.

"Hey," Milo called out. No response. He repeated it, pulled a cereal variety pack out of one of the bags and waved it over his head.

The man straightened, looked toward us, but didn't approach. Milo walked ten feet from him and underhanded the cereal.

The man shot his arms out, missed the catch, sank to his knees, and retrieved it. Milo was heading back to the car and didn't see the look on the man's face. Confusion, distrust, then a spark of gratitude that fizzled just short of ignition.

The gaunt man hobbled off into the darkness, fingers ripping at the plastic wrapping, sprinkling cereal onto the pavement.

Milo said, "Let's get the hell out of here." We got into the Fiat and he drove around toward the back of the mall where three dumpsters sat. Several empty cartons were piled up loosely against the bins, most of them torn beyond utility. We finally found a couple that looked and smelled relatively clean, put the bags in them, and stashed the food in back of the car, next to Myra Paprock's homicide file.

• • •

A sliver of moon was barely visible behind a cloud-veil, and the sky looked dirty. The freeway was a stain topped with light and noise. After we rounded Exposition, Little Calcutta continued to elude us- the darkness and the plywood barrier concealed the lot totally. But the place on the sidewalk where I'd talked to Terminator Three was just within the light of an ailing street lamp and I was able to point it out to Milo.

We got out and found gaps in the plywood. Through them, blue tongues quivered- thin, gaseous alcohol flames.

"Sterno," I said.

Milo said, "Frugal gourmets."

I took him to the spot along the fence where I'd unhinged the makeshift hatch a few hours before. Extra wires had been added since then, rusty and rough, wound too tightly to unravel by hand.

Milo took a Swiss army knife out of his trouser pocket and flipped out a tiny pliers-like tool. Twisting and snipping, he managed to free the hatch.

We went back to the car, took out the boxes of groceries, and stepped through. Blue lights began extinguishing, as if we'd brought a hard wind.

Milo reached into his trousers again and pulled out the penlight I'd used in the car. I'd replaced it in the glove compartment and hadn't seen him pocket it.

He removed something from one of the grocery bags and shined the light on it. Plastic-wrapped bologna slices.

He held it up and shouted, "Food!"

Barely audible over the freeway. Fires continued to go out.

Training his beam more directly on the bologna, he waved the meat back and forth. The package and the hand that held it seemed suspended in midair, a special effect.

When nothing happened for several more seconds, he placed the meat on the ground, making sure to keep the penlight trained on it, then removed more groceries from his bag and spread them out on the dirt. Walking backward, toward the hatch, he created a snaky trail of food that led out to the sidewalk.

"Goddamn Hansel and Gretel," he muttered, then he slipped back out.

I followed him. He was standing against the Fiat, had emptied one bag and crumpled it and was tossing it from hand to hand.

As we stood there and waited, cars rocketed overhead and the concrete hummed. Milo lit up a bad panatela and blew short-lived smoke rings.

A few minutes later, he stubbed out his cigar and jammed it between his fingers. Walking back to the hatch, he stuck his head through, didn't move for a second, then beckoned me to follow him through.

We stopped just a few feet from the hatch and he aimed the penlight upward, highlighting movement about fifteen feet up.

Frantic, choppy, a scramble of arms.

Squinting, I managed to make out human forms. Down on their knees, scooping and snatching, just as the man at the minimart had done.

Within seconds they were gone and the food had vanished. Milo cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted over the freeway: "Lots more, folks."

Nothing.

He clicked his light off and we retreated to the other side of the fence again.

It seemed like a game- a futile one. But he looked at ease.

He began emptying another bag, placing food on the streetlit patch of sidewalk, just out of reach of the hatch. Then he returned to the car, sat on the rear deck causing the springs to groan, and relit his cigar.

Luring and trapping- enjoying the hunt.

More time passed. Milo's eyes kept shifting to the fence, then leaving it. His expression didn't change, the cigar tilted as he bit down on it.

Then he stayed on the fence.

A large, dark hand was reaching out, straining to grab a loaf of white bread.

Milo went over and kicked the package away and the hand drew back.

"Sorry," said Milo. "No grain without pain."

He took his badge out and shoved it at the hatch.

