Monster

Chapter 15

I called home before leaving the station. Robin was out, and all that awaited me was paperwork-final reports on custody cases that had already been decided. I told my own voice on the message machine that I'd be back by five.

Talking to myself.

Put a cell phone in a psychotic's hand and he could fake normalcy.

The encounter with Ardis Peake had stayed with me.

Monster.

Hard to connect that mute, emaciated husk with someone capable of destroying an entire family.

What better endorsement for Mr. Swig's highly structured system?

What turns a human being into that?

I'd given Milo the short-version lecture and he'd been gracious enough not to complain. But I had no real answers; no one did.

I wondered what questions had led Claire to Starkweather. And Peake. She'd gravitated to him shortly after taking the job. Why, of all the madmen, had he been the one whose pathology had drawn her in?

The other thing that troubled me was Peake's assault on the eyes of the little Ardullo girl. Had I been too hasty minimizing his gibbering at Heidi?

Or perhaps it was simple: Claire had learned about the eyes and discussed it with him. Had it elicited something in him- guilt, excitement, a horrible nostalgia?

Bad eyes in a box. Was the box a coffin? Peake's imagery of the dead child. Reliving the crime and feeding off the memory, the way lust killers did?

It all hinged on learning more about Claire, and so far her ghost had avoided capture.

No entanglements, no known associates. Not much impact on her world.

Ardis Peake, on the other hand, had been a star in his day.

I drove to Westwood and used the computers at the U's research library to look up the Ardullo massacre. The murders had been covered nationally for one week. The periodicals index offered half a page of citations, and I went looking for microfiche.

Most of the articles were nearly identically worded, lifted intact from wire service reports. An arrest headshot showed a young Peake, stick-faced, hollow-cheeked, sporting a full head of long, stringy, dark hair.

Wild-eyed, startled, a cornered animal. The Edvard Munch screamer on jet fuel.

A large bruise spread beneath his left eye. The left side of his face swelled. Rough arrest? If so, it hadn't been reported.

The facts were as I remembered them. Multiple stab wounds, crushing skull fractures, extensive mutilation, cannibalism. The articles filled in names and places.

Scott and Theresa Ardullo, thirty-three and twenty-nine, respectively. Married six years, both UC Davis agricultural grads. He, "the scion of a prosperous farming family," had developed an interest in winegrowing but concentrated on peaches and walnuts.

Brittany, five years old.

Justin, eight months.

Next came the happier-times family photo: Scott hand in hand with a restless-looking little girl who resembled her mother, Theresa holding the baby. Pacifier in Justin's mouth, fat cheeks ballooning around the nipple. Ferns wheel in the background, some kind of fair.

Scott Ardullo had been muscular, blond, crew-cut, grinning with the full pleasure of one who believes himself blessed.

His wife, slender, somewhat plain, with long dark hair held in place by a white band, seemed less certain about happy endings.

I couldn't bear another look at the children's faces.

No picture of Noreen Peake, just an account of the way she'd been found, sitting at the kitchen table. My imagination added the smell of apples, cinnamon, flour.

A ranch superintendent named Teodoro Alarcon had found Noreen's body, then discovered the rest of it. He'd been placed under sedation.

No quote from him.

Treadway's sheriff, Jacob Haas, said: "I served in Korea and this was worse than anything I ever saw overseas. Scott and Terri took those people in out of the goodness of their hearts and this is how they get repaid. It's beyond belief."

Anonymous townspeople cited Peake's strange habits- he mumbled to himself, didn't bathe, cruised alleys, pawed through garbage cans, ate trash. Everyone had known of his fondness for sniffing propellants. No one had thought him dangerous.

One other attributed quote:

" 'Everyone always knew he was weird, but not that weird,' said a local youth, Derrick Crimmins. 'He didn't hang out with anyone. No one wanted to hang with him because he smelled bad and he was just too weird, maybe into Satan or something.' "

No other mention of satanic rituals, and I wondered if there'd been any follow-up. Probably not, with Peake out of circulation.

Treadway was labeled a "quiet farming and ranching community."

" 'The worst things we usually have,' said Sheriff Haas, 'are bar fights, once in a while some equipment theft. Nothing like this, never anything like this.' "

And that was it.

No coverage of the Ardullos' funeral, or Noreen Peake's.

I kept spooling, found a three-line paragraph in the L.A.

Times two months later reporting Peake's commitment to Starkweather.

Using "Treadway" as a keyword pulled up nothing since the murders.

