"Could be." Boredom had returned.

"They rented fake blood."

"Couple gallons. I picked out the best we had, nice and thick. Then they butt-ream me like that. Boss loved that."

"Any hint it might've been porn?"

"Anything's possible," said Hair. "I know most of the porn people, but there's always new assholes trying to break in. I don't think so, though. They didn't have that virgin porn feel."

"What's the virgin porn feel?"

"Stoned-happy on Ecstasy, big fucking adventure. They didn't say much-thinking about it, they didn't say hardly nothing at all."

"Boss take it any further than having you look for them?" said Milo.

"What do you mean?"

"Did he run a trace on them? Hire a collection agency?"

"He put 'em out to collection and when that didn't work, he wrote it off. We had a good year, I guess he can piss away fourteen grand."

"Does this kind of thing happen all the time?"

"Getting ripped off? Not all the time, but yeah, it happens. But not usually for this much. And usually we collect something."

"Do you still have their file?"

"I didn't throw it out."

"Could we please see it, Mr…?"

"Bonner. Vito Bonner." He wiped his hands again. "Let me go back and check. They rip someone else off? That why you're here?"

"Something like that."

"Man," said Bonner. "Talk about stupid. We warned the other companies in the neighborhood. Burbank and Culver too." A black sprig of false hair tickled his chin and he slapped it away. "I think we warned the Valley, too. So anyone who rented to them after that deserves to get cornholed."

We sat in the unmarked and studied the file. The tab read THIN LINE: BLOOD WALK, BAD DEBT. The first page was a letter from an Encino collection agency reporting an extensive search, no results. Next came the rental application. Thin Line's address was listed on Abbot Kinney Boulevard in Venice. Venice phone exchange with the notation that it traced to a pay phone.

"Bit of a drive to Hollywood," I said. "Especially with rental outfits close by in Santa Monica. They didn't want to foul their own nest."

Milo pored over the form, nodding. The signature at the bottom was hard to read, but a black business card stapled to the file folder said:

Griffith D. Wark

PRODUCER AND PRESIDENT

THIN LINE PRODS

The pay-phone number in the lower left corner. White printing on black. Old-fashioned camera logo in the lower right-hand corner.

"Bogus phone," he said. "Scam from the get-go… Wark. Sounds like a phony moniker."

"Griffith D.W.," I said. "Ten to one it's an inversion of D.W. Griffith. I'll also bet the W in 'D.W.' was Wark. Not very subtle, but old Vito didn't catch it."

"Old Vito probably knows more about Maglites than film history." He flipped to the next page. "Here's the bank verification on the deposit check-B. of A. branch out in Panorama City. These guys were all over the place."

He studied his Timex. "Too late to call the manager. I'll drive by the Venice address, see if they really did have a place there; then I'll get the file over to the lab just in case some old latents from known bad guys show up. Tomorrow, it's on the horn to every other prop house in the county, see if Mr. Wark talked anyone else out of gear."

"You like the film thing now," I said.

"Work with what you've got," he said. "I'm an old stink-hound: when something smells bad, I go nosing."

"The casting ad could have been another scam-get wannabes to pay for auditioning."

"Wouldn't surprise me. Hollywood's one big scam, anyway-image fiber alles. Even when it's supposedly legit. One of my first cases, back when I was doing Robbery, was-" He named a well-known actor. "Got his start as a student, doing artsy stuff using gear he stole from the university's theater arts department. When I caught up with him he was a real fresh-mouth, no remorse. Finally, he agreed to return everything and the U decided not to take it any further. A few years later, I'm watching TV and this asshole's up for an Oscar, some social-issues film about prison reform, making a holier-than-thou speech. And what about-" He named a major director. "I know for a fact he got his foot in the door by selling coke to studio execs. Yeah, this Wark found the right business for a psychopath. The only question is how relevant his mischief is to my cases."

I got home just after six. Robin's truck was in the carport. The house smelled wonderful-the salty bouquet of chicken soup.

She was at the stove, stirring a pot. Her hair was loose, tumbling down her back; black sweats accentuated the auburn. Her sleeves were pushed up to her elbows and her face looked scrubbed. Steam from the soup had brought up some sweat. Down by her feet, Spike squatted, panting, ready to pounce for a scrap. The table was set for two.

When I kissed her, Spike grumbled. "Be a good sharer," I said.

He grumbled some more and waddled over to his water bowl.

"Winning through intimidation," I said.

Robin laughed. "Thought we'd eat in. Haven't seen enough of you lately."

"Sounds great to me. Want me to prepare something?"

"Not unless there's something else you want."

I looked into the pot. Golden broth formed a bubbling home for carrots, celery, onions, slivers of white meat, wide noodles.

"Nothing," I said, moving behind her, cupping her waist, lowering my hands to her hips. I felt her go loose.

"This," I said, "is one of those great fantasies-he chances upon her as she cooks and, lusty stallion that he is…"

She laughed, let out two soft breaths, leaned back against me. My hands rose to her breasts, loose and soft, unfettered by the thin fleece of the sweats. Her nipples hardened against my palms. My fingers slipped under the waistband of her pants. She inhaled sharply.

"You shrinks," she said, placing her hand over mine. Guiding it down. "Spending too much time on fantasy, not enough on reality."

I woke up the next morning thinking about Mr. and Mrs. Argent's claim that Claire had chosen psychology because she wanted to nurture people. Yet she'd opted for neuro-psychology as a specialty, concentrating on diagnostics, avoiding treatment. On research diagnostics, charts and graphs, the hieroglyphics of science. She'd rarely ventured out of her lab. On the face of it, she'd nurtured nothing but data at County.

Until six months ago and the shift to Starkweather. Maybe Robin was right, and the move represented getting in touch with her altruism.

But why now? Why there'?

Something didn't fit. My head felt like a box full of random index cards. I circled the office, trying to collate. Robin and Spike were out, and the silence chewed at me. There had been a time, long ago, when I was content living alone. The knots and liberties of love had changed me. What had Claire experienced oflove?

The phone ring was glass shattering on stone.

"Small stuff first," said Milo. "Joseph Stargill's not quite as rich as he claimed, because some of his properties are mortgaged, but he still comes out over four mil in the black. His law practice brings in around a hundred and eighty K a year. If he's a greedy psychopath or he hated Claire's guts, I suppose three hundred K might motivate him, but I can't find evidence of either, and a probate lawyer tells me Stargill would have a hell of a time getting hold of that property. With no will, the state takes most of it and Claire's parents get the rest. Stargill's not off the suspect list completely; I still have to nose around about any bad investments he might have. But he's been kicked down several notches.

"Item Two: no other prop company reports being bilked by Mr. Wark or Thin Line, so maybe he wasn't out for a big-time equipment rip-off, just wanted to supply his own shoot, decided to keep the gear when they were through. No progress finding Wark. The Blood Walk script has definitely not been registered with any of the guilds, no one's heard of Thin Line, and there's no evidence the film was ever released. I contacted film-developing labs, because if there was ever footage it might've been processed somewhere. Nada. At the B. of A. in Panorama City, no dice over the phone, I have to come in, present a warrant to get a look at the Thin Line account."