Dr. Death

CHAPTER 32

"ANY IDEA WHEN he'll be back?"

"I think he went downtown to do some paperwork," said the clerk, a woman, one I didn't know. "I can transfer you to Detective Korn. He works with Detective Sturgis. Your name, sir?"

"No thanks," I said.

"You're sure?"

She sounded nice so I gave her the ugly details and hung up before she could respond.

I drove back to L.A., hoping for an empty house. Wanting time to breathe, to sort things out.

Repulsed, still shaken. Sweat came gushing out of my pores as the image of the bodies kept smacking me across the brain.

Milo and I had visited Alice Zoghbie five days ago.

No skin sloughing, no maggots, the beginnings of the green tinge… I was no forensic pathologist, but I'd seen enough corpses to guess that not more than a couple of days had passed since the murder. Alice's mail and phone records could clear that up…

Propped, holding hands, a picnic.

Someone canny enough to overpower a big man like Haiselden and a woman who hiked the Himalayas.

Someone they knew. A confederate. Had to be.

The feelings of disgust didn't subside, but a new sensation joined them-strange, juvenile glee.

Not Eric, not Richard. No motive and both their whereabouts were well accounted for during the past two or three days. Same for Donny Salcido.

Propped against a tree. Geometry. Michael Burke's trademarks. Time to give Leimert Fusco's big black book another review.

Time to call Fusco-but Milo deserved to know first.

I was on the 134, driving much too fast, hoping for an empty house, thinking about Haiselden hiding from the civil suit only to encounter something much worse.

He'd probably been hiding out with Alice all along-I recalled the phone call she'd taken when Milo and I had visited. Afterward, she couldn't wait to get rid of us. Probably from her pal, wanting to know if the coast was clear.

The two of them waylaid right there in Alice's house. Someone they knew… someone respectable, trusted. A bright young doctor who'd apprenticed to Mate.

No doubt Glendale police had already been dispatched to the scene. Soon my prints on the gate would be lifted and within days they'd be matched to the Medical Board files in Sacramento.

Milo needed to know soon.

If I couldn't reach him, should I go straight to Fusco? The FBI man had said he was flying up to Seattle. Wanting to check on the unsolveds-something specific about the Seattle unsolveds?

The last Seattle victim-Marissa Bonpaine. Plastic hypodermic found on the forest floor. Cataloged and forgotten.

Not a coincidence. Couldn't be a coincidence.

Fusco had left me his beeper number and his local exchange, but both were back home in the Burke file. I pushed the Seville up to ninety.

I unlocked my front door. Robin's truck was gone- prayers answered. I raced to my office, feeling guilty about being quite so pleased.

I tried Milo again, got no answer, decided sooner was better than later and phoned Fusco's beeper and routing number. No callback from him, either. I was starting to feel like the last man on Earth. After another futile attempt to reach Milo, I punched in FBI headquarters at the Federal Building in Westwood and asked for Special Agent Fusco. The receptionist put me on hold, then transferred me to another woman with the throaty voice of a lounge singer who took my name and number.

"May I tell him what this is about, sir?"

"He'll know."

"He's out of the office. I'll give him the message."

I pulled out the big black accordion file, flung it open, stared at pictures of corpses against trees, geometrical wounds, the parallels inescapable.

All my theories about family breakdown, the Dosses, the Manitows, and it had come down to just another psychopath. I paged through police reports, found the Seattle cases, the data on Marissa Bonpaine, was halfway through the small print when the doorbell rang.

Leaving the file on the desk, I trotted to the front door. The peephole offered a fish-eye view of two people-a man and a woman, white, early thirties, expressionless.

Clean-cut duo. Missionaries? I could use some faith but was in no mood to be preached to.

"Yes?" I said, through the door.

I watched the woman's mouth move. "Dr. Delaware? FBI. May we please speak with you."

Throaty voice of a lounge singer.

Before I could answer, a badge filled the peephole. I opened the door.

The woman's lips were turned upward, but the smile appeared painful. Her badge was still out. "Special Agent Mary Donovan. This is Special Agent Mark Bratz. May we please come in, Dr. Delaware?"

Donovan was five-six or so with short light-brown hair, a strong jaw and a firm, busty, low-waisted body packed into a charcoal gray suit. Rosy complexion, an aura of confidence. Bratz was a half head taller with dark hair starting to thin, sleepy eyes and a round, vulnerable face. The skin around his jowls was raw, and a small Band-Aid was stuck under one ear. He wore a navy blue suit, white shirt, gray-and-navy tie.

