It was nearly 4 A.M. on a Monday, and she was mentally exhausted but too jumpy to sleep. She took a deep breath, sat back in her chair, drank cold coffee from the cup that had been sitting there for hours. Caffeine; that’ll help the old nerves, smart girl.

The detective room was quiet, just her and a D II named Balsam pecking away at an antiquated computer. Balsam was Petra ’s age but carried himself like an old man. Old man’s taste in music, too. He’d brought a boom box, but it wasn’t booming. Tuned to an easy-listening station. Some eighties hair-band song redone with strings and a harp. Petra was transported to a department-store elevator. Women’s sportswear, floor three…

Her notes on Baby Boy were spread out before her, and she gathered them up, began replacing them in the folder. Making sure each page was in its right place. You couldn’t be too careful…

What difference did it make? This one wasn’t going to close anytime in the near future.

Her phone rang. “Connor.”

“Detective?” said a male voice.

“Yes, this is Detective Connor.”

“Good, this is Officer Saldinger. I’m over at Western and Franklin, and we could use one of you guys.”

“What’s the problem?” said Petra.

“Your line of work,” said Saldinger. “Lots of blood.”

After Robin’s drop-in, our contact was limited to polite phone calls and forwarded mail accompanied by even more polite notes. If she needed to talk about Baby Boy or anything else of substance, she’d found another audience.

I thought about visiting Spike. I’d adopted him, but he ended up disdaining me and competing for Robin’s attention. No custody struggle, I knew the score. Still, from time to time I missed his little bulldog face, the comical egotism, the awe-inspiring gluttony.

Maybe soon.

I’d heard nothing about the murder since Petra ’s first call, and weeks later, I spotted her name in the paper.

Triple slaying in the parking lot of a dance club off Franklin Boulevard. Three A.M. ambush of a carload of Armenian gang members from Glendale, by members of a rival faction from East Hollywood. Petra and a partner I didn’t know, a detective named Eric Stahl, had arrested a fifteen-year-old shooter and a sixteen-year-old driver after “a prolonged investigation.”

Prolonged meant the case had probably opened shortly after Baby Boy’s death.

Petra spending her time on something she could solve?

Maybe so, but she was driven; failure would stick in her gut.

For the next few weeks, I concentrated on spending time with Allison, helping kids, banking some income. One consultation kept me particularly busy: a two-year-old girl accidentally shot in the leg by her four-year-old brother. Lots of family complications, no easy answers, but things finally seemed to be settling down.

I convinced Allison to take off some time, and we spent a four-day weekend at the San Ysidro Ranch in Montecito, imbibing sun and great food. When we drove back to L.A. I convinced myself I was doing okay on all fronts.

The day after I got back, Milo phoned, and said, “Don’t you sound chipper.”

“Been working on chipper.”

“Don’t overdo it,” he said. “Wouldn’t want you to forget the morose underpinnings of our relationship.”

“God forbid,” I said. “What’s up?”

“Something decidedly un-chipper. I’ve got a weird one, so naturally I thought of you.”

“Weird in what way?”

“Apparently motiveless, but we psychologically astute types know better, don’t we? An artist- a painter- murdered the night of her big opening. Last Saturday. Someone strangled her. Ligature- thin, with corrugations, probably a wound metal wire.”

“Sexual assault?”

“There was some posing but no evidence of assault. You have time?”

“For you, always.”

He asked me to meet him for lunch at Café Moghul, an Indian restaurant on Santa Monica, a few blocks from the West L.A. station. The place turned out to be a storefront blocked by gilt-flecked, madras curtains. An unmarked Ford LTD was parked near the entrance in a Loading Only space, and cheap plastic sunglasses that I recognized as Milo ’s sat atop the dashboard.

The place was magenta-walled and hung with machined tapestries of huge-eyed, nutmeg-skinned people and spire-topped temples. An ultrasoprano voice sang plaintively. The air was a mix of curry and anise.

A sixtyish woman in a sari greeted me. “He’s over there.” Pointing to a table along the rear wall. No need for guidance; Milo was the only customer.

In front of him was a quart-sized glass of what looked to be iced tea and a plate of fried things in various geometric shapes. His mouth was full, and he waved and continued masticating. When I reached the table, he half rose, wiped grease from his chin, washed down the baseball-sized bolus that orangutaned his cheeks, and pumped my hand.

“The mixed appetizers combo,” he said. “Have some. I ordered entrees for both of us- the chicken tali, comes with rice, lentils, side vegetable, the works. The vegetable’s okra. Which is usually about as appealing as snot on toast, but they do it good. Little mango chutney on the side, too.”

“Hi,” I said.

The shy woman brought a glass, poured me tea, and departed.

“Iced and spiced, lots of cloves,” he said, “I took liberty there, too.”

“How nice to be nurtured.”

“How would I know?” He reached for a triangular pastry, muttered, “Samosa,” and gazed at me from under heavily lidded, bright green eyes. Since Robin had moved out, I’d been trying to convince him I was okay. He claimed to believe me, but his body language said he was reserving judgment.

“No nurturance for the poor detective?” I said.

“Don’t want it. Too tough.” He winked.

“How’re you doing?” I said, mostly to prevent him from focusing on my mood.

“The world’s falling apart but I’m fine.”

“Freelancing’s still fun?”

“I wouldn’t call it that.”

“What would you call it?”

“Bureaucratically sanctioned isolation. I’m not allowed to have fun.” He bared his teeth in what I knew was a smile; someone else might have taken it for hostility. I watched him toss another appetizer down his gullet and drink more tea.

Last year, he’d run afoul of the police chief before the chief retired, managed to play some cards, and ended up with a lieutenant’s title and salary but not the desk job that came with promotion.

Effectively banished from the robbery-homicide room, he was given his own windowless office down the hall- a converted interrogation space, figurative miles from the other detectives. His official title was “clearance officer” for unsolved homicide cases. Basically, that meant deciding which cold files to pursue and which to ignore. The good news was relative independence. The bad news was no built-in backup or departmental support.

Now he was working a fresh case. I figured there was a back story, and he’d tell me when he was ready.

He looked in good trim, and the clarity in his eyes suggested he’d stuck to his resolution to cut down on the booze. He’d also resolved to start walking for exercise, but the last few times I’d seen him, he’d griped about his instep.

Today, he had on a coarse, brown, herringbone sport coat way too heavy for a California spring, a once-white wash-and-wear shirt and a green polyblend tie embroidered with blue dragons. His black hair was freshly cut in the usual style: long and shaggy on top, cropped tight at the temples. Sideburns, now snow-white, reached the bottoms of his fleshy ears. He called them his skunk stripes. The restaurant’s lighting was kind to his complexion, rendering some of the acne pits as craggy contours.