“When did this happen- grabbing the gun?”

“Last month. A couple of weeks before…”

He hung his head. “So what happened is no big surprise, is it? She was obviously having violent thoughts and no one took them seriously. I keep wondering if I could have prevented it.”

“Not likely,” I said. “Did you tell the police any of this?”

“What the hell for? Drag my family into more shit? Get my name in the papers again? Besides, the guy they sent down looked like a fucking actor, couldn’t have cared less.”

“Lieutenant Frisk?”

“Yeah, that was him. I remember thinking what an asshole. Trying to stare me down, obviously considered himself hot shit. Kept harping on was she a member of any subversive groups. That’s a laugh, huh? Holly joining the fucking Red Brigade.” He shook his head. “No, we haven’t talked about it- the guns- to anyone. Gwen still can’t talk about it- any of it. She’s convinced it’s her fault. Here she is, the kindest person who ever walked this earth, and she’s blaming herself.”

I said, “The kind ones always do. Maybe you and she should take a trip down to Del Mar.”

Risking his anger by giving advice.

But he said, “Maybe,” in a defeated voice. “I wish there was some way to turn back the clock. I know it’s a fucking cliché, but it would make life a helluva lot easier, wouldn’t it?”

He covered his face again, gave a loud sigh.

I said, “Do you remember when it was that Holly stopped calling?”

“September. Late September.”

Right after Ike Novato’s murder.

Terrible. Haggard. As if someone had died.

I said, “Did she have any friends?”

“None that I ever saw.”

“Did she ever mention the name Novato?”

He moved his hand from his face. “No. Who’s that?”

“Someone who may have been a friend. He delivered groceries for Dinwiddie’s market. We know he and Holly had at least a few casual conversations.”

“Is that what he says?”

“He doesn’t say anything. He’s dead.”

“How?”

“Murdered, last September. Just around the time Holly started pulling away from you.”

“Murd- Oh, Jesus. You think that’s what tipped her over?”

“It’s possible.”

“You’re saying this Novato meant something to her?”

“Maybe. Your father says no-”

“What he says means fucking diddly-squat. Who is- was- this Novato? What kind of person.”

“People who knew him say he was a nice kid. Smart, black. Ted Dinwiddie thought highly of him. He was Dinwiddie’s delivery boy.”

He smiled. “Black. That makes sense. Back in high school, Ted Dinwiddie used to be our local flaming radical. Now he’s a businessman, probably feeling guilty about it. Hiring a black kid is something he would have done. And felt nervous about. The anxiety would have assuaged his guilt.”

He was silent for several moments, seemed to be lost in memories. Before the silence could curdle, I said, “What are your father’s political views?”

“I don’t know that he has any. He’s a fucking Mahlonicrat. Worships himself- fuck everyone else.”

“When Holly came over did she ever talk politics?”

“Nothing. Like I told you, she barely said anything at all. Why? What’s this all about? Who killed Novato?”

“It’s unsolved.”

“How’d it happen?”

I considered how much to tell him. When I didn’t answer right away, he moved forward and said, “Look, I’ve opened myself up to you. Maybe I’ll feel better for it tomorrow, maybe not. But the point is, I didn’t hold back and I don’t really know you from shit. So if you’ve got something to tell me, something I can bring home to Gwen, help her make sense of it, I need to know it. I fucking deserve it.”

I told him about Novato’s death in the alley and Sophie Gruenberg’s disappearance. Mentioned nothing of Smith’s suspicion that the two of them had been involved in dope. Talked about Gruenberg’s radical politics and resurrected my theory that Holly had been motivated by some sort of twisted political impulse. Aiming at Massengil. I had nothing to back that up, but the therapist in me had taken over; I wanted to make Burden feel better.

It worked.

He thought for a long time, then said, “It makes it a little easier to take. That she wasn’t going for the kids. That in some crazy, fucked-up way she had a goal. Friends. People who cared about her.”

He turned away, looked at the images of his wife and his daughter. “We wanted to be her friends. That was the whole point. To get to know her, reconnect. Make up for lost time- salvage something. But you can’t do that, can you? It just doesn’t fucking work that way, does it?”

Ten minutes had stretched to more than an hour. When I got up to leave, Burden was so subdued he looked drowsy, and the hand that I shook was wet and limp. I left him at his desk and walked to the elevator.

Outside, the air had stayed warm, and though it reeked of exhaust, I was happy to draw it into my lungs. Happy to get away from the hatred and rage that had filled his office like swamp gas.

I thought I understood, now, why Mahlon Burden had been so eager for me to speak with his son. Howard had shut him out; the two of them had no communication. But if Howard talked to me, I could pass along what I learned to the old man.

Shrink as modem.

That’s my main talent… I do know how to put things together.

And Howard had talked; I’d learned a lot more than I’d expected. But nothing I was going to report to Burden.

I reviewed it as I drove: Holly had deteriorated psychologically shortly after Ike Novato’s death. Handled the rifle she’d ultimately taken to the storage shed…

Wanna see, wanna say. Wanna see or say too.

Or was it two?

See two what?

Probably just gibberish, not worth interpreting.

What relationship, if any, was there to Novato’s death? Gruenberg’s disappearance?

I began to doubt if I’d ever really understand what had led Holly to that shed.

Nothing like that feeling of competence…

As I turned back onto the Glen, I was determined to put all of it out of my mind. Think good thoughts. Think about Linda. About kissing her.

I got home at seven-forty. She arrived an hour later, wearing a pink dress and sandals, her hair loose and sun-gold.

The first kiss was long and deep and I felt as if I was giving myself over to it completely. But when it ended she said, “You feel tense. Everything okay?”

“Just a little tired. And hungry. Still up for Mexican?”

“You bet. My treat.”

“Not necessary.”

“Don’t worry.” She rubbed my shoulder. “When we do Spago, you’ll pay.”

Just as we made it to the door, the phone rang.

She said, “Go ahead.”

I took it in the living room.

“Alex? It’s me.” Robin’s voice.

“Oh. Hi.”

“Hi. You all right?”

“Sure. Fine. How about you?”

“Fine. I’m just waiting for some glue to set, thought I’d call and touch base.”

“I appreciate that. How’re you?”

“Great. Real busy.”

“As usual.”

“As usual.”

Linda had taken out her compact and was looking in the mirror.

Robin said, “So.”

“So.”

Linda looked up. I smiled at her and she smiled back.

“Alex, is this a… bad time?”

“No. I was just on my way out.”

“Anywhere special?”

“Dinner.”

“Hey,” she said, “feel like picking up a pizza and dropping by? For old times’ sake?”

“That would be… difficult.”

“Oh,” she said. “Going out going out.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Oh. Sorry. I’ll let you go. ’Bye.”

I said, “Wait. Is everything really okay with you?”

“Great. Really. And there’s someone ’round these quarters too. Nothing cosmic at this point, but the indicators are good.”