“Any physical resemblance to Hope?”

“From the photo they faxed me, no, other than they were both good-looking. This girl- Mandy Wright's her name- looks gorgeous, actually. But dark-haired. And twenty-three makes her a lot younger than Hope. And clearly no professor. But given the wound pattern, we may have a traveling psycho, so I think I'd better concentrate on finding out if any other homicides around the country match. For all her controversy, the good professor may very well have been the victim of a nutcase stranger. I'm planning to fly out to Vegas tonight, play show-me-yours-and-I'll-show-you-mine.” He coughed. “So, what were you saying?”

Before I could tell him, Robin came through the door, holding a grocery bag and Spike's leash. Her color was high and she was smiling as she waved. She put the bag down and kissed me.

I mouthed, “Milo.”

“Say hi.” She left to change.

I relayed the message, then told him all of it: the conversations with Julia Steinberger and Casey Locking, Tessa Bowlby's panic, Patrick Huang's anger and alleged alibi, Reed Muscadine dropping out to take the acting job.

“Bottom line: Hope made a strong impression on everyone. Though if it is a traveling serial, that's probably no longer relevant.”

“The Bowlby girl- was she really scared?”

“Petrified. Pale and skinny and weak-looking, too, so I wondered if Muscadine's AIDS test might have come back positive. And if he dropped out 'cause he's sick. Or maybe it was just because he got the acting job. But what's the difference?”

“Don't go around feeling useless, yet. Mandy Wright changes things but I can't afford to eliminate anyone or anything, at this point. Just because it looks like a psycho, doesn't mean it was a stranger. Maybe Hope and Mandy knew the same psycho.”

“A call girl and a professor?”

“This professor may turn out to be different,” he said. “So I'm still gonna talk to Kenny Storm and I'm sure as hell gonna verify the Huang boy's alibi. And if you don't mind talking to the other two girls, I'd appreciate it. Something else: Before Vegas called I was looking into Lawyer Barone's recent cases and Hope's name doesn't come up in any of them. So what did he pay Hope for?”

“Something she didn't want publicized?”

“That's the only thing I can think of. Now, Barone does lots of porno defense, mostly out of his San Francisco office, and porno's something a call girl like Mandy could get involved with. But as to Hope's role, I just can't put it together.”

“Barone could have been looking for academic and feminist credentials to shore up the defense,” I said.

“Then why no record of her on the cases?”

“Maybe Barone hired her to write a report but didn't like the end product. It's happened to me.”

“Could be. Whatever. I'm just about to put in my tenth call to the good barrister. And I'd still like to learn more about Dr. Cruvic. The whole consulting thing is interesting- all that money.”

Robin returned to the kitchen and began heating water.

I said, “In terms of Cruvic, I can check out the Women's Health Center in Santa Monica. Got an address?”

“No, sorry. Okay, thanks, Alex. Off to Burbank airport.”

“Have a good trip. Maybe you can get in some gambling.”

“On the taxpayers' time? Tsk-tsk. Anyway, games of chance aren't my thing. Randomness scares me.”

When I put down the phone Robin was slicing onions, tomatoes, and celery, and a pot of spaghetti approached a boil on the stove.

“Gambling?” she said.

“Milo's going to Vegas. He found a murder there that matches Hope's.”

I told her the details. The knife stopped.

“If it's a nut,” she said, “there could be others.”

“He's checking around the country.”

“So ugly,” she said. “That Women's Health Center you mentioned. Holly Bondurant used to be involved in a place in Santa Monica. I know because she did a benefit concert a few years ago and I set up her twelve-string. What's the connection between the center and the murder?”

“Probably nothing, but Milo got interested because Hope met a Beverly Hills gynecologist named Cruvic there. She ended up consulting to Cruvic's private practice- counseling patients undergoing fertility procedures. We went over to see him this morning and Milo wondered if there was something going on between him and Hope.”

“Why?”

“Because he spoke of her with such passion. And her marriage seems somewhat passionless, so the obvious question came up. You know how thorough Milo is. Even with this new lead, he wants to clear everything.”

She put the knife down, went to the phone, and punched numbers.

“Holly? It's Robin Castagna. Hi. Yes, it has been. Fine, great. And with you? Good. How's Joaquin, he must be what- fourteen… you're kidding! Listen, Holly, I don't know if you can help me, but…”

After she hung up, she said, “She'll meet you tomorrow at nine A.M. Cafe Alligator.”

“Thanks.”

“It's the least I can do.”

Later, during dinner, she pushed food around her plate and her wineglass went untouched.

“What's the matter?” I said.

“I don't know. All the things you've been involved in, and this one seems to be getting to me.”

“There is a special cruelty to it. Someone that bright and talented, cut off like that.”

“Maybe that's it. Or maybe I'm just sick and tired of women being killed because they're women.”

She reached across the table, grabbed my hand, and squeezed it hard.

“It wears on you, Alex. Looking over your shoulder, being told it's your responsibility to be vigilant. I know men are the usual victims of violence but they're almost always the victimizers. I guess nowadays everyone's at risk. The world dividing up into predators and prey- what's happening? Are we returning to the jungle?”

“I'm not sure we ever got out,” I said. “I worry about you all the time. Especially when you're out at night alone. I never say anything because I figure you can handle yourself and I don't think you want to hear it.”

She picked up her wineglass, studied it, drank.

“I didn't tell Holly what you were up to, just that you were my guy, a psychologist, wanted to learn about the center. She's a sixties type, might have gotten scared away by the word “police.' ”

“I'll deal with it.” I touched her hand. “I like being your guy.”

“I like it, too.”

Looking down at her untouched food, she said, “I'll refrigerate this, maybe you'll want a late snack.”

I started to clear. She put a hand on my shoulder.

“If you're up for it, why don't we take Spike for a walk in the canyon. It's still light out.”

Cafe Alligator was a storefront in an old building on Broadway, central Santa Monica, ten blocks from the beach. The bricks had been painted swamp-green and a stoned-looking saurian coiled above a black sign that said ESPENSIVE ESPRESSO. CHEAP EATS.

Inside were walls of the same algae tint, four tables covered with yellow oilcloth, a pastry case/takeout counter backed by shelves of coffee and tea for sale. A fat man with a bullet-skull roasted beans with the intensity of a concert pianist. Low-volume reggae music came from ceiling speakers.

Last night I'd played Holly Bondurant's last LP, Polychrome. Fifteen-year-old album but I recognized her right away.

In the jacket photo, her hair had been strawberry blond, waist-length, half-concealing a beautiful Celtic face. Now it was short and blond-gray, and she'd put on thirty pounds. But her face was still smooth and youthful.

She wore a red velvet maxidress, black vest, lace-up boots, onyx necklace. A floppy black-velvet hat rested on an empty chair.

“Alex?” She smiled, stayed seated, gave me her hand, and looked at a half-filled coffee mug. “Pardon my starting without you but I need my fix. Care for a cup?”