Quiet town. Extinct town.

How did an entire community die?

Had Peake somehow killed it, too?

Milo called in a message while I was out on my morning run:

"Mr. and Mrs. Argent, the Flight Inn on Century Boulevard, Room 129, one P.M."

I did some paperwork, set out at twelve-thirty, taking Sepulveda toward the airport. Century's a wide, sad strip that cuts through southern L.A. Turn east off the freeway and you might end up in some gang gully, carjacked or worse. West takes you to LAX, past the bleak functionalism of airport hotels, cargo depots, private parking lots, topless joints.

The Flight Inn sat next to a Speedy Express maintenance yard. Too large to be a motel, it hadn't passed through hotel puberty. Three stories of white-painted block, yellow gutters, cowgirl-riding-an-airplane logo, inconspicuous entry off to the right topped by a pink neon VACANCY sign. The bi-level self-park wrapped itself around the main building. No security in the lot that I could see. I left the Seville in a ground-floor space and walked to the front as a 747 roared overhead.

A banner out in front advertised king-size beds, color TV, and discount coupons to happy hour at someplace called the Golden Goose. The lobby was red-carpeted, furnished with vending machines selling combs and maps and keychains with Disney characters on the fobs. The black clerk at the counter ignored me as I strolled down the white-block hall. Fast-food cartons had been left outside several of the red doors that lined the corridor. The air was hot and salty, though we were miles from the ocean. Room 129 was at the back.

Milo answered my knock, looking weary.

No progress, or something else?

The room was small and boxy, the decor surprisingly cheery: twin beds under blue quilted floral covers that appeared new, floating-mallard prints above the headboard, a fake-colonial writing desk sporting a Bible and a phone book, a pair of hard-padded armchairs, nineteen-inch TV mounted on the wall. Two black nylon suitcases were placed neatly in one corner. Two closed plywood doors, chipped at the bottom, faced the bed. Closet and bathroom.

The woman perched on a corner of the nearer bed had the too-good posture of paralyzing grief. Handsome, early sixties, cold-waved hair the color of weak lemonade, white pearlescent glasses on a gold chain around her neck, conservative makeup. She wore a chocolate-brown dress with a pleated bottom, and white pique collar and cuffs. Brown shoes and purse. Diamond-chip engagement ring, thin gold wedding band, gold scallop-shell earrings.

She turned toward me. Firm, angular features held their own against gravity. The resemblance to Claire was striking, and I thought of the matron Claire would never become.

Milo made the introductions. Ernestine Argent and I said "Pleased to meet you" at exactly the same time. One side of her mouth twitched upward; then her lips jammed shut-a smile reflex dying quickly. I shook a cold, dry hand. A toilet flushed behind one of the plywood doors and she returned her hands to her lap. On the bed nearby was a white linen handkerchief folded into a triangle.

The door opened and a man, drying his hands with a hand towel, struggled to emerge.

Working at it because he could barely fit through the doorway.

No more than five-seven, he had to weigh close to four hundred pounds, a pink egg dressed in a long-sleeved white shirt, gray slacks, white athletic shoes. The bathroom was narrow and he had to edge past the sink to get out. Breathing deeply, he winced, took several small steps, finally squeezed through. The effort reddened his face. Folding the towel, he tossed it onto the counter and stepped forward very slowly, rocking from side to side, like a barge in choppy water.

The trousers were spotless poly twill, held up by clip-on suspenders. The athletic shoes appeared crushed. Each step made something in his pocket jingle.

He was around the same age as his wife, had a full head of dark, curly hair, a fine, almost delicate nose, a full-lipped mouth pouched by bladder cheeks. Three chins, shaved close. Brown eyes nearly buried in flesh managed to project a pinpoint intensity. He looked at his wife, studied me, continued to lumber.

Mentally paring away adipose, I was able to visualize handsome structure. He pressed forward, perspiring, breathing hard and raspy. When he reached me, he stopped, swayed, righted himself, stuck out a ham-hock arm.

His hands were smallish, his grip dry and strong.

"Robert Ray Argent." A deep, wheezy voice, like a bass on reverb, issued from the echo chamber of his enormous body cavity. For a second, I imagined him hollow, inflated. But that fantasy faded as I watched him struggle to get to the nearer bed. Every step sounded on the thin carpeting, each limb seemed to shimmy of its own accord. His forehead was beaded, dripping. I resisted the urge to take his elbow.

His wife got up with the handkerchief and wiped his brow.

He touched her hand for an instant. "Thanks, honey."