I stepped back to let them enter. They stood in the entry hall, checking out the house, until I invited them to sit.

"Thanks for your time, Doctor," said Donovan, still smiling as she took the most comfortable chair. She carried a huge black cloth purse, which she placed on the floor.

Bratz waited until I'd settled, then positioned himself so the two of them flanked me. I tried to look casual, thinking about the open file on the desk, trying not to think about what I'd just seen in Glendale.

"Nice house," said Bratz. "Bright."

"Thanks. May I ask what this is about?"

"Very nice," said Donovan. "Care to guess, Doctor?"

"Something to do with Agent Fusco."

"Something to do with Mr. Fusco."

"He's not with the FBI?"

"Not any longer," said Bratz. His voice was high, tentative, like that of a bashful kid asking for a date. "Mr. Fusco retired from the Bureau a while back-was asked to retire."

"Because of personal issues," said Donovan. She took a pad and a Sony minirecorder out of her bag, set them on the coffee table. "Mind if I record?"

"Record what?"

"Your impressions of Mr. Fusco, sir."

"You're saying he was mustered out because of personal issues?" I said. "Are we talking criminal issues? Is he dangerous?"

Donovan glanced at Bratz. "May I record, sir?"

"After you tell me what's going on, maybe."

Donovan's fingernails tapped the Sony. Surprisingly long nails. French tips. Her lipstick was subtle. Her expression wasn't. She had no use for civilians who didn't fall in line.

"Sir," she said. "It's in your best interests-"

"I need to know. Is Fusco a criminal suspect?" As in multiple murder.

"At this point, sir, we're simply trying to find him. To help him." Her index finger touched the Sony's REC button.

I shook my head.

"Sir, we could arrange for you to be questioned at Bureau headquarters."

"That would take time, paperwork, and something tells me time's of the essence," I said. "On the other hand, you could tell me what's going on and I could cooperate and we could all try to have something of a weekend."

She looked at Bratz. No signal for him that I saw, but she turned back to me and her expression had softened.

"Here's a summary, Doctor. All you need to know and more: Leimert Fusco was a highly admired member of the Bureau-I assume you've heard of the BSU? The original Behavioral Science Unit at Quantico? Mr. Fusco was a member of the freshman class. Actually, he's Dr. Fusco. Has a PhD in psychology, same as you."

"So he informed me. Why was he asked to leave the Bureau?"

Bratz leaned across and clicked on the recorder, said, "How'd you meet him, sir?"

"Sorry, I'm not comfortable with this," I said, sorry about a lot more. Moments ago, I'd been ready to focus on Michael Burke as the real Dr. Death. If Fusco had lied, what happened to that scenario?

"What's the problem, sir?" said Donovan.

"Talking to you, going on record, without knowing the full picture. I spent time with Fusco. I need to know who I was dealing with."

Another looked passed between them. Donovan's mouth turned up again and she crossed her legs, setting off little scratchy sounds. Short legs, but shapely. Runner's calves in sheer stockings. Bratz snuck a peek at them, as if they were still a novelty. I wondered how long they'd been partnered.

"Fair enough, sir," she said, suddenly sunny. She tossed her hair, but it didn't move much. Leg recross. She inched closer to me. I could imagine some FBI seminar. Achieve rapport with the subject by any appropriate means. "But first, let me take a stab at how you met him: he contacted Detective Sturgis and asked to meet with you to discuss a homicide-most likely that of Dr. Mate- because you're the psychological consultant on the case. He told you he knows who the murderer is." Lots of teeth. "How'm I doing so far?"

"Very well," I said.

"Michael Burke," said Bratz. "He wanted you to believe in Dr. Michael Burke."

"Is Burke fiction?"

Bratz shrugged. "Let's just say Dr. Fusco's obsessed."

"With Burke."

"With the idea of Burke," said Donovan.

"Are you telling me he made Burke up?"

She glanced at the recorder. Switched it off. "Okay, here's the whole story, but we insist you keep it confidential. Agent Fusco had an honorable career with the Bureau. For several years, he was assigned to the Midtown Manhattan office as director of behavioral sciences. Five years ago, his wife died-breast cancer-and he was left sole parent of his child. A daughter, fourteen years old, named Victoria. What made Mrs. Fusco's death especially traumatic for Agent Fusco was that Victoria had also been diagnosed with cancer. Several years before, as a toddler. A bone tumor, she was treated at Sloan-Kettering, apparently cured. Shortly after his wife passed away, Fusco requested a transfer, said he wanted to raise Victoria in a quieter environment. An administrative position was found for him in the Buffalo office and he purchased a home near Lake Erie."

