I flipped faster.

Venice, Ozone Avenue, woman artist attacked by neighbor's dog. Three years of arguments.

… Bank robbery, Jefferson and Figueroa. Teller resisted, shot six times.

… Strong-arm street robbery, Broadway and Fifth. One bullet to the head. Suspect stuck around, discovered still going through victim's pockets.

… Echo Park, woman stabbed by husband in kitchen. Bad soup.

Page after page of the same cruel artistry and matter-of-fact prose.

Why had this been sent to me?

That brought to mind an old cartoon: Why not?

I thumbed through the rest of the album, not focusing on the images, just searching for some personal message.

Finding only the inert flesh of strangers.

Forty-three deaths, in all.

At the rear, a black end page with another centered legend, similar stick-on gold letters:

THE END

I hadn't talked to my best friend in a while, and that was fine with me.

After giving the D.A. my statement on Lauren Teague's murder, I'd had my fill of the criminal justice system, was happy to stay out of the loop until trial time. A wealthy defendant and a squadron of paid dissemblers meant that would be years away, not months. Milo had remained chained to the details, so I had a good excuse for keeping my distance: The guy was swamped, give him space.

The real reason was, I didn't feel like talking to him, or anyone. For years, I'd preached the benefits of self-expression but my tonic since childhood had been isolation. The pattern had been set early by all those bowel-churning nights huddled in the basement, hands over ears, humming "Yankee Doodle" in order to block out the paternal rage thundering from above.

When things got rough, I curled like a mollusk into a gray pocket of solitary confinement.

Now I had forty-three death shots on my dining room table. Death was Milo 's raw material.

I called the West L.A. detective's room.

"Sturgis."

" Delaware."

"Alex. What's up?"

"I got something I thought you should see. Photo album full of what look like crime-scene photos."

"Photos or copies?"

"Photos."

"How many?"

"Forty-three."

"You actually counted," he said. "Forty-three from the same case?"

"Forty-three different cases. They look to be arranged chronologically."

"You 'got' them? How?"

"Courtesy the U.S. Postal Service, first-class, downtown cancellation."

"No idea who might've favored you with this."

"I must have a secret admirer."

"Crime-scene shots," he said.

"Or someone takes very nasty vacations and decided to keep a scrapbook." The call-waiting signal clicked. Usually I ignore the intrusion, but maybe it was Robin from Portland. "Hold for a sec."

Click.

"Hello, sir," said a cheerful female voice. "Are you the person who pays the phone bill in the house?"

"No, I'm the sex toy," I said, and reconnected to Milo. Dial tone. Maybe he'd gotten an emergency call. I punched his desk number, got the West L.A. civilian receptionist, didn't bother to leave a message.

The doorbell rang twenty minutes later. I hadn't changed out of my running clothes, hadn't made coffee or checked the fridge- the first place Milo heads. Looking at portraits of violent death would make most people lose their appetites, but he's been doing his job for a long time, takes comfort food to a whole new level.

I opened the door, and said, "That was quick."

"It was lunchtime, anyway." He walked past me to where the blue leather binder sat in full view, but made no move to pick it up, just stood there, thumbs hooked in his belt loops, big belly heaving from the run up to the terrace.

Green eyes shifted from the book to me. "You sick or something?"

I shook my head.

"So what's this, a new look?" A sausage finger aimed at my stubbled face.

"Maintaining a leisurely shaving schedule," I said.

He sniffed, took in the room. "No one chewing at my cuffs. El Poocho out back with Robin?"

"Nope."

"She's here, right?" he said. "Her truck's out front."

"You must be a detective," I said. "Unfortunately, false leads abound. She's out." I pointed to the book. "Check that out while I forage in the larder. If I can find anything that hasn't petrified, I'll fix you a sandwich-"

"No thanks."

"Something to drink?"

"Nothing." He didn't budge.

"What's the problem?" I said.

"How do I put this delicately," he said. "Okay: You look like shit, this place smells like an old-age home, Robin's truck is here but she isn't and my bringing her up makes your eyes drop to the floor like a suspect. What the hell's going on, Alex?"

"I look like shit?"

"To euphemize."

"Oh, well," I said. "Better cancel the photo shoot with In Style. And speaking of photography…" I held the book out to him.

"Changing the subject," he said, squinting down at me from his six-three vantage. "What do they call that in psychologist school?"

"Changing the subject."

He shook his head, kept his expression mild, folded his arms across his chest. But for spring-loaded tension around the eyes and mouth, he looked at peace. Pallid, acne-pitted face a bit leaner than usual, beer gut light-years from flat but definitely less bulge.

Dieting? On the wagon, yet again?

He'd dressed with uncommon color harmony: cheap but clean navy blazer, cotton khakis, white shirt with just a touch of fray at the neckline, navy tie, brand-new beige desert boots with pink rubber soles that squeaked as he shifted his weight and continued to study me. Brand-new haircut, too. The usual motif- clipped fuzzy at the sides and back, the top left long and shaggy, multiple cowlicks sprouting at the crown. A black forelock hooked over his pockmarked forehead. The hair from his temples to the bottoms of too-long sideburns had denatured to snow-white. The contrast with the black hair on top was unseemly- Mr. Skunk, he'd taken to calling himself.

"Spiffed and freshly barbered," I said. "Is this some new-leaf thing? Should I not attempt to feed you? Either way, take the damn book."

"Robin-"

"Later." I thrust the blue album at him.

He kept his arms folded. "Just put it back down on the table." Pulling out a pair of surgical gloves from the sets, he encased his hands in latex, studied the blue leather cover, opened the book, read the frontispiece, moved on to the first photo.

"Old," he murmured. "The tint and the clothes. Probably someone's creepy collection from the attic."

"Department shots?"

"Probably."

"A home collection pilfered from the evidence room?"

"Cases get filed away, someone gets itchy-fingered, who's gonna notice if one shot per file gets lifted."

"A cop?"

"A cop or a civilian ghoul. Lots of people have access, Alex. Some of them like the job because they dig blood."

" 'The murder book,' " I said. "Same title as an official case file."

"Same color, too. Whoever sent this knows procedure."

"Evoking procedure… why send it to me?"

He didn't answer.

I said, "It's not all antique. Keep going."

He studied several more photos, flipped back to the initial shot, then forward to where he'd left off. Resuming his inspection, picking up speed and skimming the horror, just as I had. Then he stopped. Stared at a photo toward the back of the book. Chunky knuckles swelled the gloves as he gripped the album.

"When exactly did you get this?"

"Today's mail."

He reached for the wrapping paper, took in the address, verified the postmark. Turned back to the album.

"What is it?" I said.

He placed the book on the table, open to the page that had stopped him. Resting his palms on either side of the album, he sat there. Ground his teeth. Laughed. The sound could have paralyzed prey.