"Just talk, that's it," he said.

Nothing.

Sighing, he picked up the bread, tossed it through the hatch. Picking up a can of soup, he wiggled it.

"Make it a balanced meal, pal."

A moment later, a pair of unlaced sneakers appeared in the opening. Above them, the frayed cuffs of greasy-looking plaid pants and the bottom seam of an army blanket.

The head above the cloth remained unseen, shielded by darkness.

Milo held the soup can between thumb and forefinger. New Orleans Gourmet Gumbo.

"Lots more where this came from," he said. "Just for answering a few questions, no hassles."

One plaid leg angled forward through the opening. A sneaker hit the pavement, then the other.

A man emerged into the streetlight, wincing.

He had the blanket wrapped around him to the knees, covering his head like a monk's cowl and shrouding most of his face.

What showed of the skin was black and grainy. The man took an awkward step, as if testing the integrity of the sidewalk, and the blanket dropped a bit. His skull was big and half bald, above a long, bony face that looked caved in. His beard was a kinky gray rash, his skin cracked and caked. Fifty or sixty or seventy. A battered nose so flat it almost merged with his crushed cheeks, spreading like melted tar. His eyes squinted and watered and didn't stop moving.

He had the white bread in his hand and was looking at the soup.

Milo tried to give it to him.

The man hesitated, working his jaws. His eyes were quieter now.

"Know what a gift horse is?" said Milo.

The man swallowed. Drawing his blanket around himself, he squeezed the bread so hard the loaf turned into a figure eight.

I went over to him and said, "We just want to talk, that's it."

He looked into my eyes. His were jaundiced and clogged with blood vessels, but something shone through- maybe intelligence, maybe just suspicion. He smelled of vomit and alcohol belch and breath mints, and his lips were as loose as a mastiff's. I worked hard at standing my ground.

Milo came up behind me and covered some of the stench with cigar smoke. He put the soup up against the man's chest. The man looked at it and finally took it, but continued to stare at me.

"You are not police." His voice was surprisingly clear. "You are definitely not police."

"True," I said. "But he is."

The man glanced at Milo and smiled. Rubbing the part of the blanket that covered his abdomen, he shoved both hands under it, secreting the bread and the soup.

"A few questions, friend," said Milo. "Simple stuff."

"Nothing in life is simple," said the man.

Milo hooked a thumb at the bags on the sidewalk. "A philosopher. There's enough there to feed you and your friends- have a nice little party."

The man shook his head. "It could be poison."

"Why the hell would it be poison?"

Smile. "Why not? The world's poison. A while back someone gave someone a present and it was full of poison and someone died."

"Where'd this happen?"

"Mars."

"Seriously."

"Venus."

"Okay," said Milo, blowing smoke. "Suit yourself, we'll ask our questions elsewhere."

The man licked his lips. "Go ahead. I've got the virus, makes no difference to me."

"The virus, huh?" said Milo.

"Don't believe me, you can kiss me."

The man flicked his tongue. The blanket fell to his shoulders. Underneath, he wore a greasy Bush-Quayle T-shirt. His neck and shoulders were emaciated.

"I'll pass," said Milo.

The man laughed. "Bet you will- now what? Gonna beat it out of me?"

"Beat what out of you?"

"Whatever you want. You've got the power."

"Nah," said Milo. "This is the new LAPD. We're New Age sensitive guys."

The man laughed. His breath was hot and emetic. "Bearshit. You'll always be savages- got to be to keep order."

Milo said, "Have a nice day," and began to turn.

"What do you want to know, anyway?"

"Anything about a citizen named Lyle Edward Gritz," said Milo. "You know him?"

"Like a brother."

"That so?"

"Yup," said the man. "Unfortunately, this day and age, families deteriorating and all, that means not well at all."

Milo looked over at the hatch. "He in there now?"

"Nope."

"See him recently?"

"Nope."

"But he did hang out here."

"From time to time."

"When was the last time?"

The man ignored the question and began staring at me again.

"What are you?" he said. "Some kind of journalist riding along?"

"He's a doctor," said Milo.