"Not a career move," I said. "He was devoted to the girl."

Donovan nodded. "Everything seemed fine for a couple of years, then the girl got sick again, at sixteen. Leukemia. Apparently the radiation she'd received for her bone tumor years ago had caused it."

"Secondary tumor," I said. Rare but tragic; I'd seen it at Western Peds.

"Exactly. Agent Fusco began bringing Victoria down to New York to be re-treated at Sloan-Kettering. She went into one remission, relapsed, received more chemo, achieved only a partial remission, started to weaken, tried some experimental drugs and got better but even weaker. Agent Fusco decided to continue her treatment closer to home, at a hospital in Buffalo. The goal was to increase her strength until she was able to tolerate a bone-marrow transplant back in New York. She improved for a while, then came down with pneumonia because chemotherapy had weakened her immune system. Her doctors hospitalized her and, unfortunately, she passed away."

"Was that expected?"

"From what we can gather, it wasn't unexpected but neither was it inevitable."

"One of those fifty-fifty situations," said Bratz.

"A hospital in Buffalo," I said. "Was she cared for by a respiratory tech named Roger Sharveneau?"

Donovan frowned. Looked at Bratz. He shook his head, but she said, "Possibly."

"Possibly?"

"Roger Sharveneau was on duty during Victoria's final hospitalization. Whether he was ever her therapist is unclear."

"Missing records?" I said.

"What's the difference?" said Bratz.

"Was Michael Burke also working there during that period?"

Bratz's eyes narrowed. Donovan said, "There's no record of Burke caring for her."

"But he was circulating through at the time- probably freelancing at the E.R.," I said.

Silence from both of them.

I went on: "When did Fusco become convinced that someone-Sharveneau or Burke, or both of them-had murdered his daughter?"

"Months later," said Donovan. "After Sharveneau began confessing. Fusco claimed he recognized him from the ward, had seen him in Victoria's room when he had no good reason to be there. He tried to interview Sharveneau in jail, was refused permission by the Buffalo police because the Bureau had no standing in the case and he certainly didn't-it was obviously a personal issue. Agent Fusco didn't react well to that. After Sharveneau was released, he persisted, harassing Sharveneau's lawyer. He became increasingly… irate. Even after Sharveneau committed suicide, he didn't cease."

"Was Fusco considered a suspect in Sharveneau's supposed suicide?" I said.

Second's hesitation. "No, never. Sharveneau had been in hiding, there's no evidence Fusco ever found him. Meanwhile, Agent Fusco's work product deteriorated and the Bureau sent him back to Quantico for several months. Had him teach seminars to beginning profilers. As a cooling-off measure. It seemed to be working, Fusco looked calm, more content. But that turned out to be a ruse. He was utilizing the bulk of his energies researching Burke, accessing data banks without permission. He was brought back to New York for a meeting with his superiors, during which he was let go on disability pension."

"Emotional disability," said Bratz.

"You see him as seriously disturbed?" I said. "Out of touch with reality?"

Bratz exhaled, looked uncomfortable.

"You've met him," said Donovan. "What do you think, Doctor?"

"To me he seemed pretty focused."

"That's the problem, Doctor. Too much focus. He's already committed a score of felonies."

"Violent felonies?"

"Mostly multiple thefts."

"Of what?"

"Data-official police records from various jurisdictions. And he continues to represent himself as a special agent. If all that got out… Doctor, the Bureau has sympathy for his misfortune. The Bureau respects him- respects what he once was. No one wants to see him end up in jail."

"Is he off base on Burke?" I said.

"Burke's not the issue," said Bratz.

"Why not?"

"Burke's not the issue for MS," Donovan clarified. "We handle only internal investigations, not external criminal matters. S.A. Fusco's been identified as an internal issue."

"Is anyone in the Bureau looking into Michael Burke?"

"We wouldn't have access to that information, sir. Our goal is simple: take custody of Leimert Fusco, for his own good."

"What happens to him if you find him?" I said.

"He'll be cared for."

"Committed?"

Donovan frowned. "Cared for. Humanely. Forget all the movies you've seen. Dr. Fusco's a private citizen now, due the same rights as anyone else. He'll be cared for until such a time as he's judged competent-it's for his own good, Doctor. No one wants to see a man of his… fortitude and experience end up in jail."

