I sold my old Chevy Two and bought a Seville, a seventy - nine, the last year they looked good. It was forest - green with a saddle - colored leather interior that was cushy and quiet. With the amount of driving I'd be doing, the lousy mileage wouldn't make much difference. I threw away most of my old clothes and got new stuff - mostly soft fabrics - knits, cords, rubber soled shoes, cashmere sweaters, robes, shorts, and pullovers.

I had the pipes cleaned out on the hot tub that I'd never used since I bought the house. I started to buy food and drink milk. I pulled my old Martin out of its case and strummed it on the balcony. I listened to records. I read for pleasure for the first time since high school. I got a tan. I shaved off my beard and discovered I had a face, and not a bad one at that.

I dated good women. I met Robin and things really started to get better.

Be - kind - to - Alex time. Early retirement six months before my thirty - third birthday.

It was fun while it lasted.

Morton Handler's last residence - if you didn't count the morgue - had been a luxury apartment complex off Sunset Boulevard in Pacific Palisades. It had been built into a hillside and designed to give a honeycomb effect: a loosely connected chain of individual units linked by corridors that had been placed at seemingly random locations, the apartments staggered to give each one a full view of the ocean. The motif was bastard Spanish: blindingly white textured stucco walls, red tile roofs, window accents of black wrought iron. Plantings of azalea and hibiscus filled in occasional patches of earth. There were lots of potted plants sunk in large terra - cotta containers: coconut palms, rubber plants, sun ferns, temporary - looking, as if someone planned on moving them all out in the middle of the night.

Handler's unit was on an intermediate level. The front door was sealed, with an LAPD. sticker taped across it. Lots of footprints dirtied the terrazzo walkway near the entrance.

Milo led me across a terrace filled with polished stones and succulents to a unit eater - cornered from the murder scene. Adhesive letters spelling out the word MANGER were affixed to the door. Bad jokes about Baby Jesus flashed through my mind.

Milo knocked.

I realized then that the place was amazingly silent. There must have been at least fifty units but there wasn't a soul in sight. No evidence of human habitation.

We waited a few minutes. He raised his fist to knock again just before the door opened.

"Sorry. I was washin' my hair."

The woman could have been anywhere from twenty - five to forty. She had pale skin with the kind of texture that looked as if a pinch would crumble it. Large brown eyes topped by plucked brows. Thin lips. A slight under bite Her hair was wrapped in an orange towel and the little that peeked out was medium brown. She wore a faded cotton shirt of ochre - and orange print over rust - colored stretch pants. Dark blue tennis shoes on her feet. Her eyes darted from Milo to me. She looked like someone who'd been knocked around plenty and refused to believe that it wasn't going to happen again at any moment.

"Mrs. Quinn? This is Dr. Alex Delaware. He's the psychologist I told you about."

"Pleased to meet you, Doctor."

Her hand was thin and cold and moist and she pulled away as quickly as she could.

"Melody's watchin' TV in her room. Out of school, with all that's been goin' on. I let her watch to keep her mind off it."

We followed her into the apartment.

Apartment was a charitable word. What it was, really, was a couple of oversized closets stuck together. An architect's postscript. Hey, Ed, we've got an extra four hundred square feet of corner in back of terrace number 142. Why don't we throw a roof over it, nail up some drywall and call it a manager's unit? Get some poor soul to do scutwork for the privilege of living in Pacific Palisades…

The living room was filled with one floral sofa, a masonite end table and a television. A framed painting of Mount Rainier that looked as if it came from a Savings and Loan calendar and a few yellowed photographs hung on the wall. The photos were of hardened, unhappy - looking people and appeared to date from the Gold Rush.

"My grandparents," she said.

A cubicle of a kitchen was visible and from it came the smell of frying bacon. A large bag of sour cream - and - onion - flavored potato chips and a six pack of Dr. Pepper sat on the counter.

"Very nice."

"They came here in 1902. From Oklahoma." She made it sound like an apology.

There was an unfinished wooden door and from behind it came the sound of sudden laughter and applause, bells and buzzers. A game show.

"She's watchin' back there."

"That's just fine, Mrs. Quinn. We'll let her be until we're ready for her."

The woman nodded her head in assent.

"She don't get much chance to watch the daytime shows, being' in school. So she's watchin' 'em now."

"May we sit down, ma'am?"

"Oh yes, yes." She flitted around the room like a mayfly, tugging at the towel on her head. She brought in an ashtray and set it down on the end table. Milo and I sat on the sofa and she dragged in a tubular aluminum - and - Naugahyde chair from the kitchen for herself. Despite the fact that she was thin her haunches settled and spread. She took out a pack of cigarettes, lit one up and sucked in the smoke until her cheeks hollowed. Milo spoke.

"How old is your daughter, Mrs. Quinn?"

"Bonita. Call me Bonita. Melody's the girl. She's just seven this past month." Talking about her daughter seemed to make her especially nervous. She inhaled greedily on her cigarette and blew little smoke out. Her free hand clenched and unclenched in rapid cadence.

"Melody may be our only witness to what happened here last night." Milo looked at me with a disgusted frown.

I knew what he was thinking. An apartment complex with seventy to one hundred residents and the only possible witness a child.

"I'm scared for her, Detective Sturgis, if someone else finds out." Bonita Quinn stared at the floor as if doing it long enough would reveal the mystic secret of the Orient.

"I assure you, Mrs. Quinn, that no one will find out. Dr. Delaware has served as a special consultant to the police many times." He lied shamelessly and glibly. "He understands the importance of keeping things secret. Besides - " he reached over to pat her shoulder reassuringly. I thought she'd go through the ceiling " - all psychologists demand confidentiality when working with their patients. Isn't that so, Dr. Delaware?"

"Absolutely." We wouldn't get into the whole muddy issue of children's rights to privacy.

Bonita Quinn made a strange, squeaking noise that was impossible to interpret. The closest thing to it that I could remember was the noise laboratory frogs used to make in Physiological Psych right before we pithed them by plunging a needle down into the tops of their skulls.

"What's all this hypnotism gonna do to her?"

I lapsed into my shrink's voice - the calm, soothing tones that had become so natural over the years that they switched on automatically. I explained to her that hypnosis wasn't magic, simply a combination of focused concentration and deep relaxation, that people tended to remember things more clearly when they were relaxed and that was why the police used it for witnesses. That children were better at going into hypnosis than were adults because they were less inhibited and enjoyed fantasy. That it didn't hurt, and was actually pleasant for most youngsters and that you couldn't get stuck in it or do anything against your will while hypnotized.

"All hypnosis," I ended, "is self - hypnosis. My role is simply to help your daughter do something that comes natural to her."