"Sit down, Rob Ray."

Both of them with that soft, distinctive Pittsburgh drawl.

Moving slowly, bending deliberately, he lowered himself. The mattress sank down to the box spring and creaked. The box spring nearly touched the carpet. Rob Ray Argent sat, spread-legged, inner thighs touching. The gray fabric of his pants stretched shiny over dimpled knees, pulled up taut over a giant pumpkin of a belly.

He inhaled a few times, cleared his throat, put his hand to his mouth, and coughed. His wife stared off at the open bathroom door before walking over, closing it, sitting back down.

"So," he said. "You're a psychologist, like Claire." Dark circles under his armpits.

"Yes," I said.

He nodded, as if we'd reached some agreement. Sighed and placed his hands on the apex of his abdomen.

Ernestine Argent reached over and handed him the handkerchief and he dabbed at himself some more. She pulled another white triangle from her purse and pecked at her own eyes.

Milo said, "I was just telling Mr. and Mrs. Argent about the course of the investigation."

Ernestine gave a small, involuntary cry.

"Honey," Robert Ray said.

She said, "I'm okay, darling," almost inaudibly, and turned to me. "Claire loved psychology."

I nodded.

"She was all we ever really had."

Rob Ray looked at her. Parts of his face had turned plum-colored; other sections were pink, beige, white-apple-peel mottle caused by the variable blood flow through expanses of skin. He turned to Milo. "Doesn't sound like you've learned much. What's the chance you find the devil who did it?"

"I'm always optimistic, sir. The more you and Mrs. Argent can tell us about Claire, the better our chances."

"What else can we tell you?" said Ernestine. "No one disliked Claire; she was the nicest person."

She cried. Rob Ray touched her shoulder with his hand.

"I'm sorry," she finally said. "This isn't helping. What do you need to know?"

"Well," said Milo, "let's get a basic time frame, for starters. When was the last time you saw Claire?"

"Christmas," said Rob Ray. "She always came home for Christmas. We always had a nice family time, no exception last Christmas. She helped her mother with the cooking. Said in L.A. she never cooked, too busy, just ate things out of cans, takeout."

Consistent with the kitchen at Cape Horn Drive.

"Christmas," said Milo. "Haifa year ago."

"That's right." Rob Ray flexed his left foot.

"That would be right around the time Claire left County Hospital and moved to Starkweather Hospital."

"Guess so."

Milo said, "Did she talk about changing jobs?"

Headshakes.

"Nothing at all?"

More silence.

Ernestine said, "She never talked about her work in specifics. We never wanted to be nosy."

They hadn't known. I watched Milo hide his amazement. Rob Ray tried to shift his weight on the bed. One leg cooperated.

Milo said, "Did Claire talk about any sort of problems she might be having? Someone who was giving her difficulty-at work or anywhere else?"

"No," said Rob Ray. "She had no enemies. That I can tell you for sure."

"How did she act during her Christmas visit?"

"Fine. Normal. Christmas was always a happy time for us. She was happy to be home, we enjoyed having her."

"How long did she stay?"

"Four days, like always. We went to a bunch of movies; she loved her movies. Saw the Pittsburgh Ice Extravaganza, too. When she was a little girl, she skated. The last day, she came into our store, helped us out a bit-we're in giftware, have to stay open somewhat during the holiday season."

"Movies," I said. Joseph Stargill had said the same thing.

"That's right-the whole family loves 'em," said Rob Ray.

"She was happy, had no problems," said Ernestine. "The only problem for us was we didn't see her enough. But we understood, what with her career. And travel's hard for us. The business."

"No buck-passing when it's yours," said Rob Ray. "Also, I don't travel well-my size. But so what? This had nothing to do with Claire's trip home or her problems. There'd be no reason for anyone to hate her; this had to be some maniac on the loose-somewhere from that place she worked." His skin had deepened to scarlet and his words emerged between rough inhalations. "I tell you, I find out anyone put her in danger, I'll- Let's just say a lot of lives are going to be made miserable."

"Darling," said his wife, patting his knee. To us: "What my husband's saying is, Claire was kind and generous and sweet. No one could've hated her."