Bratz said, "We've been looking for him for a while, finally traced him to L.A. He covers his tracks pretty well, got himself a cell phone account under another name, but we found it and it led us to an apartment in Culver City. By the time we got there, he was gone. Packed up. Then an hour ago, you called and we just happened to be there."

"Lucky break for you," I said.

"Where is he, Doctor?"

"Don't know."

His hand clenched. "Why were you attempting to call him, sir?"

"To discuss Michael Burke. I'm sure you know I'm a psychological consultant to LAPD. I've been asked to interface with S.A. Fusco." I shrugged. "That's it."

"Come on, Doctor," said Bratz. "You don't want to be putting yourself in an awkward position. We'll be contacting Detective Sturgis soon enough, he'll tell us the truth."

"Be my guests."

Bratz hemmed me closer and I sniffed mentholated cologne. His jaw was set. No more vulnerability. "Why would you care about Dr. Burke? A suspect's already in custody on Mate."

"Being thorough," I said.

"Thorough," Bratz repeated. "Just like Fusco."

"You know, Doctor," said Donovan, "some people say you're kind of obsessive."

I smiled. How long before the prints on Alice Zogh-bie's gate got decoded and they found out about it? "Sounds like you've been researching me."

"We can be thorough, too."

"If only everyone was," I said. "Better world. The trains would run on time."

Bratz rubbed a patch of raw skin and looked at the recorder. Nothing of substance had been recorded. "You think this is a joke, my friend? You think we want to sit around with you, bullshitting?"

I turned and looked into his eyes. "I doubt you're enjoying this any more than I am, but that doesn't change the facts. You asked me if I knew where Fusco was, I told you the truth. I don't. He said he'd be out of town, left the cell-phone number. I tried it and he didn't answer, so I phoned the Federal Building. Obviously that's something he didn't instruct me to do, so we're obviously not colluding on anything."

"What cell number did he give you?"

"Hold on and I'll get it for you."

"You do that," said Bratz, barely opening his mouth.

I went into my office, stashed the accordion file in a drawer, copied down the number and returned. Bratz was on his feet, studying prints on the wall. Donovan's nylon-glossed knees were pressed together. I handed her the slip.

"Same one we've got, Mark," she said.

Bratz said, "Let's get out of here."

I said, "Even if Fusco had left me a detailed itinerary, why would it be any more credible than anything else he told me?"

"You're saying Fusco just told you about Burke, then dropped out of sight."

"Told Detective Sturgis and myself. We met with him, together, just as you said."

"Where?"

"Mort's Deli. Sturgis didn't buy the Burke theory, basically shunted it to me. As you said, he's got a suspect."

"And your opinion?"

"About what?"

"Burke."

"I need more data. That's exactly why I tried to reach Fusco. If I'd known it was going to get this complicated…"

Bratz turned toward me. "Understand this: if Fusco keeps improvising, it could get real complicated."

"Makes sense," I said. "Rogue agent running wild, psychological expert goes haywire. Public relations nightmare for you guys."

"Something wrong with that? Protecting the Bureau's integrity so it can do its job?"

"Not at all. Nothing wrong with integrity."

"True, Doctor," said Donovan. "Just make sure you're holding on to yours."

I watched them drive away in a dark blue sedan.

They'd labeled Fusco obsessive but hadn't dismissed the core of his investigation. An internal issue. Not their problem.

Meaning someone else in the Bureau might very well be looking into Michael Burke. Or they weren't.

When news of the Zoghbie-Haiselden murder broke, Fusco's nose would twitch harder. He'd probably try to contact Milo, even fly back down to L.A. Get snagged by his former comrades, taken into custody. For his own good.

He'd had a tragic life, but right now worrying about his welfare wasn't my job either. I went back inside, gave Milo yet another try. Daring another attempt at the West L.A. station, ready to disguise my voice if the same clerk answered.

This time it was a bored-sounding man who patched me up to the Robbery-Homicide room.

A familiar voice picked up Milo's extension. Del Hardy. A long time ago the veteran detective and Milo had worked together. Del was black, which hadn't mattered much, and married to a second wife who was a devout Baptist, which had-she'd kiboshed the partnership. I knew Del was a year from retirement, planning something down in Florida.

"Working Saturday, Del?"

"Long as it's not Sunday, Doc. How's the guitar-playing?"

"Not doing enough of it. Seen the big guy recently?"

