She shook her head. “Though I still can't see any connection to Ponsico, unless he met your killer at the brainiac club and learned too much for his own good.”

“Did Zena get anothor job after she left PlasmoDerm?” I said.

“Bookstore in Silverlake, it's in the file.”

“Did Sally give you a name for the club?” I said, thinking about Nolan Dahl, another high-IQ suicide.

“Meta,” she said. “You really think there could be a link?”

I told the two of them what I'd learned in the library.

“Survival of the rotten,” she said. “Reminds me of something my father once told me. He was a professor in Arizona, physical anthropologist, did research on wolves, the desert. He said there was a giant study going on- the Human Genome Project- mapping every gene in the human body, trying to figure out which traits are caused by what. The ultimate goal is to collect detailed data on every one of us. My dad said the upside potential for medical research was tremendous but it was also frightening. What if insurance companies got hold of the information and decided to withhold coverage because of some mutation way back in the family tree? Or companies started refusing to hire someone because they were at elevated risk for cancer ten years down the line?”

“Or,” said Milo, “Big Bro identifies the mutations and kills off the carriers… was PlasmoDerm involved in that kind of research?”

“No, just skin grafts, but even if they were, it doesn't explain why Ponsico would kill himself.”

“Maybe he found out he had some incurable disease.”

“Nope, the coroner said he was perfectly healthy.”

Milo pulled out his pad. “Meta. Sounds like Greek.”

“It is,” said Petra. “I went over the file before I came here and looked it up. Means change, transformation. Something that breaks new ground.”

“Brave new goddamn world?” said Milo. “A bunch of arrogant geeks sit around theorizing about improving the species and one of them decides to put it into action?”

Both of them looked at me.

“Sure,” I said. “If you thought you were that superior, you might start figuring the rules didn't apply.”

Out in the parking lot, Connor said, “I spoke to Stu this morning. He won't be back from Maui for another week, says to give you all our data.”

She produced a file from a huge black bag and handed it to Milo.

“Thanks, Petra.”

“No problem.” She flashed an abrupt white smile. “Just promise that if I send around a memo, you'll read it.”

We watched her drive away in an older black Accord.

“Fairly new on the job,” said Milo, “but she'll go far… So I guess the next step is for me to go over this, then give you a look. Then have a talk with Ponsico's two girlfriends.”

“It's the best lead we've gotten, so far,” I said. Saying nothing about Nolan because I was still bound by confidentiality and there was no reason to violate.

We walked to the Seville. “Thanks for the library work, Alex. Have time to go back there and look up this Meta outfit?”

“First thing in the morning. Sharavi's well-equipped in the computer department. Planning to update him?”

“Haven't decided. Because anything I tell him goes straight to Carmeli and how much do I want a grieving high-powered father to know at this point… not that I can put him off too long- hell, if I don't cue him in, he'll probably start bugging the phones again.”

He laughed, cursed. “Distractions… by the way, I think I figured out how Sharavi got Raymond Ortiz's shoes. Same way he got the file- remember how the first time Manny Alvarado looked for it he couldn't find it? Seems a former Newton captain just happened to drop in to visit the station a couple days before. Guy named Eugene Brooker, one of the highest-ranked blacks in the department, they used to think he was on his way to deputy chief. But his wife died last summer and he retired. And guess what- he was a biggie on the same Olympics security Sharavi worked on. So the Israelis are connected to the department, who knows where else. No matter how aboveboard Sharavi acts, I'll always figure he's holding something back. You think his computers can help substantially?”

“I can get academic references from the library, material that's been in the English-language press. But if Meta's an international group, or if it's been implicated in anything criminal overseas, he could be useful.”

He thought about that. “All this assumes Meta's some big deal. For all we know, it's just a group of nerds getting together for chips and dip, patting themselves on the back because God gave them smarts. Even if the killer's one of them, how're we going to pick him out of the group?”

“If there's a membership roster and we get it, we could cross-check with the sex-offender and M.O. files. We can also see if any members present a clear opportunity or motive for the three killings. Like working at the park where Raymond was abducted and/or the conservancy.”

“Park worker with a high IQ?”

“Underachiever,” I said. “That's the way I've seen it all along.”

“Ponsico's second girlfriend- the Lambert woman- sounds like an underachiever, too. Clerking. Not that she's any big suspect, because our boy's definitely male and strong- the way he carried Irit and Raymond, trussed up Latvinia.”

I got in the car. He said, “What do you think of that gene project Connor talked about?”

“Just what we need in the age of kindness, Milo. Some map that determines whose life is worth living.”

“So you're not willing to depend upon the good graces of intellectuals and insurance companies, huh?”

I laughed. “Gang bangers and dope smugglers and back-alley junkie muggers, maybe. But no, not them.”

At 6:00 A.M. after working since midnight, Daniel opened the shutters on the computer room's windows and breathed in light.

Putting on his phylacteries, he prayed without feeling, looking out at the tiny backyard clad in concrete.

He'd spent most of the night on the phone, accommodating the European and Asian and Middle Eastern time zones. Making police-officer small talk in four languages, calling in favors, making his way through the various law-enforcement bureaucracies that somehow never changed from city to city.

Searching for DVLL references, murders with racial and ethnic overtones, any hints of serial crimes linked to genetic cleansing, any major changes in the policies of neo-Nazi and nationalist groups and others who thought themselves superior.

Quantity wasn't the problem. Plenty of information- as democracy spread over Europe, more and more lunatics crawled out of their holes and gorged themselves on free speech. But in the end he was left with no connections to the L.A. murders, nothing even close to a lead.

He cut his prayers short, apologized to God, wrapped up the tfillin, and went into the small, dark bathroom where he turned on the shower, stripped, and stepped in, not waiting for the water to turn hot.

It took exactly two minutes forty-one seconds for the old pipes to kick in. He'd timed it yesterday, arranged his morning schedule accordingly.

But this morning he endured the cold needles.

Flogging himself for the futile night?

He'd begun with Heinz-Dietrich Halzell at the Berlin police, who'd informed him the racist presses continued to churn out the nasty stuff; the moment the polizei got an injunction, the slime just moved and started up again. And stupid punks kept beating up Turks and anyone else with a dark skin, starting brawls, desecrating graveyards.

Apology in his voice. Deeply sorry, the way only a German could be. Daniel had hosted him at a security conference in Jerusalem, last year. A really decent guy, but weren't they always the ones who let themselves feel?