As with Mensa, sources say admittance to the group is based upon scores on a self-designed IQ test. Mensa membership is based upon an upper 2 percent score and Meta is believed to be more selective. When asked if Mensa members shared Sanger's views, Lanin said, “I can only speak for myself but I find them repellent.”

I photocopied the article and searched local phone books for Meta listings. None. Big surprise.

How did they recruit members?

Mensa imitator… the better-known group was listed. West L.A. number, no address.

A recording listed the time and address for the next meeting and said messages could be left after the beep.

I said, “My name is Al and I'm an East Coast transplant looking for info on Meta. Are they out here?” and left my number.

Next, I reached Milo at his desk.

“Just the one article?” he said.

“That's it.”

“So maybe that was Ponsico's club, too. Maybe Sharavi can find something on his computers.”

“You're going to call him?”

“He called me. Seven A.M., gotta give him points for industriousness. He said he'd been working all night with the foreign police and Israeli contacts- zippo. I think he was telling the truth, I know that pissed-off tone of voice. Now that we have a name, maybe he can pull something up. I'll arrange a meet at his place this afternoon but first I've got a lunch appointment with Malcolm Ponsico's first girlfriend. Sally the scientist, more than eager to talk about Zena the clerk. She's working out in Sherman Oaks now, near the burn center, and I'm supposed to meet her at an Italian place on Ventura and Woodman. In the mood for pasta?”

“The stuff I've been reading lately has killed my appetite,” I said. “But the company sounds fine.”

Sally Branch speared a piece of mussel from a nest of linguini and stared at it clinically.

She was thirty-one but had a teenager's eager, nasal voice- Valley Girl inflections overlaid on long, articulate phrases- thick, wavy chestnut hair, a broad, plain, freckled face, brown eyes, and a knockout figure enhanced by a black knit dress. A white lab coat was draped over her chair.

She said, “Malcolm was never a very communicative person but he got worse after he met her.”

“How long before his death did you have contact with him?” said Milo.

“A few days before, we had lunch in the PlasmoDerm cafeteria.” She colored. “I saw him and sat down. He seemed preoccupied but not depressed.”

“Preoccupied by what?”

“His work, I assume.”

“He was having work problems?”

She smiled. “No, on the contrary. He was brilliant. But every day something new comes up- specific experiments.”

Milo smiled, too. “You'd have to be a scientist to understand?”

“Well, I don't know about that.”

She ate the mussel.

I said, “So he never actually talked about something bothering him.”

“No, but I could tell.”

“The breakup,” said Milo. “Was it friendly?”

She swallowed and forced another smile. “Is it ever really friendly? He stopped calling, I wanted to know why, he wouldn't say, then I saw him with her. But I got over it- I guess I kept thinking Malcolm would come to his senses. Listen, I know I sound like just another jealous woman but you need to understand that suicide would have been a totally illogical choice for Malcolm. His life was going great, he never lost interest in his work. And he liked himself. Malcolm was someone who truly liked himself.”

“Good self-esteem?” said Milo.

“Nothing obnoxious but he was brilliant and knew it. He used to make wisecracks about winning the Nobel prize but I knew it wasn't a total joke.”

“What was he researching?” I said.

“Cell permeability- moving ions and chemical compounds of increasing complexity through cell walls without causing structural damage. It was still at a theoretical level- mouse cells. But the practical potential was enormous.”

“Getting drugs into cells without damage,” I said.

“Exactly. Drugs are basically cellular-repair agents. Malcolm was studying drugs that enhance tissue growth in burn patients. He described it as playing with toy trains on a cellular level.”

“Cellular repair- like patching up defective chromosomes?”

“Yes! I suggested that to Malcolm but he said he'd stick to medications. That it was possible inborn defects shouldn't be tinkered with.”

“Why's that?”

She looked at her plate. “Malcolm was a bit… stodgy. A determinist- he believed some things should be left alone.”

“Healing burns was okay but genetic problems shouldn't be fixed.”

“Something like that- I don't want to make him sound unsympathetic. He wasn't. He was kind. But extremely brilliant people are sometimes like that.”

“Like what?” said Milo.

“Snobs.”

Milo picked up a piece of garlic bread and ate it. “If he didn't commit suicide, what do you think happened, Dr. Branch?”

“He was murdered. Detective Connor said he had a wound on his forehead from falling but couldn't it also mean someone came from behind and slammed him down on the table, then injected him with the potassium chloride?”

“Any suspects in mind?”

“Absolutely,” she said. “Zena. The only thing I can't figure out is why.”

“Is she a large woman?” said Milo.

“No, on the contrary. She's tiny- a real shrimp. But coming from behind, she could have compensated for that.”

She coiled linguini around her fork. “She took Malcolm from me but that's not why I suspect her. She's a nasty little witch. Very taken with her image: bad little girl. When she worked at PlasmoDerm she'd walk around with weird reading material- magazines on body-piercing, serial killers, those violent, X-rated alternative comics. One time I saw her handing something to Malcolm in the hall and went up to him later. He showed it to me. A photo of a man with a wire connecting his tongue to his penis. Piercing both. It nauseated me.”

“What was Malcolm's reaction?” I said.

“He said, “Isn't that strange, Sally?' As in, why would anyone do anything so foolish.”

“Was he repulsed by it?” I said.

“He'd have had to be. Did he show his repulsion? No, Malcolm rarely showed feelings.”

She put the fork down. “This conversation is frustrating me. He's coming across as an oddball and he wasn't. He was just different because his IQ was up in the ionosphere. Even at PlasmoDerm he stood apart.”

“Zena Lambert was a clerk at PlasmoDerm,” I said. “Who'd she work for?”

“The maintenance office- keeping track of the janitors. See what I mean?”

“Not exactly intellectual stuff,” said Milo.

Her shoulders sagged. “I'll never understand it. What could Malcolm have seen in her? The only thing I can come up with is she was a good listener. Maybe I challenged him too much. We used to have little debates. About technical things. Social issues- I'm an unapologetic liberal and as I said, Malcolm didn't have much patience for… problems. We debated all the time, I thought he enjoyed it.”

“You think Zena may have been submissive to him?” I said.

“That's what doesn't make sense! Submissive's the last thing you'd call her. At PlasmoDerm she had a reputation for being cheeky. Relating to the professional staff as if she were one of them.”

She pushed away her plate.

“Now I sound like a snob, too. But the fact is, Zena was a file clerk who acted as if she had a doctorate. Insinuating herself into conversations she couldn't have really understood- pretentious. That sums her up better than anything: intellectually pretentious. Yet, Malcolm became infatuated with her.” Her eyelids quivered.

“Was there anything appealing about her?” I said.

“I suppose you could think she was attractive. In a contrived way. She has a decent figure- meet her, judge for yourself.”