"Happened to see him about an hour ago. He said he was going over to Judge Maclntyre's house, try for some warrants. Pasadena-I can give you the number if it's important. But Judge Maclntyre gets cranky about being bugged on the weekend, so why don't you try Milo's mobile."

"I did. He didn't answer."

"Maybe he shut it off, didn't want to annoy Judge Maclntyre."

"Scary guy, huh?"

"Maclntyre? Yeah, but law and order. If he thinks you're righteous he'll give all sorts of leeway-okay, here it is."

A frosty-voiced woman said, "What's this about?"

"I'm a police consultant, working on a homicide case. It's important that I reach Detective Sturgis. Is he there?"

"One minute."

Four minutes later, she came back on. "He's on his way out, said he'll call you."

It took another quarter hour for Milo to ring in.

"What's so important, Alex? How the hell did you get Maclntyre's number-you almost messed me up, I was in the middle of getting paper on Doss. Got some, too."

"Sorry, but you were wasting your time." I told him what I'd seen in Alice Zoghbie's backyard. The way I'd reported it to the police clerk, my prints on the gate.

"This is a joke, right?" he said.

"Ha ha ha."

Long silence. "Why'd you go out there in the first place, Alex?"

"Boredom, overachievement-what's the difference? This changes everything."

"Where are you right now?"

"Home. Just finished with some visitors." I began to tell him about Donovan and Bratz.

"Stop," he said. "I'm coming over-no, better if we meet somewhere, just in case they're still watching you. I just got on the 110-let's make it somewhere central… Pico-Robertson, the parking lot behind the Miller's Outpost, southeast corner. If I'm late, buy yourself some jeans. And try to figure out if the feebies are tailing you. If they are, I doubt they'll be using more than one car, which will make it damn near impossible for them to pull it off if you're looking out for them. Did you happen to notice what kind of car they were driving?"

"Blue sedan."

"Check for it three, four car lengths behind you. If you see it, drive back home and wait."

"High intrigue."

"Low intrigue," he said. "Bureaucracy's big toes getting stepped on. Zoghbie and Haiselden-did you notice any overt putrefaction?"

"Green tinge, no maggots, lots of flies."

"Probably a day or two at most… and you're saying the positioning was similar to the stuff in Fusco's file?"

"Identical. Geometrical wounds, as well."

"Oh my," he said. "Every day brings new thrills."

I wrote a note to Robin and left, drove more slowly than usual, looked out for the blue sedan or anything else that spelled government-issue. No sign of a tail, as far as I could tell. I reached the Miller's Outpost lot before Milo, parked where he'd instructed, got out of the car and stood against the driver's door. Still, no blue car. The lot was half full. Shoppers streamed in and out of the store, business at a nearby newsstand was brisk, cars roared by on Robertson. I waited and thought about putrefaction.

Milo showed up ten minutes later, surprisingly well-put-together in a gray suit, white shirt, maroon tie. Warrant-begging duds. No string tie for Judge Maclntyre.

He motioned me into the unmarked, lit up the cold stub of a Panatela as I eased into the passenger seat.

He scanned the lot, fondled his cell phone, let his eyes drift to the jeans store. "Time to get myself some easy-fit… Glendale's at the scene-they've pegged it to an anonymous caller. How does it feel to be an archetype?"

"Glorious. But I won't be anonymous long. The gate."

"Yeah, terrific. I'm waiting to hear back from their detectives. News jackals picked it up, too, it's only a matter of time before they tie Zoghbie and Haiselden to Mate and we're back on page one."

"That's exactly what Burke wants," I said. "But maybe he had another motive for killing Zoghbie and Haiselden: to get hold of any records that incriminated him. He might very well have been planning it for a while, but Richard's arrest might have sped things up: he wouldn't like someone else getting credit for his handiwork. Like Mate, he's after the attention, is eliminating the old guard, telling the world he's the new Dr. Death."

He chewed the cigar's wooden tip, blew out acrid smoke. "You buy the whole Burke thing even though Fusco misrepresented himself?"

"When will you be going over to the Zoghbie crime scene?"

"Soon."

"Wait till you see it. Everything fits. And Donovan and Bratz never dismissed Fusco's findings, they're just worried he'll do something that makes the Bureau look bad. Fusco's convinced Sharveneau and/or Burke murdered his daughter. Personal motivation can get in the way, but sometimes it's potent fuel."

He sucked in smoke, held it in his lungs for a long time, drew a lazy circle on the windshield fog. "So I've been spinning my wheels on Doss… who, from what I've been told by business associates, has very complicated financial records-maybe I'll send my files to the Fraud boys."

