No way Jackie True could be her man, anyway. The one thing Linus Brophy seemed sure of was that the killer had been tall, and True would be five-five after a session on the rack.

She moved on to the next name on her list: the soundman, a grad student at USC freelancing for the night, who’d barely heard of Baby Boy.

“Tell the truth,” he said, “it really wasn’t my thing. I’m into classical.”

Petra visited Baby Boy’s residence the afternoon following the murder. It turned out to be an apartment every bit as sad as Jackie True’s, a ground-floor unit in a boxy white sixplex off Cahuenga, midway between Hollywood and the Valley. The building sat behind a cypress-lined parking lot. Oily pools dotted the asphalt and like Lee’s thirteen-year-old Camaro, the resident cars were tired and dusty.

Given Lee’s history, she’d expected dysfunctional clutter, poor hygiene, empty booze bottles, dope, whatever. But Baby Boy had been living clean, in every sense of the word.

The flat consisted of living room, kitchenette, bedroom, bathroom. Off-white walls, shag carpeting the color of Mexican limes, low, cracked ceilings, sixties-era light fixtures with a nod toward sparkle and gold paint. Petra started at the back and worked her way forward.

The bedroom smelled of stale sweat. Baby Boy had slept on a pillow-top, king-size mattress set upon a box spring that rested on the floor. No stash space underneath. Lee’s clothes took up half the stingy closet: T-shirts, sweats, jeans, one huge black leather jacket so crackled it appeared ready to disintegrate. A nightstand drawer yielded a mostly empty date book and some overdue utility bills.

Petra took the book and continued to look around. No dope or alcohol anywhere, and the strongest nostrum she found in the bathroom was an economy-sized bottle of extra-strength Advil, the top left loose, indicating frequent use.

The avocado-colored fridge held yogurt, cottage cheese, decaf, nonfat Mocha Mix, some bruised peaches and plums, grapes that had started to pucker. In the freezer was a package of skinless chicken breasts and a dozen boxes of Lean Cuisine.

Dieting. Trying to better himself, the poor guy. And someone had gutted him like a fish.

The living room contained two straight-backed chairs, eight guitars on stands, and three amplifiers. Atop one amp was an obtrusive bit of elegance- a charming little cloisonné box, black enamel decorated with red dragons. Inside was an assortment of guitar picks.

And that was it.

Petra ’s cell phone tooted. The clerk at the station informed her that Linus Brophy had called, wanted to know if she needed him for anything else.

She laughed and hung up.

More of the usual procedures took up the next few days- lots of perspiration, no inspiration. Petra ’s esophagus ached, and her head pounded. The case was starting to acquire that nasty whodunit reek.

At 1 A.M., Monday, sitting at her desk, she got to Baby Boy’s datebook.

The black leatherette volume was virtually empty, save for scant reminders to shop for groceries, pick up laundry, or “call J. T.”

Lee keeping in touch with Jackie True. Hoping for what?

Then Petra came to the week of the murder. A single notation spanned all seven days: the large, right-slanted block letters she’d come to know as Baby Boy’s. But larger, penned in thick, black marker.

GIG AT S.P.

No exclamation points, but there might as well have been. Lee’s excitement came across in the scale.

Petra flipped a page to today’s date: Two notations, much smaller letters. Baby Boy planning a future that never arrived.

Gold Rush Studios? $$$?

That made sense. Jackie True had told her Baby Boy was still fired up, had intended to spend some of his Snake Pit fees on a recording session.

“Sad thing was,” True had said, frowning, “Baby didn’t realize how little studio time the gig was gonna buy him, once I paid the band and everything else.”

“What’s everything else?”

“Equipment rentals, the soundman, the kid who hauled our junk, you know.” Moment’s hesitation. “My cut.”

“Not much left,” said Petra.

“Not much to start with.”

The second notation was for Wednesday and this one looked like an appointment:

RC on setup, Tele, J-45.

Petra had learned enough to know that Baby Boy played Fender Telecasters, so this was a date with an instrument repairman.

Then she flashed on the initials.

RC. Alex Delaware’s lady friend, Robin Castagna built and fixed guitars, and from what Alex had told Petra, she was the one who got called when serious musicians needed work on their gear.

RC. Had to be.

Repairman, indeed.

Petra doubted Robin could shed any light on the case, but she had no other leads and made a note to phone tomorrow.

She went home early, thinking of Alex and Robin’s cool, white contemporary house off Beverly Glen.

Those two, talk about a solid relationship.

Robin, unlike other people we know, had been smart enough to get herself a stable guy. Lucky break, especially cause the guy was a shrink, and Petra suspected most shrinks were high-maintenance.

Alex was good-looking to boot- another high-maintenance predictor. But despite all that, he had a what… a solidity about him. A little on the serious side, but that was better than the self-centered flakiness that seemed to afflict L.A. men.

Petra hadn’t spoken to Alex for a while. She’d considered calling him when Billy’s breaking-away had caused her to wonder about her skills as a… friend. Alex had been Billy’s therapist. But she hadn’t followed through. Too busy.

No, that wasn’t the real reason. Solid or not, Delaware was still a shrink and Petra was worried she couldn’t keep the sadness out of her voice and he’d pick up on it and want to do his thing. She was in no mood to be shrunk.

Now, shielded by homicide, she could make contact with impunity.

The next morning, at ten, she dialed the white house. Alex picked up and said, “Hey, Petra, what’s up?”

They exchanged small talk, Alex inquired about Billy, Petra lied and said everything was going great. Then she said, “I’m actually calling Robin. Her name came up in the date book of the victim on a case I just picked up.”

“Baby Boy Lee?”

“How’d you know?”

“Robin worked on his guitars. He’s been here a few times. Sweet guy.”

“You know him pretty well?”

“No,” said Alex. “He came by once in a while. Friendly, always smiling. But a bluesman’s smile.”

“Meaning?”

“Sad, resigned. Robin told me he’d had some hard luck. A couple of times I walked in and found him playing. Best show I’ve seen all year. He had an incredible sense of phrasing- not a lot of notes but the right ones.”

Talking like a music guy- nearly word for word, the same thing Petra had heard from the big man’s band mates.

She remembered: Alex played guitar.

“Lots of hard luck,” she said. “What else can you tell me about him?”

“That’s about it. Robin worked on his guitars for free because he was always broke. He’d always make a show of writing out an IOU and handing it to her, but to my knowledge she never collected. Any idea who did it?”

“Nope. That’s why I’m following everything up. Robin around?”

Several seconds passed. Then: “She doesn’t live here anymore, Petra. We separated a few months ago.”

“Oh.”

“Mutual decision, it’s working out,” he said. But he didn’t sound as if he meant it. “I’ll give you her number.”