Petra ’s cheeks had grown hot. Not embarrassment. Anger. Another castle crumbles.

“Sure,” she said.

“She’s got a place in Venice. Rennie Avenue, north of Rose. It’s a side-by-side duplex, the studio’s in the southern unit.”

Petra copied the address and thanked him.

“I don’t think she’s in town, Petra. She spent a good part of last year touring with the Kill Famine Tour and has been moving around.” Pause. “She met a guy.”

“I’m sorry,” Petra blurted.

“It happens,” he said. “We’d agreed to… try out our independence. Anyway, this guy, he’s a vocal coach, and he travels quite a bit, too. They’re in Vancouver. I know because she called to let me know she’s taking Spike to a vet, there. Toothache.”

Petra remembered the pooch. Cute little French bulldog. A chance to change the subject. “Ouch. Hope he feels better.”

“Me, too… anyway, they’re due back tomorrow, I think.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“Sure. Good luck on the case. Say hi to Robin for me.”

“Will do,” said Petra, itching to break the connection. “You take care now.”

“You, too.”

He hung up. Petra shut out the call and went over the details of Baby Boy’s demise for the umpteenth time. Then she left the station and got herself some lunch. Greasy hamburger at a Vine Street joint she was certain would disappoint.

The first time I made love to Allison Gwynn, I felt like an adulterer.

Totally irrational. Robin and I had been living apart for months. And now she was with Tim Plachette.

But when the touch, the feel, the smell of someone is imbedded in your DNA…

If Allison sensed my unease, she never said a word.

I met her shortly before my years with Robin started to unravel. I’d been helping Milo on a twenty-year-old murder. Years before, at the age of seventeen, Allison had been sexually abused by a man who figured in the case. Her college mentor was an old friend of mine, and he asked her if she’d talk to me. She thought about it and agreed.

I liked her right away- admired her courage, her honesty, her gentle manner. Her looks were too notable to miss, but back then I appreciated them as an abstraction.

Ivory skin, soft but assertive cheekbones, a wide, strong mouth, the most gorgeous, waist-length black hair I’d ever seen. Huge eyes, blue as midnight, projected a sharp curiosity. Like me, she was a psychologist. Those eyes, I figured, would serve her well.

She grew up in Beverly Hills, the only daughter of an assistant attorney general, went to Penn, continued there for a Ph.D. In her senior year, she met a Wharton whiz, fell in love, married young, and moved back to California. Within months of receiving her state license, her husband was diagnosed with a rare malignancy, and she was widowed. Eventually, she pulled herself together and built up a Santa Monica practice. Now she combined clinical work with teaching nights at the U, and volunteering at a hospice for the terminally ill.

Keeping busy. I knew that tune.

Seated, her high waist and willowy arms and swan neck implied height, but like Robin, she was a small, delicately built woman- there I go again, comparing.

Unlike Robin, she favored expensive makeup, considered clothes-shopping a recreational activity, had no problem flashing strategic glints of diamond jewelry.

One time she confessed it was because she’d been late to enter puberty, had hated looking like a child all through high school. At thirty-seven, she appeared ten years younger.

I was the first man she’d been with in a long time.

When I called her, it had been months since we’d spoken. Surprise brightened her voice. “Oh, hi.”

I talked around the issue, finally asked her to dinner.

She said, “As in a date?”

“As in.”

“I thought there… was someone.”

“So did I,” I said.

“Oh. Is this recent?”

“This isn’t a rebound thing,” I said. “I’ve been single for a while.” Hating the awkwardness- the self-pity- of all that.

“Giving yourself time,” she said.

Saying the right thing. Trained to say the right thing. Maybe this was a mistake. Even back in grad school, I’d avoided dating women in my field, wanting to know about other worlds, worried that intimacy with another therapist would be too confining. Then I met Robin, and there’d been no need to look anywhere…

“Anyway,” I said. “If you’re busy-”

She laughed. “Sure, let’s get together.”

“Still a carnivore?”

“You remember. Did I gorge myself that badly? Don’t answer that. No, I haven’t gone vegetarian.”

I named a steakhouse not far from her office. “How about tomorrow night?”

“I’ve got patients until eight, but if you don’t mind a late dinner, sure.”

“Nine,” I said. “I’ll pick you up at your office.”

“Why don’t I meet you there?” she said. “That way I won’t have to leave my car.”

Setting up an escape plan.

I said, “Terrific.”

“See you then, Alex.”

A date.

How long had it been? Eons… Even though Allison would be bringing her own wheels, I washed and vacuumed the Seville, got compulsive about it, and ended up squatting at the grille wielding a toothbrush. An hour later, grubby and sweaty and reeking of Armor All, I took a long run, stretched, showered, shaved, shined up a pair of black loafers, and pulled out a navy blazer.

Soft, single-breasted Italian model, two Christmases old… a gift from Robin. I yanked it off, switched to a black sport coat, decided it made me look like an undertaker and returned to the blue. Next step: slacks. Easy. The featherweight gray flannels I usually wore when I testified in court. Add a yellow tab-collar shirt and a tie and I’d be- which tie? I tried on several, decided neckwear was too stuffy for the occasion, switched to a lightweight navy crewneck and decided that was too damn Hollywood.

Back to the yellow shirt. Open-necked. No, the tabs didn’t look good that way. And the damn thing was already sweat-stained under the arms.

My heartbeat had kicked up, and my stomach was flipping around. This was ridiculous. What would I tell a patient in the same predicament?

Be yourself.

Whoever that was.

I reached the restaurant first, thought about waiting in the Seville and greeting Allison as she approached the door. I figured that might alarm her and went inside. The place was lit at tomb level. I sat at the bar, ordered a beer, and watched sports on TV- I can’t remember the sport- had barely gotten through the foam when Allison arrived, freeing a black tide of hair from her sweater and looking around.

I got to her just as the maître d’ looked up. When she saw me, her eyes widened. No look-over; just focusing on my face. I smiled, she smiled back.

“Well, hello.” She offered her cheek, and I pecked. The sweater was lavender cashmere, and it matched the clinging dress that sheathed her from breastbone to knee. Matching shoes with big heels. Diamond earrings, diamond tennis bracelet, a short strand of silver pearls around her white neck.

We sat down. She ordered a glass of merlot, and I asked for a Chivas. The red leather booth was roomy, and I sat far enough away to avoid intrusiveness, close enough to smell her. She smelled great.

“So,” she said, aiming those blue eyes at the empty booth next to us.

“Long day?”

Back to me. “Yes. Thankfully.”

“Know what you mean,” I said.

She played with a napkin. “What have you been up to?”

“After the Ingalls case quieted down, I took a little time off. Lately I’ve being doing court consultations.”