"Oh yeah?" Smile. "Got any penicillin? Things get pretty infectious down here. Amoxicillin, erythromycin, tetracycline- anything to zap those little cocci boogers?"

I said, "I'm a psychologist."

"Ooh," said the man, as if wounded. He closed his eyes and shook his head. When he opened them they were dry and focused. "Then you're not worth a damn to me- pardon my linguistics."

"Gritz," said Milo. "Can you tell me anything about him?"

The man appeared to be contemplating. "White trash, juicehead, low IQ. But able-bodied. He had no excuse ending up down here. Not that I do- you probably think I was some kind of white collar overachiever, don't you? 'Cause I'm black and I know grammar."

Smiling.

I smiled back.

"Wrong," he said. "I collected garbage. Professionally. City of Compton. Good pay, you wear your gloves, it's fine, terrific benefits. My mistake was leaving and starting my own business. Vinyl flooring. I did good work, had six people working for me. Did fine until business slumped and I let the dope comfort me."

He produced one arm from under the blanket. Raised it and let the sleeve fall back from a bony forearm. The underside of the limb was knotted with scars and abscesses, keloidal and bunched, raw in spots.

"This is a fresh one," he said, eyeing a scab near his wrist. "Got off just before sundown. I waive my rights, why don't you take me in, give me a bunk for the night?"

"Not my thing," said Milo.

"Not your thing?" The man laughed. "What are you, some kind of liberal?"

Milo looked at him and smoked.

The man put his arm back. "Well, at least get me a real doctor, so I can get hold of some methadone."

"What about the county?"

"County ran out. Can't even get antibiotics from the county."

"Well," said Milo, "I can give you a lift to an emergency room if you want."

The man laughed again, scornfully. "For what? Wait around all night with gunshots and heart attacks? I've got no active diagnosis- just the virus, no symptoms yet. So all they'll do is keep me waiting. Jail's better- they process you faster."

"Here," said Milo, dipping into his pocket for his wallet. He took out some bills and handed them to the man. "Find a room, keep the change."

The man gave a warm, broad smile and tucked the money under his blanket. "That's real nice, Mr. Policeman. You made this po', unfortunate, homeless individual's evening."

Milo said, "Was Gritz into dope, too?"

"Just juice. Like I said, white trash. Him and his hillbilly singing."

"He liked to sing?"

"All the time, this yodely white-trash voice. Wanted to be Elvis."

"Any talent?"

The man shrugged.

"Did he ever get violent with anyone?"

"Not that I saw."

"What else can you tell me about him?"

"Not much. Sticks to himself- we all do. This is Little Calcutta, not some hippie commune."

"He ever hang out with anyone?"

"Not that I saw."

"How about Dorsey Hewitt?"

The man's lips pursed. "Hewitt, Hewitt… the one that did that caseworker?"

"You knew him?"

"No, I read the paper- when that fool did that, I was worried. Backlash. Citizens coming down here and taking it out on all us po' unfortunates."

"You never met Hewitt?"

"Nope."

"Don't know if he and Gritz were buddies?"

"How would I know that if I never met him?"

"Someone told us Gritz talked about getting rich."

"Sure, he always did, the fool. Gonna cut a record. Gonna be the next Elvis. Pour a bottle down his gullet and he was number one on the charts."

The man turned to me. "What do you think my diagnosis is?"

"Don't know you well enough," I said.

"They- the interns over at County- said I had an affective disease- severe mood swings. Then they cut off my methadone."

He clicked his teeth together and waited for me to comment. When I didn't, he said, "Supposedly I was using stuff to self-medicate- being my own psychiatrist." He laughed. "Bearshit. I used it to be happy."

Milo said, "Back on track: what else do you know about Gritz?"

"That's it." Smile. "Do I still get to keep the money?"

"Is Terminator Three still here?" I said.

"Who?"

"A kid from Arizona. Missing pinkie, bad cough. He has a girlfriend and a baby."

"Oh yeah, Wayne. He's calling himself that, now?" Laughter. "Nah, they all packed up this afternoon. Like I said, people come and go- speaking of which…"

He hooded himself with the blanket and, keeping his eyes on us, began edging toward the fence.

"What about your room for the night?" said Milo.

