“Forget it. I run a tab here.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m a rajah,” he said. “Go detect. Stay in touch.”

Petra touched Milo’s shoulder briefly, favored me with a smile, turned and headed for the door.

Stahl got up and followed her out. During the entire discussion, he hadn’t said a word.

The silent type. Some women thought they liked that.

Petra had thought she liked it. But working with Stahl was proving to be a trying experience.

The guy never spoke unless spoken to, and even then, he drew upon his verbal bank account one scroogy syllable at a time.

Now here they were, driving away from the meeting with Milo and Alex, when there should’ve been animated discussion. Stahl just stared out the passenger window, inert as dirt.

What? Looking for another stolen car? He’d spotted two GTAs in one week, and the second had contained a passenger with a felony manslaughter warrant, so brownie points for the two of them. But if that’s what floated Stahl’s dinghy, he should’ve asked for an assignment to Auto Theft.

Why he’d chosen Homicide puzzled her. Why he’d given up the security of an Army gig for the streets was an even bigger question mark.

She’d hazarded a few polite questions. Every attempt to crack the shell revealed a granite egg.

Not that old Eric was any big old stoic macho man with obvious dominance needs or glory lust. On the contrary, he’d made it clear, right from the beginning, that Petra was the senior partner.

And unlike most men, he knew how to apologize. Even when it wasn’t necessary.

Two days into their partnership, Petra had arrived early and found Stahl at his desk, reading a folded newspaper and sipping herbal tea- that was another thing, he didn’t drink coffee, and if anything contravened the detective code of ethics, it was caffeine phobia.

When he saw her he looked up and Petra sensed unease- the merest hint of restlessness- in his flat, brown eyes.

“Evening, Eric.”

“This wasn’t my idea,” he said, handing her the paper. A two-paragraph article toward the back had been circled in black marker.

Summary of the Armenian gang killing. Her name in print, as the investigator. Along with Stahl’s.

The case had been wrapped up well before Stahl’s arrival. Someone- maybe a departmental PR doofus, or even Schoelkopf digging at Petra intentionally- had doled out cocredit.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Petra.

“I don’t like it,” said Stahl.

“Don’t like what?”

“It was your case.”

“I don’t care, Eric.”

“I thought I’d call the Times.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Stahl stared at her. “Okay,” he said, finally. “I wanted to clarify.”

“You have.”

He returned to his tea.

A mile before the Hollywood station, Petra said, “So what do you think?”

“About what?”

“Dr. Delaware’s theory.”

“You know him,” said Stahl. A statement, not a question.

“If you’re asking whether he’s good, he is. I’ve worked with him and Milo before. Milo’s the best- top solve-rate in West L.A., maybe the department.”

Stahl tapped his knee.

“He’s gay,” said Petra.

No answer.

“Delaware’s smart,” she said. “Brilliant. I usually don’t have much faith in shrinks, but he’s come through.”

“Then I like his theory,” said Stahl.

“So what next? Check out comics stores for GrooveRat or try to find it with phone work?”

“Both,” said Stahl. “There are two of us.”

“Which would you prefer?”

“Your call.”

“State a preference, Eric.”

“I’ll do the phone work.”

Big surprise. Eric at his desk, avoiding real-live people.

She dropped him off and cruised Hollywood for alternative bookstores. Inquiries about GrooveRat produced blank stares from the clerks, but most of them looked blasted to begin with. On her fifth try, the pimply kid at the counter hooked a thumb toward a cardboard box to his left. Red ink scrawl on the flap said OLD ZINES, ONE BUCK.

The carton smelled moldy and was crammed with paper and loose sheets- spindled and mutilated magazines.

Petra said, “You definitely have GrooveRat in here?”

The kid said, “Probably,” and stared off into space.

Petra began pawing through the box, raising dust that grayed her black jacket. Most of the zines seemed to be little more than adolescent hobby junk. Several were printed on pulp. She skimmed. A world of incoherence, fluctuating from bored to breathless, mostly to do with music and movies and dirty jokes.

Nearly at the bottom of the pile, she found a coverless copy of GrooveRat. Ten pages of poorly typed text and amateurish cartoons. The date on the masthead was the previous summer. No volume or number listings.

Not much in the way of staff, either.

Yuri Drummond, Editor & Publisher

Contributing Writers: The Usual Gang of Miscreants

The second line reminded Petra of something- ripoff of a Mad magazine line. All four of her brothers had collected Mad. Something about the usual gang of idiots…

So Mr. Drummond was unoriginal, as well as pretentious. That fit with Alex’s theory.

The bottom of the masthead listed an address for mailing subscription checks. The zine promised “irregular publication,” and charged forty dollars a year.

Delusional, as well. Petra wondered if anyone had bitten. She supposed if idiots were willing to pay three bucks a minute for phone tarot, anything was possible.

The address was right here in Hollywood- on Sunset east of Highland, just a short drive away.

She scanned the table of contents. Four pieces on rock bands she’d never heard of and a write-up of a sculptor who worked in plastic-coated dog poo.

The author of the art piece, nom-du-plumed “Mr. Peach,” really appreciated fecal art, terming it “primally satisfying and gut-wrenching (Duchamp-Dada-yuk yuk, kids.)” Petra was surer than ever that she was dealing with an adolescent mind, and that didn’t synch with the careful planning of the murders. Still, the zine cropping up in two cases bore attention.

A careful check of the remaining pages revealed nothing on Baby Boy Lee, Juliet Kipper, or Vassily Levitch. Nothing on the Boston case Alex had found, either- Bernet, the ballerina. Petra had her doubts about that one, but you didn’t want to ignore Alex’s gut.

She paid for the rag and headed for GrooveRat headquarters.

Strip mall at Gower and Sunset. A Mail Boxes N’ Stuff. Big shock.

“Suite 248” was really Box 248, now leased to Verna Joy Hollywood Cosmetics. Petra knew that because as she waited for the woman in charge to stop fussing with a cuticle and give her the time of day, two bound stacks of mail on the counter caught her eye. Lots of interest in Verna Joy; too much for one box.

The top envelope was pink, with a return address in Des Moines. Neat, feminine cursive writing advertised “Payment Inside.”

The mail-drop woman finally put away her emery board, spotted Petra studying the stacks, snatched them up, and jammed them under the counter. A peroxide blonde in her sixties, she’d gone overboard with the brown eye shadow and the black liner, left the rest of her tired, splotched, drinker’s face unpainted. Emphasizing the eyes- bringing out the despair.

Petra showed her ID and the woman’s expression shifted from irritation to outright contempt. “What do you want?”

“A magazine named GrooveRat used to lease Box 248. How long has it been since they vacated, ma’am?”