"Generous to the nth," Rob Ray agreed. "Back in high school, she was always the first to volunteer to help others. Old people at the hospital, animals at the shelter-didn't matter, she was there at the head of the line. She loved animals especially. We used to have a dog, a little Scottie. You know how kids never take responsibility with pets, it's always the parents who end up with it. Not our situation. Claire did everything, feeding it, cleaning up after it. She was always trying to fix things-broken wings on bugs, anything. We knew she'd be some kind of doctor, I would've guessed a veterinarian, but psychologist was fine. She always got good grades-it doesn't make sense, Detective Sturgis. At the morgue-what we just saw-I just don't… It had to be a maniac-this Starkweather place is nothing but maniacs?"

"Yes, sir," said Milo. "It's the first thing we looked at. So far, no leads. Apparently the inmates never get out."

"Sure," said Rob Ray. "Isn't there always some screwup that lets someone out? Some stupid mistake?" Tears began coursing silently down the jelly of his cheeks.

"You're right, sir," said Milo. "But so far I haven't come up with anything."

His tone had gentled; suddenly he seemed like a much younger man.

"Well," said Rob Ray. "I can tell you're good people. Where you from originally? Your folks, I mean."

"Indiana."

Satisfied nod. "I know you're trying."

Suddenly one log-arm moved with astonishing speed, slamming upward to the big man's face, as he ground the handkerchief to his eyes.

"Oh, Rob," said his wife, and she was crying again, too.

Milo went into the bathroom and brought them water.

Rob Ray Argent said, "Thanks, I'm supposed to drink a lot, anyway. For my joints, keep them lubricated." Half a shrug made his sloping shoulders jiggle. He plucked shirt fabric out of a fat fold.

Milo said, "So Claire visited only on Christmas."

"Yes, sir."

"Is that since she moved to Los Angeles or since she went to graduate school in Cleveland?"

"Los Angeles," said Rob Ray. "When she was at Case Western she came home for Thanksgiving, Easter, summers. She helped us out in the store, summers."

"Once she moved to L.A., how often did she write?"

Silence.

"We're phoners, not writers," said Ernestine. "Long distance is so economical nowadays. We have one of those calling plans."

I remembered Claire's phone bills. No recent calls to Pittsburgh. Had she dialed her parents from the office? Or had she become a stranger to them? Adding them to the club of strangers we'd encountered at every turn?

"So she called," said Milo.

"That's right," said Ernestine. "Every so often."

Milo scribbled. "What about her marriage? And the divorce. Anything I should know about that?"

Ernestine lowered her eyes. Her husband took a long, noisy breath.

"She said she'd gotten married in Reno," he said. "Soon after. One of her calls."

"So she told you over the phone," said Milo. "Did she seem happy about it?"

"I'd say yes," said Ernestine. "She apologized for not telling us before, said it was one of those sudden things- love at first sight. She said the husband was a nice fellow. A lawyer."

"But you never met him."

"I'm sure we would've, but Claire didn't stay married to him very long."

Two years, no contact.

"So she visited on Christmas while she was married."

"No," said Ernestine. "Not during the marriage. Last Christmas she was divorced already."

Milo said, "Did she explain why she got divorced?"

"She called after it happened, said she was fine, everything was friendly."

"She used that word?" said Milo." 'Friendly.' "

"Or something to that effect. She was trying to reassure me. That was Claire. Take care of everyone else."

She glanced at her husband. He said, "I know this sounds weird to you-our not meeting him. No big white wedding. But Claire always needed her freedom. She- It was-That's just the way she was. Give her her freedom and she got straight A's. She was always a good kid-a great kid. Who were we to argue? You do your best, who knows how your kids are going to turn out? She turned out great. We gave her freedom."

Focusing on me during most of the speech. I nodded.

"We asked to meet him," he said. "The husband. She said she'd bring him by, but she never did. I got the feeling it didn't work too well from the beginning."

"Why's that?"

"Because she never brought him out."

"But she never actually complained about the marriage," said Milo.

"She never said she was unhappy," said Rob Ray, "if that's what you're getting at. Why? Do you suspect him of having anything to do with it?"

"No," said Milo. "Just trying to learn what I can."

"You're sure?"

"Absolutely, sir. At this point, he's not a suspect. No one is, unfortunately."

"Well," said Rob Ray, "I know you'd tell us if it was different. The only mention she made of him was sometimes at the end of a conversation, she might say, 'Joe sends his regards.' She did say he was a lawyer, not a courtroom lawyer, a business lawyer. When she called he was never home. I got the feeling he was always working. She was, too. One of those modern marriages. That's probably what happened, they were too busy for each other."

Ernestine said, "She did send us a picture. Of the wedding- the chapel. So we knew what he looked like. A redhead.

I remember joking to Rob Ray about little ginger-haired grandchildren."