The man stopped and looked back. "Nah, I'll camp out tonight. Fresh air." Grin.

Milo laughed a little bit with him, then eyed the food. "What about all this?"

The man scrutinized the groceries. "Yeah, I'll take some of that Gatorade. The Pepsi, too."

He picked up the beverages and stashed them under the blanket.

"That's it?" said Milo.

"On a diet," said the man. "You want, you can bring the rest of it inside. I'm sure someone'll take it off your hands."

• • •

The hooded man led us through the darkness, walking unsteadily but without hesitation, like a well-practiced blind man.

Milo and I stumbled and fought to keep our balance, hauling boxes with only the skimpy guidance of the penlight beam.

As we progressed, I sensed human presence- the heat of fear. Then the petrol sweetness of Sterno.

Urine. Shit. Tobacco. Mildew.

The ammonia of fresh semen.

The hooded man stopped and pointed to the ground.

We put the boxes down and a blue flame ignited. Then another.

The concrete wall came into focus, in front of it bedrolls, piles of newspaper. Bodies and faces blue-lit by the flames.

"Suppertime, chillun'," shouted the man, over the noise of the freeway. Then he was gone.

More lights.

Ten or so people appeared, faceless, sexless, huddled like storm victims.

Milo took something out of the box and held it out. A hand reached out and snatched it. More people collected around us, blue tinted, rabbity, openmouthed with expectation.

Milo leaned forward, moving his mouth around his cigar. What he said made some of the people bolt. Others stayed to listen, and a few talked back.

He distributed more food. I joined in, feeling hands brush against mine. Finally our boxes were empty and we stood, alone.

Milo swung the penlight around the lot, exposing cloth heaps, lean-tos, people eating.

The hooded black man, sitting with his back up against the freeway wall, plaid legs splayed. One naked arm stretched out over a skinny thigh, bound at the biceps by a coil of something elastic.

A beautiful smile on his face, a needle buried deep in his flesh.

Milo snapped his head away and lowered the beam.

"C'mon," he said, loud enough for me to hear.

• • •

He headed west rather than back toward Beverly Hills, saying, "Well, that was a big goddamn zero."

"None of them had anything to say?"

"The consensus, for what it's worth, is that Lyle Gritz hasn't been seen for a week or two and that it's no big deal, he drifts in and out. He did, indeed, mouth off a bit about getting rich before he split, but they've all heard that before."

"The next Elvis."

He nodded. "Music fantasies, not fish murder. I pressed for details and one of them claimed to have seen him get into someone's car a week or so ago- across the street, over at the cement yard. But that same person seemed rather addled and had absolutely no clue as to make, model, color, or any other distinguishing details. And I'm not sure he didn't just say it because I was pushing. I'll see if Gritz's name shows up on any recent arrest files. You can ask Jeffers if he was ever a patient at the center. If he was, maybe you can get her to point you in any direction he may have gone. But even if we do find him, I'm not convinced it means a damn thing. Now you up for a little rest-stop? I'm still smelling that hellhole."

• • •

He drove to a cocktail lounge on Wilshire, in the drab part of Santa Monica. Neon highball glass above a quilted door. I'd never been there, but the way he pulled into the parking lot told me he knew it well.

Inside, the place wasn't much brighter than the overpass. We washed our hands in the men's room and took stools at the bar. The decor was red vinyl and nicotine. The resident rummies seemed to be elderly and listless. A few looked dead asleep. The jukebox helped things along with low-volume Vic Damone.

Milo scooped up a handful of bar nuts and fed his face. Ordered a double Chivas and didn't comment when I asked for a Coke.

"Where's the phone?" I said.

He pointed to a corner.

I called Robin. "How's it going?"

"Not bad," she said. "The other man in my life and I are cuddled up watching a sitcom."

"Funny?"

"I don't think so, and he's not laughing- just drooling. Any progress?"

"Not really, but we did give away lots of food."

"Well," she said, "good deeds don't hurt. Coming home?"

"Milo wanted to stop for a drink. Depending on his mood, I may need to drive him home. Go ahead and eat without us."

"Okay… I'll leave a light in the window and a bone in your dish."