I thought about that, decided Isaac was parsing too meticulously. Patty had said she’d killed a man. Everyone was dancing around that, but I couldn’t forget it.

I was sitting on the couch, contemplating a warming shot of Chivas, when Blanche waddled into the office and nuzzled my shin. When I stood, she danced around a bit, then raced out the door.

I followed her down the hall, across the kitchen, to the back door. She sped with surprising agility down the stairs to the pond. Zeroed in on the locked bin that held the koi chow and began butting it with her flat nose.

“You’re into seafood now?” I scooped out a few pellets and offered them to her. She turned her head in disdain.

Head-butted the bin some more. Stared up at me.

When I tossed food to the fish, she swiveled and watched. Panted.

Gave a hoarse bark until I threw more pellets.

“Altruism?” I said.

I know the experts will label it anthropomorphism but she smiled with pure joy, I’ll swear to it.

Robin found the two of us by the water. Blanche jumped off my lap and greeted her. The fish swarmed, as they do when footsteps sound on the stone pathway.

“They’re starving,” she said. “I’ll go feed them.”

I said, “They’ve already dined. Extensively, because Blanche has appointed herself Official Caterer.”

“I know,” she said. “She did it yesterday, too. Any progress finding Fisk?”

“Not yet.”

“I networked some more on Blaise De Paine. The only thing I can add is that maybe possibly could be his house in the hills is on one of the bird streets. But don’t put much faith in it, hon. The person who told me wasn’t sure where he’d heard it or even if it was De Paine and not some other crook and he had no idea which bird. No one’s heard of Fisk or Rosie, though there is a black guy named Mosey, does some deejay work.”

“Last name?”

She shook her head. “He’s probably not who you want. The person who met him said he was a nice guy.”

“Where’d he meet him?”

“She. Some party, she was one of the dancers, hired by an agency in the Valley, she couldn’t recall the name.”

“Memory problems?”

“Maybe a bit blurred by recreational substances.”

“The bird streets,” I said. “Fog upon L.A., friends losing their way.”

“Poor George. Remember when I met him?”

“Ten years ago, fixing the Rickenbacher.”

“Sweet man,” she said. “So gifted, so modest.”

She sat down, rested her head on my shoulder. Blanche watched us kiss. Trotted back to the stairs and observed us with serenity.

An almost parental joy.

Robin said, “Let’s go inside. Spread our wings.”

By four p.m., Robin was sketching and I was at the computer running a search on mosey deejay.

One hit, no images.

Moses “Big Mosey” Grant was cited in a long list of people thanked for contributing to the success of a hospital fund-raiser.

Western Pediatric, where I’d trained and worked.

The party had been thrown a year ago by the Division of Endocrinology, the cause was juvenile diabetes, and the person offering thanks was the head, Dr. Elise Glass. Elise and I had worked together on several cases. I had her private number on file.

She said, “Hi, Alex. Are you back to seeing patients or is it still that police stuff?”

“As a matter of fact.” I asked her about Moses Grant.

“Who?”

“The deejay at your benefit last year.”

“Mosey? Please don’t tell me he’s in trouble.”

“You know him personally?”

“No, but I remember him. Huge but gentle and really good with the kids. Am I going to be disillusioned?”

“He’s not in trouble, but he’s been seen with someone who is. I’m sure it’ll turn out to be nothing.”

“I hope so. First he cut his fees, then he insisted on working for free, stayed extra hours. He understood what we’re about.”

“Diabetic relative?”

“Diabetic himself. Unfortunately, he doesn’t seem to be controlling it well. Toward the end of the evening, he was fading fast and I had to get him some juice.”

“How’d you come to hire him?”

“The Development Office hired him. He really seemed like a teddy bear, Alex.”

“I’m sure he is. Do you have a number for him?”

“That would be over in Development, too. Hold on, I’ll have Janice connect you.”

I waited as a recorded voice lectured me about nutrition and exercise.

“Development, this is Sue.”

“This is Dr. Delaware. I’m planning an event and heard you use an excellent deejay named Moses Grant. Do you know how I can reach him?”

“Hmm, let me check that.”

A new recorded message filled me in on the virtues of charitable giving. “We got him through a broker-The Party Line. Here’s the number.”

Valley exchange. Before I tried it, I plugged Moses Grant into the search engines and brought up a genealogy site and a lone reference to a miner who’d died in West Virginia a hundred and five years ago.

At The Party Line’s number, a hoarse male voice answered, “Agency, Eli Romaine.”

“I’m looking for a deejay you handle. Moses Grant.”

“Don’t handle him anymore,” said Romaine. “I’ve got better people. What kind of party are you doing?”

“Sweet sixteen,” I said. “I was told Grant’s one of the best.”

“It’s not rocket science, he knows how to push buttons. What kind of sweet sixteen are we talking about? Kids acting their age or pretending to be twenty-one? I’m asking ’cause the music’s different, depending.”

“These are just normal kids.”

Romaine’s laugh was a nicotine bark. “Okay, I’ve got guys who can go either way. Girls, too, but sweet sixteens always want guys. Preferably hot guys. I got a couple who could be on soap operas and also know how to push buttons. I also got dancers, I recommend some blond girls, to get the action going. It’s not that much more.”

“Grant wasn’t that good?” I said.

“Do you want someone who’s going to show up or not?”

“He flaked out.”

“Six months ago, so what kind of setup do you want?”

“Let me think about it.”

“Oh, Jesus,” he said. “This isn’t about sweet sixteen. What, he owes you money? Don’t waste my time.”

Click.

I reached Petra’s cell and gave her Moses Grant’s name.

She said, “Thanks. I’m on my way to San Diego. Robert Fisk’s Mustang showed up not far from the long-term parking lot at Lindbergh Field. I may have to go through the airlines one by one. This is handy, I can also search for Grant’s name on the manifests.”

“Good luck.”

“If Fisk flew bye-bye, I’ll need it. Bye.”

I put that aside and thought about Grant dropping out of sight half a year ago. Same time Robert Fisk had left his apartment and turned invisible.

Had Grant stopped taking party jobs from Romaine because he’d found a better gig? Altruistic teddy bear or not, doing the club scene with Blaise De Paine or some other music-biz remora could be more enticing than spinning Raffi and Dan Crow for sick kids. Or dealing with sixteen-year-olds yearning for twenty-one.

Or maybe Grant’s disappearance hadn’t been voluntary. A diabetic who failed to monitor his blood sugar could face all sorts of complications.

I decided to start with hospitals and if that didn’t pan out, move on to emergency rooms and long-term-care units. The information I was after was confidential and I’d have to lie my way through layers of medical bureaucracy. Blitheness and my title might help.

Grant’s 818 number said the logical place to start was the Valley. Then I remembered a hospital where I could be truthful.

Rick said, “I’m walking to my computer as we speak. There’s an overall billing file for inpatients. Outpatients I’m not sure about, they may be classed by department. So you think this Grant person might have something to do with Patty and that guy Jordan?”