She started to cry again, checked it, apologized under her breath.

Rob Ray said, "You'd have to know the kind of girl she was to understand. Very independent. She always took care of herself."

"Took care of others, too," I said.

"Exactly. So you can see why she'd need to unwind. And she unwinds by going off by herself to the movies. Or reading a book. Privacy's a big thing with her, so we try to respect that. Mostly she does things by herself. Except when we go out to the movies together. She likes doing that with me- we're both crazy for the movies."

The lapse into present tense made my own eyes begin to ache.

He might've realized it, too. His shoulders lowered suddenly, as if someone had pushed down upon them, and he stared at the bedcovers.

"Any particular kind of movies?" I said.

"Anything good," he mumbled. His face stayed down. "It was something we did together. I never pushed her to do sports. Tell the truth, being large, I wasn't exactly ready to run around, myself, so I was glad she was that kind of kid, could sit still and watch a movie."

"Even when she was tiny," said Ernestine, "she could amuse herself. She was the sweetest little thing. I could leave her in her playpen, go about my housework, and no matter what was happening all around her, she'd just sit there and play with whatever you put in there."

"Creating her own world," I said.

Her smile was sudden, unsettling. "Exactly, Doctor. You put your ringer right on it. No matter what was happening all around her, she created her own world."

No matter what was happening all around her Second time she'd used the phrase within seconds. Did it imply some kind of family turmoil?

I said, "Privacy as an escape."

Rob Ray looked up. Uneasiness in his eyes. I tried to engage him. He turned away. Ernestine watched him, twisted the handkerchief.

"About the way Claire got married," she said. "Rob Ray and I had a big church wedding, and it put my father in debt for two years. I always thought one of Claire's intentions was to be considerate."

"What put a light in her eyes," said Rob Ray, "was consideration. Helping people."

"Before Mr. Stargill," said Milo, "did Claire have any other boyfriends?"

"She dated," said Ernestine. "In high school, I mean. She wasn't some social butterfly, but she went out. Local boys, nothing steady. A fellow named Gil Grady took her to the prom. He's a fire lieutenant now."

"What about later?" said Milo. "College? Graduate school?"

Silence.

"How about once she moved to L.A.?"

"I'm sure," said Ernestine, "that when she wanted to date, she had her pick. She was always very pretty."

Something-probably her most recent memory of her daughter, gray, damaged, laid out on a steel table-caused her face to collapse. She hid herself behind both hands.

Her husband said, "I can't see where this is leading us anywhere."

Milo looked at me.

"Just one more thing, please," I said. "Did Claire ever get involved in arts and crafts? Painting, woodwork, that kind of thing?"

"Crafts?" said Rob Ray. "She drew, like any other kid, but that's about it."

"Mostly she liked to read and go to the movies," said Ernestine. "No matter what was happening all around her, she could always find some quiet time for herself."

Rob Ray said, "Excuse me." Lifting himself laboriously, he began the trudge to the bathroom. The three of us waited until the door closed. Running water sounded through the wood.

Ernestine began speaking softly, frantically: "This is so hard on him. When Claire was growing up, children made fun of him. Cruel children. It's glandular; sometimes he eats less than I do."

She stopped, as if daring us to debate. "He's a wonderful man. Claire was never ashamed, never treated him any way but respectful. Claire was always proud of her family, no matter what-"

The last word ended too abruptly. I waited for more. Her lips folded inward. As she bit down on them, her chin shuddered. "He's all I've got now. I'm worried about what this will do to him-"

Another toilet flush. Several moments later, the door opened and Rob Ray's big head appeared. Repeat of the laborious exit, the huffing trek to the bed. When he finally settled, he said, "I don't want you to think Claire was some strange kid, all locked up in her room. She was a tough kid, took care of herself, wouldn't fall in with anything bad for her. So this had to be an abduction, some kind of maniac."

Talking louder, more forcefully, as if he'd refueled.

"Claire was no fool," he went on. "Claire knew how to take care of herself-had to know."

"Because she lived alone?" I said.

"Because-Yes, exactly. My little girl was independent."

Later, sitting in a coffee shop on La Tijera with Milo, I said, "So much pain."

"Oh, man," he said. "They seem like good people, but talk about delusions. Making like it's one happy family, yet Claire never bothers to bring the husband around, never calls. She cut them off, Alex. Why?"

"Something the mother said made me wonder about family chaos. She used the phrase 'no matter what was happening all around her' three times. Emphasizing that Claire coped well. Maybe there was turmoil. But they're sure not going to tell you now. Pretty memories are all they've got. And why would it matter?"