He faced me. "Alex, you know damn well he solicited Goad to kill Mate, we're not talking Mother Teresa. Just because Goad didn't go all the way doesn't put Doss in the clear."

"I realize that. But it doesn't change what I saw in Glendale."

"Right," he said. "Back to square goddamn one… Burke, or whatever the hell he's calling himself… you're saying he craves center stage. But he can't go public the way Mate did… so what does that mean? More nasties against trees?" His laugh was thick with affliction and anger. "Gee, that's a terrific lead. Let's go check out every bit of bark in the goddamn county-where the hell do I go with this, Alex?"

"Back to Fusco's files?" I said.

"You've already been through them. Okay, I'll accept the fact that Burke is evil personified. Now, where the hell do I find him?"

"I'll go over them again. You never know-"

"You're right about that," he said. "I never do know. Spend half my damn life in blissless ignorance… Okay, let's handle some short-term matters. Like keeping you out of jail once those prints cross-reference to the Medical Board. Did you touch anything but the gate?"

"The front door knocker. I also knocked on the side door, but just with my knuckles."

"The old goat's head," he said. "When I first saw it I wondered if Alice was into witchcraft or something. That, combined with all her talk of Mate being a sacrifice. So she ends up tied up- All right, look, I'm going to run interference for you with Glendale PD, but at some point you'll have to talk to them. It'll take days for the prints to be analyzed, maybe a good week for the cross-reference, even longer if the med files aren't on Printrak. But I need to work with them, so I'm telling them about you sooner-figure on tomorrow. I'll try to have them interview you on friendly territory."

"Thanks."

"Yeah. Thanks, too." He inhaled, made the cigar tip glow, created another quarter inch of ash.

"For what?"

"Being such a persistent bastard."

"What's next? "I said.

"For you? Keeping out of trouble. For me, anguish."

"Want Fusco's file?"

"Later," he said. "There's still Doss's paper to deal with. I can't let warrants lapse on an attempted murder case. I do that and Judge Maclntyre puts me on his naughty list. I'll sic Korn and Demetri on Doss's office, have them shlep the financial records to the station so I can get moving at Glendale. Maybe the scene will tell me something. Maybe Burke/whatever missed something in Alice's house and we can get a lead on him." He crushed the cigar in the ashtray. "Fat chance of that, right?"

"Anything's possible."

"Everything's possible," he said. "That's the problem."

By the time I got back, Robin was home. We had a takeout Chinese dinner and I fed slivers of Peking duck to Spike, acting like a regular, domestic guy with nothing heavier on my mind than taxes and prostate problems. This time I went to sleep when Robin did and drifted off easily. At 4:43 A.M., I woke up with a stiff neck and a stubborn brain. Cold air had settled in during the night and my hands felt like freezer-burned steaks. I put on sweats, athletic socks and slippers, shuffled to my office, removed Fusco's file from the drawer where I'd concealed it from Donovan and Bratz.

Starting again, with Marissa Bonpaine, finding nothing out of the ordinary but the plastic hypodermic. An hour in, I got drowsy. The smart decision would have been to crawl back in bed. Instead, I lurched to the kitchen. Spike was curled up on his mattress in the adjacent laundry room, flat little bulldog face compressed against the foam. Movement beneath his eyelids said he was dreaming. His expression said they were sweet dreams-a beautiful woman drives you around in her truck and feeds you kibble, why not?

I headed for the pantry. Generally, that's a stimulus for him to hurry over, assume the squat, wait for food. This time, he raised an eyelid, shot me a "you've got to be kidding" look, and resumed snoring.

I chewed on some dry cereal, made a tall mug of strong instant coffee, drank half trying to dispel the chill. The kitchen windows were blue with night. The suggestion of foliage was a distant black haze. I checked the clock. Forty minutes before daybreak. I carried the mug back to my office.

Time for more tilting, Mr. Quixote.

I returned to my desk. Ten minutes later I saw it, wondered why I hadn't seen it before.

A notation made by the first Seattle officer on the Bonpaine murder scene-a detective named Robert Elias, called in by the forest rangers who'd actually found the body.

Very small print, bottom of the page, cross-referenced to a footnote.

Easy to miss-no excuses, Delaware. Now it screamed at me.

The victim, wrote Elias, was discovered by a hiker, walking with his dog (see ref, 45).

That led me to the rear of the Bonpaine file, a listing of over three hundred events enumerated by the meticulous Detective Elias.

