Rob Ray looked up. Uneasiness in his eyes. I tried to engage him. He turned away. Ernestine watched him, twisted the handkerchief.

"About the way Claire got married," she said. "Rob Ray and I had a big church wedding, and it put my father in debt for two years. I always thought one of Claire's intentions was to be considerate."

"What put a light in her eyes," said Rob Ray, "was consideration. Helping people."

"Before Mr. Stargill," said Milo, "did Claire have any other boyfriends?"

"She dated," said Ernestine. "In high school, I mean. She wasn't some social butterfly, but she went out. Local boys, nothing steady. A fellow named Gil Grady took her to the prom. He's a fire lieutenant now."

"What about later?" said Milo. "College? Graduate school?"

Silence.

"How about once she moved to L.A.?"

"I'm sure," said Ernestine, "that when she wanted to date, she had her pick. She was always very pretty."

Something-probably her most recent memory of her daughter, gray, damaged, laid out on a steel table-caused her face to collapse. She hid herself behind both hands.

Her husband said, "I can't see where this is leading us anywhere."

Milo looked at me.

"Just one more thing, please," I said. "Did Claire ever get involved in arts and crafts? Painting, woodwork, that kind of thing?"

"Crafts?" said Rob Ray. "She drew, like any other kid, but that's about it."

"Mostly she liked to read and go to the movies," said Ernestine. "No matter what was happening all around her, she could always find some quiet time for herself."

Rob Ray said, "Excuse me." Lifting himself laboriously, he began the trudge to the bathroom. The three of us waited until the door closed. Running water sounded through the wood.

Ernestine began speaking softly, frantically: "This is so hard on him. When Claire was growing up, children made fun of him. Cruel children. It's glandular; sometimes he eats less than I do."

She stopped, as if daring us to debate. "He's a wonderful man. Claire was never ashamed, never treated him any way but respectful. Claire was always proud of her family, no matter what-"

The last word ended too abruptly. I waited for more. Her lips folded inward. As she bit down on them, her chin shuddered. "He's all I've got now. I'm worried about what this will do to him-"

Another toilet flush. Several moments later, the door opened and Rob Ray's big head appeared. Repeat of the laborious exit, the huffing trek to the bed. When he finally settled, he said, "I don't want you to think Claire was some strange kid, all locked up in her room. She was a tough kid, took care of herself, wouldn't fall in with anything bad for her. So this had to be an abduction, some kind of maniac."

Talking louder, more forcefully, as if he'd refueled.

"Claire was no fool," he went on. "Claire knew how to take care of herself-had to know."

"Because she lived alone?" I said.

"Because-Yes, exactly. My little girl was independent."

Later, sitting in a coffee shop on La Tijera with Milo, I said, "So much pain."

"Oh, man," he said. "They seem like good people, but talk about delusions. Making like it's one happy family, yet Claire never bothers to bring the husband around, never calls. She cut them off, Alex. Why?"

"Something the mother said made me wonder about family chaos. She used the phrase 'no matter what was happening all around her' three times. Emphasizing that Claire coped well. Maybe there was turmoil. But they're sure not going to tell you now. Pretty memories are all they've got. And why would it matter?"

He smiled. "All of a sudden the past isn't relevant?"

"It's always relevant to someone's life," I said. "But it may not have had a thing to do with Claire's death. At least, I don't see it."

"A maniac, like the old man said."

"He and his wife might be holding back family secrets, but I don't think they'd obstruct you," I said. "Claire's been out here for years. I think L.A.'s more relevant than Pittsburgh or Cleveland."

He gazed past me, toward the cash register, waved for service. Other than two red-eyed truckers at separate booths, we were the only customers.

A waitress came over, young, nasal, eager to please. When she left with our sandwich order, I said, "If she grew up with disruption, wanted her adult life quiet, that empty living room makes a bit more sense. But how it helped make her a victim, I don't know."

Milo tapped a front incisor. "Dad's size alone would've been disruptive. Kids making fun of him, Claire having to deal with it." He drank coffee, peered through the coffee shop's front window. An unseen jetliner's overhead pass shook the building.

"Maybe that's it," I said. "Growing up with him could also've made her comfortable with folks who were different. But when it came to her personal life, she drew a clear line: no fuss, no mess. Escaping to solitude, just as she had as a child."

The waitress brought the sandwiches. She looked disappointed when Milo said there'd be nothing else. He took a bite of soggy ham as I assessed my burger. Thin, shiny, the color of dry mud. I put it aside. One of the truckers tossed cash on the table and hobbled out the front door.

Milo took two more gulps of his sandwich. "Nice how you worked the arts-and-crafts question in. Hoping for some wood-shop memories?"

"Wouldn't that have been nice."

He bit down on something disagreeable and held the bread at arm's length before returning it to the plate. "Some scene at the morgue. The coroner did his best to put her back together, but it was far from pretty. I tried to discourage them again from viewing. They insisted. Mom actually handled it okay; it was Dad who started breathing real hard, turned beet red, braced himself against the wall. I thought we'd end up with another corpse. The morgue attendant's been staring at the poor guy like he's some freak-of-the-week, now he's really gawking. I got them out of there. Thank God he didn't collapse."

Neither of us talked for a while. Ever the prisoner of my training, I lapsed into thoughts of Claire's childhood. Escape from… something… finding refuge in solitude… because solitude spun layers of fantasy… theater of the mind. Real theaters.

I said, "Claire's love of movies. That's something both the parents and Stargill mentioned. What if it led beyond just watching? Caused her to have acting aspirations? What if she answered a casting call-the same one Richard Dada answered?"

"She likes flicks, so all of a sudden she wants to be a star?"

"Why not?" I said. "It's L.A. Maybe Claire did a bit on Blood Walk, too. There's your link with Richard. The killer met both of them on the set."

"Everything we've learned about this woman tells us she's a privacy nut. You think she'd put herself in front of a camera?"

"I've known actors who were extremely shy. Taking on someone else's identity allowed them to cut loose."

"I guess," he said doubtfully. "So they both meet some loon on the set and he decides to pick them off for God knows what motive… Then why the time lapse between the murders?"

"Maybe there are other murders in between that we don't know about."

"I looked for similars. Anything in car trunk, anything with eye wounds or saw marks. Nothing."

"Okay," I said. "Just a theory."

The waitress came over and asked if we wanted dessert.

Milo's barked "No thanks" made her step backward and hurry away.

"I understand about role-playing, Alex, but we're talking Ms. Empty Room, her big thrill was being alone. I can see her taking in a matinee by herself, pretending to be Sharon Starlet, whatever. But going to the movies isn't being in the movies. Hell, I still can't believe there's no link to Starkweather. The woman worked with homicidal murderers, for God's sake, and I'm expected to take it on faith that none of them got out and hunted her down. Meanwhile, we sit here wondering about some hypothetical acting gig."