He smiled. "All of a sudden the past isn't relevant?"

"It's always relevant to someone's life," I said. "But it may not have had a thing to do with Claire's death. At least, I don't see it."

"A maniac, like the old man said."

"He and his wife might be holding back family secrets, but I don't think they'd obstruct you," I said. "Claire's been out here for years. I think L.A.'s more relevant than Pittsburgh or Cleveland."

He gazed past me, toward the cash register, waved for service. Other than two red-eyed truckers at separate booths, we were the only customers.

A waitress came over, young, nasal, eager to please. When she left with our sandwich order, I said, "If she grew up with disruption, wanted her adult life quiet, that empty living room makes a bit more sense. But how it helped make her a victim, I don't know."

Milo tapped a front incisor. "Dad's size alone would've been disruptive. Kids making fun of him, Claire having to deal with it." He drank coffee, peered through the coffee shop's front window. An unseen jetliner's overhead pass shook the building.

"Maybe that's it," I said. "Growing up with him could also've made her comfortable with folks who were different. But when it came to her personal life, she drew a clear line: no fuss, no mess. Escaping to solitude, just as she had as a child."

The waitress brought the sandwiches. She looked disappointed when Milo said there'd be nothing else. He took a bite of soggy ham as I assessed my burger. Thin, shiny, the color of dry mud. I put it aside. One of the truckers tossed cash on the table and hobbled out the front door.

Milo took two more gulps of his sandwich. "Nice how you worked the arts-and-crafts question in. Hoping for some wood-shop memories?"

"Wouldn't that have been nice."

He bit down on something disagreeable and held the bread at arm's length before returning it to the plate. "Some scene at the morgue. The coroner did his best to put her back together, but it was far from pretty. I tried to discourage them again from viewing. They insisted. Mom actually handled it okay; it was Dad who started breathing real hard, turned beet red, braced himself against the wall. I thought we'd end up with another corpse. The morgue attendant's been staring at the poor guy like he's some freak-of-the-week, now he's really gawking. I got them out of there. Thank God he didn't collapse."

Neither of us talked for a while. Ever the prisoner of my training, I lapsed into thoughts of Claire's childhood. Escape from… something… finding refuge in solitude… because solitude spun layers of fantasy… theater of the mind. Real theaters.

I said, "Claire's love of movies. That's something both the parents and Stargill mentioned. What if it led beyond just watching? Caused her to have acting aspirations? What if she answered a casting call-the same one Richard Dada answered?"

"She likes flicks, so all of a sudden she wants to be a star?"

"Why not?" I said. "It's L.A. Maybe Claire did a bit on Blood Walk, too. There's your link with Richard. The killer met both of them on the set."

"Everything we've learned about this woman tells us she's a privacy nut. You think she'd put herself in front of a camera?"

"I've known actors who were extremely shy. Taking on someone else's identity allowed them to cut loose."

"I guess," he said doubtfully. "So they both meet some loon on the set and he decides to pick them off for God knows what motive… Then why the time lapse between the murders?"

"Maybe there are other murders in between that we don't know about."

"I looked for similars. Anything in car trunk, anything with eye wounds or saw marks. Nothing."

"Okay," I said. "Just a theory."

The waitress came over and asked if we wanted dessert.

Milo's barked "No thanks" made her step backward and hurry away.

"I understand about role-playing, Alex, but we're talking Ms. Empty Room, her big thrill was being alone. I can see her taking in a matinee by herself, pretending to be Sharon Starlet, whatever. But going to the movies isn't being in the movies. Hell, I still can't believe there's no link to Starkweather. The woman worked with homicidal murderers, for God's sake, and I'm expected to take it on faith that none of them got out and hunted her down. Meanwhile, we sit here wondering about some hypothetical acting gig."

He pressed both temples, and I knew a headache had come on.

The waitress brought the check and held it out at arm's length. Milo shoved a twenty at her, asked for aspirin, ordered her to keep the change. She smiled and hustled away looking frightened.

When she brought the tablets, he swallowed them dry. "To hell with Swig and his court orders. Time to get with State Parole, see what they can tell me about Starkweather creeps flewing the coop since Claire went to work there. After that, sure, the movie thing, why not? Equipment rentals, like you suggested."

Crumpling the aspirin packet, he dropped it into an ashtray. "Like you said, it's L.A. Since when has logic ever meant a damn thing here?"