"No, just the two of them."

"Walking, not driving," said Schwinn.

"Janie didn't have no license. I got one car, and it barely drives. No way was I gonna- she didn't care, anyway. Got around by hitching. I told her about that- I used to hitch, back when you could do it, but now, with all the- you think that's what happened? She hitched and some… oh, God…"

Unaware of Janie's downtown rape? If so, the guy was being truthful about one thing: Janie had been lost to him for a long time.

"Some what?" said Schwinn.

"Some- you know," moaned Ingalls. "Getting picked up- some stranger."

The death snaps were back in the envelope, but Schwinn had kept the envelope in full view. Now he waved it inches from Ingalls's face. "I'd say, sir, that only a stranger would do something like this. Unless you have some other idea?"

"Me? No," said Ingalls. "She was like her mother. Didn't talk- gimme that beer."

When the can was empty, Schwinn waved the envelope again. "Let's get back to Friday. Janie came home to get clothes. What was she wearing?"

Ingalls thought. "Jeans and a T-shirt- red T-shirt… and those crazy black shoes with those heels- platform heels. She was carrying her party clothes."

"Party clothes."

"When I woke up and saw her going out the door, I could see part of what she had in the bag."

"What kind of bag?"

"Shopping bag. White- Zody's, probably, 'cause that's where she shops. She always stuffed her party stuff inside shopping bags."

"What did you see in the bag?"

"Red halter the size of a Band-Aid. I always told her it was hooker shit, she should throw it out, used to threaten her I'd throw it out."

"But you didn't."

"No," said Ingalls. "What woulda been the point?"

"A red halter," said Schwinn. "What else?"

"That's all I saw. Probably a skirt, one of those microminis, that's all she buys. The shoes she already had on."

"Black with big heels."

"Shiny black," said Ingalls. "Patent leather. Those crazy heels, I kept telling her she'd fall and break her neck."

"Party outfit," said Schwinn, copying.

Red-and-black party outfit, thought Milo. Remembering something that had gone round in high school, boys sitting around pontificating, pointing with glee: Red and black on Fridays meant a girl put out all the way. Him, laughing along, pretending to care…

Bowie Ingalls said, "Except for the jeans and T-shirts, that's all she buys. Party stuff."

"Speaking of which," said Schwinn, "let's take a look at her closet."

The rest of the apartment was two cell-sized bedrooms separated by a windowless bathroom stale with flatulence.

Schwinn and Milo glanced into Bowie Ingalls's sleep chamber as they passed. A queen-size mattress took up most of the floor. Unwashed sheets were pulled half-off, and they puddled on cheap carpeting. A tiny TV threatened to topple from a pressed-wood bureau. More Bud empties.

Janie's room was even smaller, with barely enough space for a single mattress and a nightstand of the same synthetic wood. Cutouts from teen magazines were taped to the walls, mounted at careless angles. A single, muddy-looking stuffed koala slumped on the nightstand, next to a soft pack of Kents and a half-empty box of Luden's cough drops. The room was so cramped that the mattress prevented the closet door from opening all the way, and Schwinn had to contort to get a look inside.

He winced, stepped out, and told Milo, "You do it."

Milo's size made the task excruciating, but he obeyed.

Zody's was a cut-rate barn. Even at their prices, Janie Ingalls hadn't assembled much of a wardrobe. On the dusty floor sat one pair of tennis shoes, size 8, next to red Thom McAn platform sandals and white plastic boots with see-through plastic soles. Two pairs of size S jeans were carelessly hung in the closet, one faded denim with holes that could've been genuine wear or contrivance, the other denim patchwork, both made in Taiwan. Four ribbed, snug-fit T-shirts with bias-cut sleeves, a floral cotton blouse with moth wounds pocking the breast pocket, three shiny, polyester halter tops not much bigger than the hankie Schwinn had offered to Ingalls- peacock blue, black, pearlescent white. A red sweatshirt emblazoned Hollywood in puffy gold letters, a black plastic shortie jacket pretending to be leather, cracking like an old lady's face.

On the top shelf were bikini underpants, bras, panty hose, more dust. Everything stank of tobacco. Only a few pockets to search. Other than grit and lint and a Doublemint wrapper, Milo found nothing. Such a blank existence- not unlike his own apartment, he hadn't bothered to furnish much since arriving in L.A., had never been sure he'd be staying.

He searched the rest of the room. The magazine posters were the closest thing to personal possessions. No diary or date book or photographs of friends. If Janie had ever called this dump home, she'd changed her mind sometime ago. He wondered if she had some other place of refuge- a crash pad, a sanctuary, somewhere she kept stuff.

He checked under the bed, found dirt. When he extricated himself, his neck killed and his shoulders throbbed.

Schwinn and Ingalls were back in the front room, and Milo stopped to check out the bathroom, compressing his nostrils to block out the stench, examining the medicine cabinet. All over-the-counter stuff- painkillers, laxatives, diarrhea remedies, antacids- a host of antacids. Something eating at Bowie Ingalls's gut? Guilt or just alcohol?

Milo found himself craving a drink.

When he joined Schwinn and Ingalls, Ingalls was slumped on the couch, looking disoriented, saying, "What do I do now?"

Schwinn stood away from the guy, detached. No more use for Ingalls. "There'll be some procedures to go through- identification, filling out forms. Identification can wait till after the autopsy. We may have more questions for you."

Ingalls looked up. "About what?"

Schwinn handed Ingalls his card. "If you think of anything, give a call."

"I already told you everything."

Milo said, "Was there anywhere else Janie mighta crashed?"

"Like what?"

"Like a crash pad. Somewhere kids go."

"I dunno where kids go. Dunno where my own kid goes, so how would I know?"

"Okay, thanks. Sorry for your loss, Mr. Ingalls."

Schwinn motioned Milo to the door, but when they got there, he turned back to Ingalls. "One more thing: What does Melinda look like?"

Basic question, thought Milo, but he hadn't thought to ask it. Schwinn had, but he orchestrated it, timed everything. The guy was nuts but miles ahead of him.

"Short, big tits- built big- kinda fat. Blond hair, real long, straight."

"Voluptuous," said Schwinn, enjoying the word.

"Whatever."

"And she's Janie's age?"

"Maybe a little older," said Ingalls.

"A sophomore, too?"

"I dunno what she is."

"Bad influence," said Schwinn.

"Yeah."

"Do you have a picture of Janie? Something we could show around?"

"I'd have to have one, wouldn't I?" said Bowie, making it sound like the answer to an oral exam. Pulling himself to his feet, he stumbled to his bedroom, returned moments later with a three-by-five snap.

A dark-haired child around ten years old, wearing a sleeveless dress and staring at a five-foot-tall Mickey Mouse. Mickey giving that idiot grin, the kid unimpressed- scared, actually. No way to connect this child to the outrage on Beaudry.

"Disneyland," said Ingalls.

"You took Janie there?" said Milo, trying to imagine that.

"Nah, it was a school trip. They got a group discount."

Schwinn returned the photo to Ingalls. "I was thinking in terms of something more recent."

"I should have something," said Ingalls, "but hell if I can find anything- if I do, I'll call you."