Number 45 read: Hiker: tourist from Michigan. Mr. Ferris Grant.

Number 46 was an address and phone number in Flint, Michigan.

Number 47: Dog: black labr. retriev. Mr. F. Grant states "she has great nose, thinks she's a drug dog."

I'd heard that before, word for word. Paul Ulrich describing Duchess, the golden retriever.

Ferris Grant.

Michael Ferris Burke. Grant Rushton.

Flint, Michigan. Huey Grant Mitchell had worked in Michigan-Ann Arbor.

I phoned the number Ferris Grant had left as his home exchange, got a recorded message from the Flint Museum of Art.

No sign Elias had followed up. Why would he bother?

Ferns Grant had been nothing more than a helpful citizen who'd aided a major investigation by "discovering" the body.

Just as Paul Ulrich had discovered Mate.

How Burke must have loved that. Orchestrating. Providing himself with a legitimate reason to show up at the crime scene. Proud of his handiwork, watching the cops stumble.

Psychopath's private joke. Games, always games. His internal laughter must have been deafening.

Hiker with a dog.

Paul Ulrich, Tanya Stratton.

I paged hurriedly to the photo gallery Leimert Fusco had assembled, tried to reconcile any of the more recent portraits of Burke with my memory of Ulrich. But Ul-rich's face wouldn't take shape in my head, all I recalled was the handlebar mustache.

Which was exactly the point.

Facial hair changed things. I'd been struck by that when trying to reconcile the various photos of Burke. The beard Burke had grown as Huey Mitchell, hospital security guard, as effective as any mask.

He'd gone on to use another Michigan identity. Ferris Grant… the Flint Museum. Another ha ha: I'm an artist! Reverting to Michigan-to familiar patterns- because at heart, psychopaths were rigid, there always had to be a script of sorts.

I studied Mitchell's picture, the dead eyes, the flat expression. Luxuriant mask of a beard. Heavy enough to nurture a giant mustache.

When I tried to picture Ulrich's face, all I saw was the mustache.

I strained to recall his other physical characteristics.

Medium-size man, late thirties to forty. Perfect match to Burke on both counts.

Shorter, thinner hair than any of Burke's pictures- balding to a fuzzy crew cut. Each picture of Burke revealed a steady, sequential loss, so that fit, too.

The mustache… stretching wider than Ulrich's face. As good a mask as any. I'd thought it an unusual flamboyance, contrasting especially with Ulrich's conservative dress.

Financial consultant, Mr. Respectable… Something else Ulrich had said-one of the first things he'd said- came back to me: So far our names haven't been in the paper. We're going to be able to keep it that way, aren't we, Detective Sturgis?

Concerned about publicity. Craving publicity.

Milo had answered that the two of them would probably be safe from media scrutiny, but Ukich had stuck with the topic, talked about fifteen minutes of fame.

Andy Warhol coined that phrase and look what happened to him… checked into a hospital… went out in a bag… celebrity stinks… look at Princess Di, look at Dr. Mate.

Letting Milo know that fame was what he was after. Playing with Milo, the way he'd toyed with the Seattle cops.

Getting as close as he could to criminal celebrity without confessing outright.

It had been no coincidence that he and Tanya Stratton had chosen Mulholland for a morning walk that Monday.

Stratton had come out and said so: We rarely come up here, except on Sundays. Resentful about the change in routine. About Paul's insistence.

She'd complained to Milo that everything had been Paul's idea. Including the decision to talk to Milo up at the site, rather than at home. Ulrich had claimed to be attempting a kind of therapy for Tanya, but his real motive-multiple motives-had been something quite different: keep Milo off Ulrich's home territory, and get another chance at deja vu.

Ulrich had talked about the horror of discovering Mate, but I realized now that emotion had been lacking.

Not so, Tanya Stratton. She'd been clearly upset, eager to leave. But Ulrich had come across amiable, helpful, relaxed. Too relaxed for someone who'd encountered a bloodbath.

An outdoorsy guy-Fusco had said Michael Burke skied, fancied himself an outdoorsman-Ulrich had chatted about staying fit, the beauty of the site.

Once you get past the gate, it's like being in another world.

Oh yeah.

His world.

Amiable guy, but the charm was wearing thin with Stratton. Was she edgy because she'd begun to sense something about her boyfriend? Or just a relationship gone stagnant?

I recalled her pallor, the unsteady gait. Wispy hair. Dark glasses-hiding something?

A fragile girl.

