Despite Paul Brancusi’s dismissal, the stalker element couldn’t be ignored. You didn’t have to be famous to incite irrational attachment. And alternative zines were sometimes little more than glorified fan-club bulletins. Fanatic-club bulletins.

Had the editor adored China from afar? Had the way she’d treated him twisted his passions into rage she’d been ill equipped to handle?

I let my imagination run. Maybe he’d agreed to give China one last chance. Watching, waiting, outside the studio. China, stoned, unstable, angry at her band, leaves, and he follows her.

Pleased to be with someone who appreciated her, she accompanies him.

Then things turn.

China reverting to type.

And he’s had enough.

Thin speculation, but it was that or introspection.

I booted up the computer and searched for GrooveRat. Not a single hit.

That surprised me. Every self-deluded purveyor of triviality has a Web site. So the zine had been beyond obscure. And, as Brancusi predicted, long out of circulation.

Already on-line, I set out to convince myself that there was nothing more to be learned about the other three murders.

Wilfred Reedy’s name came up nearly a hundred times, mostly in discographies and laudatory reviews. Two references to his “tragic murder.” No speculation. Neither Valerie Brusco nor Angelique Bernet merited notice beyond the hits I’d found initially.

I exited the virtual world, phoned Central Division, and asked for the detective who’d handled Reedy’s case. The clerk had no idea what I was talking about and transferred me to a sergeant who said, “Why do you want to know?”

“I’m a consultant to the department-”

“What kind of consultant?”

“Psychologist. I work with Lieutenant Milo Sturgis in West L.A. Division.”

“Then have him call.”

“All I’m asking for is the name of the detective.”

“You have a case number?”

“No.” I repeated Reedy’s name, gave him the date.

“That’s four years ago,” he said. “You got to call Records, downtown.”

Dial tone.

I knew Records wouldn’t give me the time of day and moved on to the Cambridge, Mass., police and Angelique Bernet. A Southie-accented man instructed me this was the new age of Homeland Security and there were forms to be filled out, requirements to be met. When he asked me for my Social Security number, I gave it to him. He said he’d get back to me and cut the connection.

A phone call to the Oregon State Penitentiary, where I inquired about the status of inmate Tom Blascovitch, Valerie Brusco’s ex-boyfriend, evoked similar suspicion and resistance.

I put the phone down. Enough of amateur hour. Let Milo do his thing with Everett Kipper, and if he hit a brick wall, maybe I’d bring up the rest of it.

I was about to scavenge some dinner from the fridge when the phone rang.

“Tomorrow’s fine,” said Allison, “but guess what, so is tonight. The hospice is bringing in entertainment- a comedian and a bluegrass band. What’s your schedule?”

I was waiting out in front of my house as she drove up in her Jag. She’d kept the top down and her hair was wild. When she got out I took her in my arms and kissed her hard.

“Wow,” she said, laughing. “Good to see you, too.”

She slid her arm around my waist and I looped mine over her shoulder as we climbed the stairs to the house.

Inside, she said, “Any of that Bordeaux left?”

“Whatever we didn’t drink last time is still there.”

We went into the kitchen, and I found the wine.

“Oh, my,” she said, looking me over. “You really are happy to see me.”

“You have no idea,” I said.

Lying in darkness, I heard the sharp intake of Allison’s breath.

“Everything okay?”

“Sure,” she said, too quickly. Curled under the covers, her back to me.

I reached over and touched her face. Felt moisture on her cheek.

“What is it?” I said.

“Nothing.” She began crying.

When the tears stopped, she said, “Are we at a point where it’s safe to tell you anything?”

“Of course.”

“I hope so,” she said.

But she didn’t speak.

“Allison?”

“Forget it. I’m fine.”

“Okay.”

Moment later: “Here I was, feeling so good, thinking what could be better than this, and Grant’s face floated into my head. He looked happy- benevolent, happy for me. God, how I need to think of him as being happy.”

“Of course.”

“And then the thoughts came- all he’d missed, how I’d felt about him, how young he was. Alex, I miss him so much! And sometimes the way you touch me- the way you’re tender with me when I need that- it makes me think about him.”

She flipped onto her back. Covered her face with both hands. “I feel so unfaithful. To him, to you. It’s been years, why can’t I let go?”

“You loved him. You never stopped loving him.”

“I never did,” she said. “Maybe I never will- can you deal with that? Because it has nothing to do with you.”

“I’m okay with it.”

“You mean that?”

“I do.”

“I understand your holding on to your feelings about Robin.”

“My feelings,” I said.

“Am I wrong?”

I didn’t answer.

“You had years together,” she said. “You’d have to be shallow to just toss it aside.”

“Everything takes time,” I said.

She let her hands drop from her face. Stared up at the ceiling. “Well, folks, I may just have made a giant goof.”

“No,” I said.

“I wish I could be sure of that.”

I rolled closer and held her.

“Everything’s fine,” I said.

“I’m going to believe that,” she said. “Given the alternative.”

Ten days later, I heard from Milo. In the interim, I’d persisted with the Cambridge police and managed to talk to a detective named Ernest Fiorelle. He began by scoping me out, and we went through the old security bit. Finally, I satisfied his curiosity by faxing a copy of an old LAPD consultant’s contract and a couple of pages of my deposition on the Ingalls case. Despite all that, Fiorelle ended up asking more questions than he answered about Angelique Bernet.

No serious leads had developed, and the case remained unsolved.

“My guess is some nut,” said Fiorelle. “You’re the shrink, you tell me.”

“A sexual psychopath?” I said. “Was there evidence of rape?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Dead air.

I said, “What was crazy about it?”

“Cutting up a beautiful young girl and dumping her in an alley seems pretty crazy to me, Doc. Out there in L.A. does that pass for nahmul?”

“Depends on the day of the week.”

His laughter was brief and harsh.

I said, “So none of Bernet’s fellow dancers or musicians came under suspicion?”

“Nah, wimpy bunch, mostly females and gays. Scared witless. Everyone claimed to love the girl.”

“Even though she’d been promoted.”

“So what?” he said.

“I was wondering about jealousy.”

“Doc, if you’da been to the crime scene, you wouldn’t be wondering. This wasn’t some… spat. This was ugly.”

Still thinking about China’s possible encounter with a stalking fan, I asked him about music conventions at the time of the murder.

“You kidding?” he said. “This is College-Town, Hahvuhd, the rest of them. We’ve got nothing but conventions going on all the time.”

“Anything to do with the music business, specifically? A group of critics, journalists, fans.”

“Nah, don’t remember anything like that. And frankly, Doc, I don’t know why you’re bahkun up this tree.”

“Nothing better to bark up.”

“Well, maybe you should find something. And keep all that nutty stuff on the Left Coast. Nah, doesn’t sound like any matches between the girl and your cases. Fact is, I found a better match in Baltimore, and that didn’t pan out either.”