“Who was the victim in Baltimore?”

“Some secretary cut up like Ms. Bernet. What’s the difference, I just told you it didn’t pan, Baltimore busted a lunatic and he hung himself. Gotta run, Doc. Have a nice warm L.A. day.”

I searched for Baltimore homicides on the net but came up with nothing remotely familiar to Angelique Bernet or the other killings.

Nothing seemed to be the operative word.

During the same ten days, a few other things happened.

Tim Plachette called me one evening, and said, “Apologies for that ridiculous little mano-a-mano thing the other day.”

“No big deal,” I said. “You weren’t out of line.”

“Whether I was or not, I should’ve held my peace… I really care about her, Alex.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“You don’t want to have this conversation,” he said.

Something in his voice- desperation, anxiety that came from deep love, flipped my mood.

“I do appreciate your calling, Tim. And I won’t get in the way.”

“I’m not trying to be a censor, it’s a free country. If you want to drop by, that’s fine.”

I flipped again: Gee, thanks for permission, buddy. But I knew he was right. Life would be a lot easier for all of us if I kept my distance.

“We all need to move on, Tim.”

“It’s good of you to say that… Robin… and then there’s Spike- I’m making an ass out of myself.”

“That’s the way it can be with women,” I said.

“True.”

We traded Y-chromosome chuckles.

“Anyway,” he said.

“Be well, Tim.”

“You, too.”

Two days after that, Robin phoned. “I don’t want to bother you, but I also don’t want you to find out from someone else. Guitar Player’s running a profile on me, and I must admit I think that’s extremely cool. I know you buy it sometimes, so I thought you might see it.”

“Beyond cool,” I said. “Tell me the issue, and I’ll be sure to buy it.”

“This coming issue,” she said. “They interviewed me a while back but never told me the piece was going to run. They called me today to say it was. It’ll probably complicate my life by throwing me more business when I don’t need it, but who cares; getting out in the limelight once in a while feels good. I’m such a baby, huh?”

“You deserve it,” I said. “Enjoy.”

“Thanks, Alex. How’s everything?”

“Moving along.”

“Anything new on Baby or that painter?”

“No,” I said. When we were together she’d never wanted to know about that kind of thing. Maybe it was her affection for Baby Boy. Or the fact that what I did with my life no longer touched hers.

“Well,” she said, “I’m sure if anyone can figure it out, it’s you.”

“Aw shucks, ma’am.”

“Bye,” she said, and the laughter in her voice put a little light in my day.

Milo reached me at home, the following Thursday, just after 9 P.M. Solitary end of a solitary day. I’d finished the last of my reports, collected tax information for my accountant, did a few handyman chores around the house. When the phone rang, I was doing the couch-spud bit: wearing grubby sweats, snarfing takeout ribs, a couple of Grolsches within reach. Dimming the lights and turning up the volume on the big screen as I watched both reels of Magnolia. Thinking, once again, that the film was a work of genius.

The previous two nights, I’d slept at Allison’s place, waking up in her cozy, girly bedroom, smelling perfume and breakfast, resting the grizzle of my unshaven face against soft sweet sheets, dividing my brain between delight and disorientation.

No more talk about Grant or Robin, and she seemed content- or trying to fake it. She moved appointments around and took a day off and we drove up the coast, had lunch in Montecito, at the Stone House. Then we continued to Santa Barbara, walked along the beach, and up State Street to the art museum where a portraiture show was on display.

Black-eyed, too-wise Robert Henri children, the wistful, wounded women of Raphael Soyer, the dandies and dolled-up ladies of John Koch’s New York arty crowd.

Pale, languid, dark-haired Singer Sargent beauties who made me look at Allison with new appreciation.

A late dinner at the Harbor, on the pier, stretched out to 11 P.M., and we got back to L.A. just before 1 A.M. For the last twenty miles I fought to stay awake. When I pulled up in front of Allison’s house, I hoped she wouldn’t invite me in.

She said, “This has been great- you’re great for me. Want some instant coffee before you shove off?”

“I’ll make it.”

I kissed her and drove off. Now the night was mine.

The next morning, I rented the movie.

Milo said, “Am I interrupting something?”

“Beer and ribs and Magnolia.”

“That, again? What is it, the tenth time?”

“Third. What’s up?”

“You alone?”

“Yup.”

“Then screw you for hoarding ribs.”

“Fine,” I said. “Come over and scavenge.”

“Don’t tempt me, Satan. No, Rick’s cutting his shift early, and we’re heading over to the Jazz Bakery. Larry Coryell’s in town, and you know Rick. Anyway, CoCo Barnes sent over her drawing of the redhead. Afraid you were right. It’s just this side of abstract- those cataracts scotch her as any kind of reliable witness. Also, here’s the scoop on Everett Kipper. Not a popular guy.”

“Among who?”

“His neighbors,” he said. “He lives in a nice part of Pasadena- near the border with San Marino. Big craftsman place on a full-acre lot, lotsa house for one guy. The rest of the block’s families and senior citizens. Both of Kipper’s immediate neighbors are the latter- genteel old folk. They say he’s unfriendly, keeps to himself, used to go out to his garage late at night, create a racket hammering marble or whatever. Finally, they called the cops, who went out and had a talk with Kipper. After that, things quieted down, but Kipper got downright unfriendly- doesn’t answer when spoken to. The cops told him to cool it by ten, and the neighbors say Kipper makes a point of hammering up until the stroke of ten. Leaves his garage door open, making sure he can be heard.”

“Hostile and vindictive,” I said. “Sculpting and tearing it apart.”

“I spoke to the Pasadena cops, but all they remember is the nuisance call. They sent me the report. Nothing illuminating. The neighbors also said Kipper rarely if ever entertains visitors, but every so often there was a blond lady around. I showed them Julie’s picture, they thought maybe it was her.”

“Maybe?”

“These are folks in their eighties and no one got a close look. Blond is what they remember- very, very light blond hair, the way Julie’s was. So looks like Kipper was telling the truth when he said they’d maintained a relationship.”

“How often was she there?”

“Irregularly. Sometimes once a month, sometimes twice. One of the old gals did tell me she’s sure the blonde sometimes stayed the night because she saw her and Kipper getting into Kipper’s Ferrari the next morning.”

“Occasional intimacy,” I said.

“Maybe she came by to pick up the alimony in person, and they forgot why they split up. That got me thinking about what you said- Julie’s dependency. What if she decided she no longer wanted any part of that, told Kipper so, and things got nasty? He wouldn’t kill her at his place. Not with the neighbors looking over his shoulder, that police report already on file. You’ve been talking about a smart, calculating guy, and he’s a bright one. Do I have any way to prove it? Nyet. But there’s nothing else in my scope.”

“What’s the state of Kipper’s finances?”

“I’m light-years away from any kind of warrant on his accounts, but from all appearances, he’s doing well. In addition to the Testarossa, he’s got a vintage bathtub Porsche, an old MG, and a Toyota Land Cruiser. The house is stately and pretty, he keeps up the gardening and the maintenance- the place sparkles from the curb. Neighbors say he dresses sharp, even on casual days. One coot said he looked ‘Hollywood.’ Which in Pasadena is damn near felonious. Another one- an old lady- went on about Kipper liking black. Described it as ‘an undertaker uniform.’ Then her husband chimes in, and says, ‘No, he looks like one of the stiffs.’ Ninety-one, and he’s cracking wise. Maybe it was the gin and tonic talking- they invited me in for a drinkie. I think I was the most exciting thing in the ’hood since the last Rose Bowl.”