“It’s Alex again, Rick.”

“On my way out, Alex- call from the E.R., bus accident, they’re short-staffed. Milo’s out in Pasadena. Spent the morning on the phone and left about an hour ago.”

“Thanks, Rick. Bye.”

“Alex? I just wanted to thank you for getting him the job- he was pretty low. The idleness. I tried to talk him into doing something but I wasn’t making much headway until you got him the referral. So thanks.”

“It wasn’t charity, Rick. He was the best man for the job.”

“I know that and you know that. The trick was convincing him.”

Afternoon traffic slowed the drive to San Labrador. I spent the time thinking about connections between Massachusetts and California.

The gates at Sussex Knoll were closed. I talked to Madeleine over the talk box and was let in. Neither Milo’s Fiat nor Rick’s Porsche was in front of the house. A cherry-red Jaguar XJS convertible was.

A woman opened the Chaucer doors before I got to them. Five three, mid-forties, a few extra pounds that rounded her nicely. Her face, in contrast, was lean and triangular under a cap of black curls. Her eyes were the same color, large and round and heavily lashed. She had on a soft pink dress that would have gone well at a Renoir picnic. Bracelets jangled as she extended her arm.

“Dr. Delaware? I’m Susan LaFamiglia.”

We shook hands. Hers was small and soft, until she turned on the grip. She wore lots of makeup and had applied it well. Rings graced half of her fingers. A strand of black pearls rested on her bosom. If it was real, it was worth more than the Jag.

“It’s good to meet you,” she said. “I’d like to talk to you about our mutual client- not right now, because I’m in the middle of talking to her, trying to unravel her finances. How about in a couple of days?”

“Sure. As long as Melissa consents.”

“She already has. I’ve got a release form inside… I’m sorry, did you come to have a session with her?”

“No,” I said. “Just to see how she’s doing.”

“She seems to be doing okay- considering. I was surprised at how knowledgeable she is about money, for someone her age. But obviously I don’t know her very well.”

“She’s a complex young lady,” I said. “Has a detective named Sturgis been by?”

“Milo? He was here before, just went over to the stepfather’s restaurant. The police came here to question Melissa about this McCloskey character’s death. I told them she hadn’t been informed of it yet, and that under no circumstances would I allow them to talk to her. Milo suggested they talk to the stepfather- there was a bit of pawing and snorting, but they agreed.”

Her smile said success had been no surprise.

The Tankard’s lot was so full of cars that it appeared open for business: Ramp’s Mercedes, Noel’s Toyota, the brown Chevy Monte Carlo, Milo’s Fiat, and a dark blue Buick sedan that I’d also seen before.

Milo’s hired surveillance was nowhere in sight. Either not on the job or damned good.

As I got out of the Seville, I saw someone exit the rear of the building and run across the lot.

Bethel Drucker in a white blouse and dark shorts and flat sandals. Blond hair loose and flying, chest bouncing. A moment later she was behind the wheel of the brown Chevy, revving noisily, backing out of her space in a squealing fishtail, then speeding down the driveway toward the boulevard. Without stopping, she hooked a sharp right and roared away. I tried to catch a glimpse of her face behind glass but caught only a boomerang flash of hot white sunlight.

Just as the sound of her engine faded, the Tankard’s front door opened and Noel stepped out, looking confused and scared.

“Your mom went that way,” I said, and he swung his eyes toward me convulsively.

I walked over to him. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “The cops came by to talk to Don. I was in the kitchen, doing some reading. Mom went out and served them coffee, and then when she got back she looked really upset. I asked her what the matter was but she didn’t answer and then I saw her leave.”

“Any idea what the cops said to Don?”

“No. Like I said, I was in the kitchen. I wanted to ask her what the matter was but she just left without saying anything.” He looked down the boulevard. “It’s not like her…”

He lowered his head, forlorn. Dark and handsome and forlorn… James Deanish. My scalp prickled.

I said, “No idea where she might have gone?”

“It could be anywhere. She likes to drive- being cooped up in here all day. But she usually tells me where she’s going and when she’s coming back.”

“She’s probably under stress,” I said. “What with the restaurant being closed. The uncertainty.”

“She’s scared,” he said. “The Tankard’s been her life. I told her even if worse comes to worse and Don doesn’t reopen, she can easily get a job at another place, but she said it would never be the same, because…” Shading his eyes with one hand, he scanned the boulevard some more.

“Because what, Noel?”

“Huh?” He gave a startled look.

“Your mom said it would never be the same because…”

“Whatever,” he said angrily.

“Noel-”

“It’s not important. I’ve gotta go.”

Reaching into his jeans, he pulled out a ring of keys, ran to the Celica, and drove off.

I was still preoccupied as I walked up to the Tankard’s front door. The NO BRUNCH sign had been replaced with one that said CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

Inside, the lights had been turned up to cheapening brightness, exposing every raw spot in the wood paneling, every snarl and stain on the carpet.

Milo sat on a stool by the bar, holding a coffee cup. Don Ramp was in one of the booths along the right wall, a bottle of Wild Turkey, a glass, and a cup that matched Milo’s within arm’s reach. Two other coffees sat near the outer edge of the table. Ramp had on the same white shirt he’d worn at the dam. He looked as if he’d just returned from a guided tour to hell, traveling stand-by.

Chief Chickering and Officer Skopek stood over him. Chickering was smoking a cigar. Skopek looked as if he would have liked one, too.

When the chief saw me, he turned and frowned. Skopek did likewise. Milo sipped coffee. Ramp didn’t do anything.

It looked like a chapter meeting of the Big Man’s Club gone sour.

I said, “Hi, Chief.”

“Doctor.” Chickering moved his wrist and a pellet of ash dropped into a tray near Ramp’s bottle. The bourbon was two-thirds gone.

I went to the bar and sat down next to Milo. He raised his eyebrows and gave a small smile.

Chickering turned back to Ramp. “Okay, Don, guess that’ll do it.”

If Ramp responded I didn’t see it.

Chickering picked up one of the coffee cups near the edge and took a long swallow. Licking his lips, he came over to the bar. Skopek followed but remained several feet behind.

Chickering said, “Doing some routine questioning for my good friends over in Los Angeles, Doctor. About what happened to the late Mr. McCloskey. Anything you want to add to the current pool of ignorance?”

“Nothing, Chief.”

“Okay,” he said, then took another swig of coffee. When he finished, the cup was empty. He held it out without looking back, and Skopek took it and placed it on Ramp’s table. “Far as I’m concerned, Doctor, it’s just deserts. But I’m following up as a courtesy to L.A. So now I’ve asked you and that’s it.”

I nodded.

He said, “How’s everything else going? With little Melissa?”

“Fine, Chief.”

“Good.” Pause. Smoke rings. “Any idea who’s going to be running the household?”

“I couldn’t say, Chief.”

“Well,” he said, “we were just over there and a lawyer was talking to the girl- lady lawyer. West side firm. Don’t know how much experience she’s got with this side of town.”