Stahl wore black, too. A baggy suit over a starched white shirt and skinny gray tie. He had collapsed cheeks, eyes recessed as deeply as those of a blind man. His spiky crew cut was a deep brown shade one half tone lighter than Petra’s ebony coif, but, hue-wise, that was a fine distinction. A few years older than Petra, but like her, thin with fair skin. In Stahl’s case, a tallowy pallor rendered sickly by contrast to Petra’s crisp, cosmetic kabuki. But for rosy spots on his cheeks, he might’ve been fashioned of wax.

He appraised the room. Flat, inert eyes.

Milo said, “Hey, Eric.”

Stahl said, “Hey,” in a low voice and shifted his gaze to the table.

Three place settings.

Milo said, “I’ll get you fixed up.”

“Just get a chair, Eric won’t be eating,” said Petra.

“Oh, yeah?” said Milo. “Don’t like Indian, Eric?”

“I ate already,” said Stahl. His voice matched his eyes.

“Eric doesn’t eat,” said Petra. “He claims he does, but I’ve never seen it.”

The smiling woman brought platters of food. Milo snarfed, Petra and I picked, Eric Stahl placed his hands flat on the table and stared at his fingernails.

Stahl’s presence seemed to discourage small talk. So did the situation, and Milo got right down to business, passing around Julie Kipper’s case file, then summarizing the little he had on Vassily Levitch.

Both Hollywood detectives took it in without comment. Milo said, “Could you recap Baby Boy?”

Petra said, “Sure.” Her account was concise, focused on the relevant details. The precise delivery emphasized how little she’d unearthed, and when she finished, she seemed bothered.

Stahl remained mute.

Milo said, “Sounds like a match to Levitch, at least. How about the psych wisdom, Alex?”

I summarized the out-of-town cases quickly, glossed over Wilfred Reedy because his murder sounded like a drug hit, and moved on to China Maranga. As I put forth the suggestion that she might’ve been stalked without knowing it, the three of them listened but didn’t react.

A trio of blank faces; if I was right, they were faced with monumental work.

“The night China disappeared,” I said, “she left the studio in a foul mood and quite possibly stoned. Under the best of circumstances, she had a bad temper, was known to unload on people without warning. Here’s a prime example: She refused an interview with a fanzine, but the editor was persistent and ran the story anyway. A puff piece. China’s thanks was to phone the guy and abuse him. Viciously, was the way her band mate put it. She had no sense of personal safety, lived high-risk. That and a major tantrum in the wrong setting could’ve proved fatal.”

“What was the name of the fanzine?” said Petra.

“Something called GrooveRat. I looked for it but couldn’t-”

Her slim, white fingers on my wrist stopped me midsentence.

“GrooveRat did a piece on Baby Boy,” she said. She opened her attaché case, drew out a blue murder book, and began paging. “The editor was persistent with me, too. Real pest, kept calling, bugging me for details… here we go: Yuri Drummond. I didn’t take him seriously because he sounded like an obnoxious kid. He told me he’d never actually met Baby Boy but ran a profile on him.”

“Same as China,” said Milo. “Baby Boy turn him down, too?”

“I didn’t ask. He claimed interviews weren’t the magazine’s style, they were into the essence of art, not the persona, or some nonsense like that. He sounded about twelve.”

“What did he want from you?” I said.

“The gory details.” She frowned. “I figured him for an adolescent ghoul, shined him on.”

Milo said, “Be interesting to know if he ever wrote up Julie Kipper.”

“Wouldn’t it,” said Petra.

I said, “I tried to find a copy of GrooveRat at the big newsstand on Selma, but they didn’t carry it. The owner suggested a comics store on the boulevard, but they were closed.”

“Probably a dinky fly-by-night deal,” said Milo.

“That’s what China’s band mate said. He didn’t save a copy, either.”

“Yuri Drummond… sounds like a made-up name. What, he wants to be a cosmonaut?”

“Everyone reinvents themselves,” said Petra. “It’s the L.A. way.” Glancing at Stahl. He didn’t respond.

“Especially if they’re running from something,” I said.

“GrooveRat,” she said. “So what does this mean? A fan gone psycho?”

“Someone overinvolved in the victims’ careers. Maybe someone whose identity became enmeshed with the creativity of others. ‘Leeches on the body artistic’ is how Julie Kipper’s ex-husband described critics and agents and gallery owners and all the other ancillaries of the creative world. The same can be said of fanatical followers. Sometimes attachments morph into business arrangements- presidents of fan clubs selling memorabilia- but the core remains emotional: celebrity by association. For most people, fandom’s a fling that ends when they grow up. But certain borderline personalities never mature, and what starts out as a harmless ego-substitution- the kid standing in front of a mirror playing air guitar and imagining himself to be Hendrix- can turn into a psychological hijacking.”

“Hijacking what?” said Milo.

“The adored one’s identity. ‘I know the star better than he knows himself. How dare he get married/sell out/not listen to my advice?’ “

“How dare he refuse my generous offer to be interviewed,” said Petra. “Adolescents are the biggest fanatics, right? And Yuri Drummond sounded adolescent. The fact that he published a zine makes him hard-core.”

“Desktop publishing’s elevated hard-core,” I said. “Buy a computer and a printer, and you, too, can be a media-master. I know these victims vary demographically, but I’ve thought all along that the crucial element is their career status: poised for a jump. What if the killer became attached to them precisely because they weren’t stars? Entertained rescue fantasies- he’d be the star-maker by writing about them. They rejected him, so he interrupted the climb. Maybe he convinced himself they sold out.”

“Or,” said Petra, “since we’re talking about vicarious talent, maybe he was an aspiring artist himself and simply got consumed with jealousy.”

Milo said, “Aspiring guitarist, painter, singer, and pianist?”

“A real megalomaniac,” she said.

All three detectives looked at me.

“It’s possible,” I said. “A dilettante who bounces from game to game. I had a patient years ago, a successful writer. Scarcely a week went by when he didn’t meet someone who planned to pen the Great American Novel if only they had time. This guy had written his first four books while holding down two jobs. One thing he told me stuck: When someone says they want to be a writer, they’ll never make it. When they say they want to write, there’s a chance. That could fit with our bitter-fan scenario: someone who gets off on the external trappings of creativity.”

Petra smiled. “Leeches on the body artistic.” Years ago, she’d worked as a painter. “I like that.”

“So we’re talking two possibilities,” said Milo. “A rescue fantasy turned on its head or pathological jealousy.”

“Or both,” I said. “Or, I’m dead wrong.”

Petra laughed. “Don’t say that up on the witness stand, Doctor.” She picked up a piece of wafer bread, cracked a corner between sharp, white teeth, chewed slowly. “Yuri Drummond went on about his zine capturing the essence of art. When he started nagging me for the gories, it could’ve been revisiting the scene- psychologically.”

“Ego trip,” said Milo. “Like arsonists standing around watching the flames.”

“Did Drummond write the story on Baby Boy?” I said.

“I think he told me a writer did,” said Petra. “All I copied down was the guy’s name. At the time it seemed irrelevant.” She placed her napkin on the table. “Time to check the guy out, earn my salary. This was good, Milo. Let me split the check with you.”