"It's not a game."

"It's voodoo. Sorry, but that's how it looks to me."

"If you looked deeper, you might change your opinion."

"Changing my opinion isn't a real common occurrence with me."

Robin believed him. She said nothing.

"I've been around a while," Wolper went on, "and I know what's real and what isn't. The job you do amp; it's moonshine to me. I deal with facts, not feelings. If you can't touch it, smell it, taste it, what good is it? Getting a handle on feelings amp; it's like trying to grab a fistful of air."

She tried a smile. "At least nobody can accuse you of being one of those touchy-feely New Age guys."

"Yeah, that's one thing I've never been called."

"What would you like to be called? How would you like to be thought of?"

"Practical. A realist. I take things as they are."

"That approach works for you? You're comfortable with it?"

"I'm comfortable."

"Then why are you squeezing that ball?"

He looked at it as if surprised to see it in his grasp. "This thing? It's just a workout for my hand. Keeps the fingers strong amp;" He smiled. "Okay, that's a snow job. It's a way to release tension. Better than going out and getting drunk."

"Or going to the dogfights."

"That, too."

"You can't be happy that a sergeant in your station house is breaking the law, even if it is on his own time."

"I'm not happy. I just accept it. It's something Brand has to dofor now. It's a fact, and I'm a realist, like I said."

"It's realistic to let one of your men engage in self-destructive behavior?"

"Self-destructive." He snorted. "You sound like a documentary on PBS. The man is just blowing off steam."

"By watching two animals tear each other up?"

"Wouldn't be my choice. Makes me sick, to be truthful. But if that's what he needs to get through the day, I'm not blowing the whistle on him."

"How'd you even know he was going there?"

"There aren't too many secrets in the department."

"That's pretty vague."

"You want specifics? All right. A house in Watts was raided a month ago for dogfights, and Brand was picked up along with the rest of the crowd. He called me, and I got the charges dropped. He told me he'd been going there a lot. He also told me he was going to stop."

"He lied."

"He weakened. Anyway, I'd heard that the fights had started up again in a new house, same neighborhood. When Brand didn't show up for work today, I had a feeling he would be there."

"Then why don't you get the fights shut down again?"

"It's out of my territory."

"That's not an answer."

"We have a thousand homicides a year in this city. You want me to focus on animal abuse? We've got our resources tapped out just trying to save human lives. Besides, if you shut those scum down, they'll just start up again in a week or a month. It's the way it is."

"Realism," Robin said tonelessly.

Wolper shrugged. "Welcome to LA."

They had finished their burgers, and they were all out of conversation. Both seemed to sense it.

"So," Wolper said, "four p.m. tomorrow, your office?"

"Let me give you the address."

"I already know it. I'm a cop, remember?" He smiled. "I find out things about people who interest me."

Robin pondered that remark as she drove away. It was just barely possible that Lieutenant Wolper was trying to get something going between them, one divorced single parent to another. She wasn't sure how she would feel about that.

There had been no romance in her life since her marriage ended. She'd known she would have to restart her personal life eventually, but the prospect of enduring first dates and awkward kisses at the door was not appealing.

Well, no, that was a thin rationalizationa snow job, as Wolper would say. The truth was, she had been scared away from relationships by the failure of her marriage. She'd been afraid of repeating the same mistake.

In retrospect, her relationship with Dan had probably never had much of a chance. She had married himit was now safe to admit thischiefly because he was the opposite of her father. Yes, Daniel Cameron, the artist, a man who was gentle and sensitive and nonviolent and law-abiding, who would not desert her and leave her crying and alone. But then he had deserted her anyway, emotionally at least. Her efforts at self-protection had failed.

Robin shook her head. She was aware that in her work she was, in effect, trying to rehabilitate her father. That was obviouscookbook Freud, as someone had once said. But was she trying to rehabilitate Dan, too? To symbolically resuscitate the corpse of their marriage?

She was probably overthinking things. She hoped so. She didn't want Dan to be controlling her life when he wasn't even part of it any longer.

Now she was planning to meet a man to discuss a police file on a shooting case. Not exactly an evening of dinner and dancing. And Wolper wasn't exactly the man she'd pictured as her beau. Too stiff, too righteous. He didn't respect what she did. He called it voodoo, moonshine. What he thought of as realism, she viewed as cynicism.

Not a good match for her. No way.

"No way," she said aloud, as if to confirm it to herself.

Meg woke up at six-thirty and found herself alone in bed. Gabe had gone. Vaguely she remembered the brush of his lips on her cheek when he left. That was at least an hour ago.

No surprise. He never stuck around after sex. When they did it in the apartment he rented, he would find some excuse to get out as soon as possible. The few times they'd done it in the backseat of his sedan, he'd put the car in gear almost before he zipped up his pants. In and out, that was his style.

It was okay. She didn't expect him to hang around. It was enough just to have him for a short time each day. Sometimes during lunch break at school, when she would sneak off campus. Sometimes on the weekends, when she made an excuse to get out of the condo for an hour or two. And sometimes in the afternoon, when she claimed she was studying with her classmates or working on the school newspaper and would get a ride home from an older friend.

The game was dangerous. Her mom would freak if she found out. But the risk was worth it. She had become a whole new person since Gabe came into her life. She wasn't a kid anymore. She was a woman.

She had met Gabe at an awards dinner three months ago, in February. The dinner was a big shindig in honor of outstanding members of the law-enforcement community, as well as a few civilians who'd made a contribution to the fight against crime. One of those civilians was Dr. Robin Cameron, who'd earned a plaque and a certificate for the first phase of her research into reducing recidivism. Robin had treated the event as a dreary chore, necessary to cement her good relations with the Sheriff's Department and to make new contacts in the LAPD. She had no interest in prizes or commendations, and she'd fretted over the brief acceptance speech she was expected to give. Public speaking was not one of her strong points.

Still, she had soldiered through the evening, with Meg seated beside her at the long table on the dais. At some point in the evening Meg had visited the ladies' room. On her way out, she'd met Gabe.

"You must be very proud of your mother," he'd said. She agreed that she was. "But you'd rather be someplace else?"

"Well, yeah."

"I don't blame you. So would I." He'd introduced himself as Gabe, not giving a last name. In his tuxedo, with a white carnation in the pocket, he looked dashing, like a movie star at a premiere, an impression enhanced by the tight, tanned planes of his face and the flash of his white teeth when he smiled.

They spoke briefly. She told him her name and answered a few other questions that she assumed he asked purely out of politeness. When she returned to the table she didn't mention the encounter to her mom. She wasn't sure why. It wasn't important enough to mention, she decided.