"Like you said, some people delegate."

"What, the killer hires a schizo to break in and stick a box in a drawer?"

"Why not?"

"If it was an attempt to piss on Mate's grave, wouldn't delegating lessen the thrill?"

"Probably, but at this point he's being careful," I said. "And delegating could offer its own thrill: being the boss, wielding power. It could've happened this way: the killer knows the neighborhood because he stalked Mate for a while. He cruises Hollywood, finds a street guy, gives him cash to deliver a package. Half up front, the rest upon completion. He could've even positioned himself up the street. To watch and get off and to make sure the street guy followed through. He picked someone disorganized specifically, because it added another layer of safety: If the bum gets caught there's very little he can tell you. The killer used some sort of disguise for extra insurance."

His cheeks bubbled as he filled them with air, bounced it around, blew it out silently. Out of his pocket came a sealed package of surgical gloves and an evidence bag.

"Dr. Milo's in the house," he said, working his hands into the latex. "You touched it, but I'll vouch for you." Fully gloved, he lifted the box, examined it on all sides.

"Someone who knows the neighborhood," he said. "Hollywood Boulevard's full of novelty shops, maybe I can find someone who remembers selling this recently."

I said, "Maybe the choice of titles wasn't a coincidence."

"Beowulf?"

"Valiant hero slays the monster."

We spent another hour in the apartment, going over the kitchen and the front rooms, searching cupboards, scanning the bookcases for other false volumes, coming up with nothing. In some of the books, I found bills of sale going back decades. Thrift shops in San Diego, Oakland, a few in L.A.

Outside on the landing, Milo retaped the door, locked up and brushed dust from his lapels. He looked shrunken. Across the street, a middle-aged Hispanic woman stood in the paltry shade of a wretched-looking magnolia, purse in hand, newspaper folded under her arm. No one else around, and like any midday pedestrian in L.A. she stood out. No bus stop; probably waiting for a ride. She saw me looking at her, stared back for a second, shifted the purse to the other shoulder, removed the paper and began to read.

"If the box is a 'gift,'" I said, "it's another point in favor of the confederate angle. Someone wanting to put himself in Mate's place. Literally. Choosing the bedroom's consistent with that: the most personal space in the apartment. Think of it as a rape of sorts. Which is consistent with the violation of Mate's genitalia. Someone into power, domination. Playing God-a psychopathic monotheist, there can only be one deity, so he needs to eliminate any competition. On the competition's home base. I can see him walking around, exhilarated by triumph. Enjoying the extra bit of thrill of sneaking into an official crime scene. Maybe he came at night to minimize the chance of discovery, but still he couldn't be sure. If you or anyone else from the department had shown up, he'd have been trapped. The bedroom's at the back of the apartment and there's no rear exit. No place to hide except that bedroom closet, so to escape he'd have had to cross the front room, hide in that maze of bookshelves. I think he's jazzed by the danger element. It's the same first impression I had of the murder itself. Choosing an open road to perform surgery on Mate. Removing the cardboard so Mate's body would be discovered. Cleaning up carefully but leaving the scene naked. The note. Extreme meticulousness combined with recklessness. A psychopath with an above-average IQ. He's bright enough to plan precisely in the short term, but vulnerable in the long run because he gets off on danger."

"Is that supposed to comfort me?

He ain't Superman, Milo.

Good. 'Cause I ain't got no kryptonite." He stood there thinking and swinging the bag. The woman across the street looked up. Our eyes met. She returned to her paper.

"If the guy walked around," said Milo, "maybe he touched stuff. After the apartment was printed. Now you and I just mauled it… Asking for new prints is gonna be fun."

"I doubt he left any. That careful, he is."

"I'll ask anyway." He began trudging down the stairs. Stopped midway. "If this is a message, who's it aimed at? Not the public. Unlike the body and the note, there was no way he could be sure it would be found."

"At this point," I said, "he's talking to himself. Doing anything he can to enhance the kick, evoke memories of the kill. He may very well want to return to the scene of the murder but views that as too dangerous, so breaking into Mate's home, directly or by surrogate, would be the next-best thing."

I thought of something Richard Doss had told me… dancing on Mate's grave.

"Broken stethoscope," I said. "If I'm right about his taking the black bag, the message is clear:'I get the real tools, you get broken garbage.'"

We resumed our descent. At the bottom of the stairs, Milo said, "The idea of a confederate gets me thinking. About Attorney Haiselden, who should be in town but isn't. Because who spent more time with Mate? Who'd be more familiar with the apartment, maybe even have a key? The guy's behavior is wrong, Alex. Here we are, Mate's cold for a week, Haiselden should be throwing press conferences. But not a peep out of him. Just the opposite-he rabbits. Collecting coins from laundromats? Gimme a break, this asshole's hiding from something. Zoghbie said representing Mate was the only thing Haiselden did as a lawyer. That says overinvolve-ment. Mate was Haiselden's ticket to celebrity. Maybe Haiselden got hooked on it, wanted more, no more second fiddle. He watches Mate I.V. enough travelers, figures it qualifies him as a death doc. Hell, maybe Haiselden's one of those guys who went to law school because he couldn't get into med school."

"Interesting," I said. "Something else I pulled off the computer fits that. Newspaper account of a press conference Haiselden did call after one of the trials. He said Mate deserved the Nobel Prize, then he added that as Mate's lawyer, he deserved part of the money."

His free hand balled. "I've been delegating finding him to Korn and Demetri, but now I'm handling it personally. Going over to his house, right now. South West-wood. I can drop you at the station or you can come along."

I looked at my watch. Nearly five. It had been a long day. "I'll call Robin and come along."

We crossed the street to the unmarked. Milo locked the evidence bag in the trunk, circled to the driver's side, stopped. Glancing to his left.

The Hispanic woman hadn't moved. Milo turned. Her head flipped away, quick as a shuffled card, and I knew she'd been watching us.

Eyes back on the newspaper. Concentrating. The paper waved. No breeze, her hands had tightened. Her bag was a macrame sack that she'd placed on the grass.

Milo studied her. She ignored him. Licked her lips. Buried her nose deeper in newsprint.

He began to turn away from her, and her eyes flicked-just for a second-toward Mate's apartment.

He said, "Hold on."

I followed him as he strode toward her. Her hands were clenching the paper, causing it to shimmy. She folded her lips inward and drew the newsprint closer to her face. I got near enough to read the date. Yesterday's paper. The classifieds. Employment opportunities…

Milo said, "Ma'am?"

The woman looked up. Her lips unfolded. Thin purplish lips, chapped and puckered, bleached white around the edges. The rest of her complexion was nutmeg brown. Bags under the eyes.

She was somewhere between fifty and sixty, short and heavy with a plump face and big, gorgeous black eyes. She wore a navy polyester bomber jacket over a blue-and-white flowered dress that reached to midcalf. The dress material looked flimsy, riding up her stocky frame, adhering to bulges. Thick ankles swelled over the top seams of old but clean Nike running shoes. White socks rolled low exposed chafed shins. Her nails were square-cut. Her black hair was threaded with gray and braided past her waist. Her skin was slack around neck, jaw and chipmunk cheeks, but stretched tight over a wide brow. No makeup, no jewelry. A rural look.