Not a well girl?

Then I understood and my heart beat faster: one of Michael Burke's patterns was to hook up with sick women, befriend them, nurture them.

Then guide them out of this world.

He enjoyed killing on so many levels. The consummate Dr. Death, and one way or the other the world was going to know it. How Eldon Mate's fame-the legitimacy Mate had obtained while dispatching fifty lives- must have eaten at Burke. All those years in medical school, and Burke still couldn't practice openly the way Mate did, had to serve as Mate's apprentice.

Had to masquerade as a layman.

Because since arriving in L.A., he hadn't found a way to bogus his medical credentials, had to represent himself as a financial consultant.

Mostly real-estate work… Century City address. Nice and ambiguous.

Home base, Encino. Just over the hill. Respectable neighborhood for an upstanding guy.

In L. A. you could live off a smile and a zip code.

The business card Ulrich had given Milo was sitting in a drawer at the West L.A. station. I phoned information and asked for Ulrich's Century City business listing, was only half surprised when I got one. But when I tried the number, a recording told me the line had been disconnected. No Encino exchange for either him or Tanya Stratton, nothing anywhere in the Valley or the city.

Tanya. Not a well girl.

A relationship on the wane with Ulrich could prove lethal.

I looked at the clock. Just after six. Light through the office curtains said the sun had risen. If Milo had been up all night at the Glendale crime scene, he'd be home now, getting some well-deserved rest.

Some things could wait. I phoned him. Rick answered on the first ring. "Up early, Alex."

"Did I wake you?"

"Not hardly. I was just about to leave for the E.R. Milo's already gone."

"Gone where?"

"He didn't say. Probably back to Glendale, that double murder. He was out there until midnight, came home, slept for four hours, woke in a foul mood, showered without singing and left the house with his hair still wet."

"The joys of domestic life," I said.

"Oh yeah," he said. "Give me a nice freeway pileup and I know I'm being useful."

Milo picked up his mobile, barking, "Sturgis."

"It's me. Where are you?"

"Up on Mulholland," he said in an odd, detached voice. "Staring at dirt. Trying to figure out if I missed something."

"Son, I'm going to bring some joy into your wretched life." I told him about Ulrich.

I expected shock, profanity, but his voice remained remote. "Funny you should mention that."

"You figured it out?"

"No, but I was just wondering about Ulrich. Because I positioned my car where the van was, walked myself through the scene. When the sun came up it hit the rear window and gave off glare. Blinding glare, I couldn't see a thing inside. Ulrich claimed he and the girl discovered Mate right after sunrise, said he could see Mate's body through the rear window. Now that was a week ago, and the van's windows were higher than mine, but I don't calculate that much of a difference and I don't imagine the sun's angle has shifted that radically. I was waiting around to see if the visibility changed over the next quarter hour or so. By itself it wasn't any big deal, maybe the guy didn't remember every detail. But now you're telling me… Left the bastard's address back at the station, I'll run a DMV on him and the Stratton girl. Time for a drop-in."

"The Stratton girl may be in danger." I told him why.

"Sick?" he said. "Yeah, she didn't look too healthy, did she? All the more reason to visit."

"How're you going to handle Ulrich?"

"I don't exactly have grounds for an arrest, Alex. At the moment, all I can do is scope him out in his natural habitat-my story will be that I'm dropping in for a follow-up, has he thought of anything else? 'Cause we're stumped-he'd like that, right? The cops being stupid, my coming to him for wisdom."

"He'd love it," I said. "If he believed it. But this is a smart man. He'd have to wonder why, after Richard's arrest, you're knocking on his door on a Sunday morning."

Silence. "How about I imply there are complications with the current investigation-stuff I can't talk about. He'll know I mean Zoghbie, but I won't come out and say it. We'll tango around, I can watch his eyes and his feet. Maybe Stratton will give off some kind of vibe. Maybe I'll get her alone, later on in the day."

"Sounds good. Want me there?"

Silence. Static. Finally he said, "Yes."

When I walked into the bedroom, Robin was sitting up and rubbing her eyes.

"Morning." I kissed her forehead and began to get dressed.

"What time is it? How long have you been up?"

"Early. Just a bit. Have to run and meet Milo up on Mulholland."

"Oh," she said sleepily. "Something come up?"

"Maybe," I said.

That opened her eyes wide.

"A possible lead," I said. "Nothing dangerous. Brain work."

She held out her arms. We embraced. "Take good care of it," she said. "Your brain. I love your brain."