Daniel could just see it. Sturgis and him, sitting in a circle, each daring the other to be human. Delaware in the middle, the… what was the word- the facilitator.

Sturgis grumbling. An ill-mannered bear, that one. But smart.

Zev Carmeli was feeling better about the guy.

Like most diplomats, Zev didn't forgive. Forced to put on a polite front all day, he was judgmental, essentially a misanthrope.

Daniel remembered the call.

“Guess who they've given me now, Sharavi. A homosexual.”

Daniel had sat in a rear room of the New York embassy, listening as Carmeli complained. Carmeli reiterating his opinions of the “moronic L.A. police.”

“A homosexual,” he repeated. “Who he screws is his own damn business but it makes him an outcast, so how can he possibly be effective? I ask for the one with the highest solve rate and this is who they give me.”

“You think they're playing with you?”

“What do you think? This is some city, Sharavi. Every group hates the other. Like Beirut.”

Or Jerusalem, thought Daniel.

“Maybe he is the best, Zev. Why dismiss him before you know?”

Silence.

“You?” said Carmeli. “A guy with a yarmulke and you approve of that kind of thing?”

“If he's the one with the highest solve rate and the right kind of experience, then you're doing well.”

“I'm surprised, Sharavi.”

“About what?”

“Such tolerance. The orthodox aren't known for their tolerance.”

Daniel didn't respond.

“Well,” said Carmeli, “that's why I'm calling you. You come out here and check things out, whatever it takes. If you say keep him on, I will. But ultimately, it's your responsibility.”

Then he'd hung up.

Poor Zev.

Years ago, they'd both been students at Hebrew U. Daniel a twenty-five-year-old senior with three years of Army experience, Zev, younger, one of the few whizzes exempted out because of high test scores and family connections. Even then Zev had been serious for his age and openly ambitious. But you could talk to him, have a discussion. Not anymore.

The man had lost a daughter.

Daniel knew about fathers and daughters.

Zev could be forgiven just about anything.

Alone in the house, he finished his sandwich, though it might as well have been dust on plywood, then phoned an attorney in New York who received half of his income from the embassy, and asked him to quietly investigate Meta and fellow lawyer Farley Sanger, the one who'd written that retarded people weren't human.

Two more hours at the computer earned him nothing but a sore hand.

Carpal tunnel, the police doctor at French Hill had announced. If you don't watch out you'll have no hands. Ice it and don't use it so much.

Expert advice; Daniel had suppressed laughter and left the examining room wondering what it would be like to have no hands.

At 8:00 P.M., he drove to a kosher market on Pico and stocked up on groceries, putting on his yarmulke in order to blend in. The woman at the register said, “Shalom,” and he felt more at home than he had since arriving.

At ten he called Laura in Jerusalem.

She said, “Darling, I couldn't wait to hear from you. The children want to speak to you, too.”

His heart soared.

“Body's zipped, almost ready to go,” said the Central Homicide detective. “Your basic frenzied cutting.”

His name was Bob Pierce and he was in his fifties, thick in the middle with wavy gray hair, a big jaw, and a Chicago accent. On the way over Milo told me he'd once been a top solver, was two months from retirement now, thinking only about Idaho.

This evening, he seemed resigned and stoic, but his fingers gathered and released the bottom hem of his suit jacket, pinching, letting go, pinching.

He stood with us on Fourth Street, at the mouth of the alley between Main and Wall, as the crime-scene crew worked under portable floodlights. The lights were selective and the filthy strip lined with dumpsters sported strange, blotchy shadows. A rotten-produce smell poured out to the street.

“Working alone today, Bob?” said Milo.

“Bruce has the flu. So what's your interest in our alleged felony?”

“Cold case of mine, a retarded kid, so I'm looking into any 187s with handicapped vics.”

“Well, this one was handicapped. Coroner said his eyes were clearly nonfunctional. Atrophied sclera or something like that. Probably born blind. Yours black?”

“No.”

“This one is.”

“Any ID?” said Milo.

“Lots.” Pierce pulled out his notepad. “Medi-Cal card, a few other things next to the body, along with his wallet, all the money gone.”

He put on half-glasses, and flipped pages. “Melvin Myers, black male, twenty-five, home address on Stocker Avenue.”

He closed the pad and turned to watch the techs.

“Stocker's the Crenshaw district,” said Milo.

“Don't know what he was doing here but one of the uniforms said there's a school for the disabled not far from here- off L.A. Street, near the garment outlets. I'll find out tomorrow if Myers was a student.”

“What happened to him?”

“Walking through the alley, got stabbed from behind about ten times with a big knife, then ten more times in the front.”

“Overkill,” said Milo.

“I'll say.” Pierce's hands worked faster at his hem. “Can you imagine, unable to see it, just feeling it- this is some so-called alleged civilization we're allegedly living in.”

He directed the last words at me, staring, as he'd done off and on since being introduced. Was it my unshaven face or the fact that Milo had introduced me as a consultant?

Milo said, “Any estimates when it happened, Bob?”

“Sometime late in the afternoon. M.E. said the body was pretty fresh.”

“Who discovered him?”

“One of our patrol cars- how's that for something new? They were rolling up the alley, saw a leg sticking out from behind one of the dumpsters. At first they figured him for a crackhead who fell asleep and got out to roust him.”

“Late afternoon,” said Milo. “Working hours. Pretty risky.”

“Not if you're a no-brain sociopath. And he got away with it, didn't he?”

Pierce gave a sour look. “The thing is, even though it's working hours, this particular alley's been pretty quiet, lots of the buildings on Wall are vacant. And for the most part the people who work either on Main or Wall stay out of it because it used to be a crack market. The only citizens who do go in there are the janitors who take the garbage to the dumpsters.”

Milo peered down the alley. “The dumpsters give good cover.”

“You bet. One after the other, like rows of shacks. Reminds me of those little green houses in Monopoly.”

“So it's not a crack market anymore?”

“Not this week. Policy order from headquarters: Mayor says get a handle on quality-of-life offenses, let's make our downtown a real downtown so we can pretend we're living in a real city. HQ says knock the dope rate down pronto but without any additional personnel or patrol cars. Which is about as likely as O.J. feeling remorse. The way it plays out is we up patrol for one alley, the crackheads move to another. Like Parcheesi- bumping and moving, everyone goes in circles.”

“How often are the patrols?”

“A few times a day.” Pierce pulled out a pack of mints. “Obviously not at the right time for poor Mr. Myers. Helluva place for a blind guy to get lost in.”

“Lost?” said Milo.

“What else? Unless he was a crackhead himself, looking for something recreational, didn't know the action's three alleys over. But I'm choosing innocent til proven guilty unless I learn different. At this point, he got lost.”

“I thought blind guys had a good sense of direction,” said Milo. “And if he went to school around here, you'd think he'd know about the neighborhood, be extra careful.”