"How do you think they've been affected? They loved their mama. They're crushed to dirt."

"I need to get specific for the court."

"What do you mean?"

"I need to list symptoms that prove they're suffering psychologically."

"You gonna say they're crazy?"

"No, nothing like that. I'll talk about symptoms of anxiety- like the sleep problems, changes in appetite, things that make them vulnerable to seeing him. Otherwise they're going to get swept up in the system. Some of it you can tell me, but I'll also need to hear things directly from them."

"Won't that mess them up more, talking about it?"

"No," I said. "Just the opposite- keeping things inside is more likely to create problems."

She gave a skeptical look. "I don't see them talkin' to you much, so far."

"I need time with them- need to build up their trust."

She thought about that. "So what do we do, just sit here jawing?"

"We could start with a history- you telling me as much as you remember about what they were like as babies. Anything else you think might be important."

"A history, huh?" She took a deep drag, as if trying to suck maximum poison out of the cigarette. "So now we've got a history… yeah, I've got plenty to tell you. Why don't you get out a pencil and start writing?"

She talked as the sky darkened further, letting the girls play on as she recounted nightmares and weeping spells, the terrors of orphanhood. At five-thirty Bonnie came out and switched on floodlights that turned the yard sallow. It stilled her mother's voice, and Evelyn stood and told the girls, "Go in the house, you."

Right after they did, a man came out, rubbing his hands together and sniffing the air. Five three or so, in his late fifties or early sixties, low waisted, dark skinned and weak chinned, with long, tattooed arms. Bowlegs gave him a tottering walk. His eyes were shadowed by thick, gray thatches, and a drooping, iron-colored Zapata mustache obscured his mouth. His bushy gray hair was slicked straight back. He wore a khaki workshirt and blue jeans with hand-rolled cuffs. His hands were caked with plaster and he rubbed them more vigorously as he approached.

Evelyn saluted him.

He returned the gesture and looked at me, stretching to stand taller.

"This here's that doctor," she said. "We been having a nice talk."

He nodded. The shirt was embroidered with a white oval tag that said "Roddy" in red script. Up close I saw that his face was severely pockmarked. A couple of crescent-shaped scars ran down his chin.

I held out a hand.

He looked at his palm, gave an embarrassed smile, and said, "Dirty." His voice was soft and hoarse. I put my hand down. He smiled again and saluted me.

"Dr. Delaware."

"Roddy. Pleased to meetchu." Boyle Heights accent. As he lowered his fingers, I noticed tattooed letters across the knuckles. L-O-V-E. Homemade job. On the other hand was the inevitable H-A-T-E. In the fold between his thumb and forefinger was a crude blue crucifix. Next to that, a tiny red-eyed spider climbed a tiny web above the legend NR.

He put his hands in his pockets.

"How's your day?" Evelyn asked him. She looked as if she wanted to touch him.

"Okay." He sniffed.

"Hungry?"

"Yeah, I could eat." The tattooed hands emerged and rubbed together. "Gotta wash up."

"Sure, patron."

He went into the house.

"Well," she told me, "I'd better get into the kitchen. Guess it's too late for you to talk to them, but you can come back tomorrow."

"Great."

We walked inside. Chondra and Tiffani were on the sofa in the rear den, watching cartoons on TV. A cat was being cheerfully decapitated. Tiffani held the remote control.

"Bye, girls."

Glazed eyes.

"Say bye to the doctor."

The girls looked up. Small waves and smiles.

"I'm leaving now," I said. "I'll be coming out here tomorrow- maybe we can get a chance to talk."

"See you," said Tiffani. She nudged her sister. Chondra said, "Bye."

Evelyn was gone. I found her out in the kitchen, pulling something out of the freezer. Rodriguez was stretched back in the velveteen recliner, eyes closed, a beer in his hand.

"See you tomorrow," I said.

"One sec." Evelyn came over. The package in her hand was a diet frozen entree. Enchilada Fiesta. "Better be the day after- I forgot there's some things I got to do."

"Okay. Same time?"

"Sure." She looked at the frozen package and shook her head.

"How 'bout New York steak?" she called out to her husband.

"Yeah," he said, without opening his eyes.

"He likes his steak," she said quietly. "For a fella his size, he's a real meat eater."

She followed me all the way out to the front lawn. Looked at the TV dinner in her hand. "No one likes this one. Maybe I'll have it."

I hit bad traffic on the western end of the 210, and by the time I pulled into the carport, it was after seven. When I got in the house, the dog greeted me, but he had his head down and looked subdued. I smelled the reason first, then saw it, on the service porch floor near the door.

"Oh," I said.

He drooped lower.

"My mistake for locking you in." I rubbed his neck, and he gave me a grateful lick, then trotted over to the fridge.

"Let's not push things, bucko."

I cleaned up the mess, reflecting on the responsibilities of pet foster-parenthood, and phoned in for messages, wondering if anyone had responded to my ad. No one had. Nothing from Shirley Rosenblatt, Ph.D., either. Or Mr. Silk. The operator gave me a few business calls. I decided to put the tape out of my mind, but the child's chant stayed there and I couldn't sit still.

I fed the dog and was contemplating what to do about my own dinner when Milo called at eight-ten.

"No prints on the tape except yours. Any mail problems today?" He sounded tired.

"No, but I did get a call." I told him about the giggling man.

"Silk, huh? Well, that's a pisser."

"What is?"

"Sounds like you've got a nutcase on your hands."

"You don't think it's serious?"

Pause. "Most of these guys are cowards, like to stay in the background. But to be honest, Alex, who knows?"

I said, "I think I may have found what "bad love' means," and filled him in about the symposium.

"Seventy-nine," he said. "Nut with a real long memory."

"Think that's a bad sign?"

"I- let's put our heads together and hash it out. You eat yet?"

"Nope."

"I'm over in Palms, got to finish up a few things. I could meet you at that place on Ocean in about half an hour."

"Don't think I'd better," I said. "Left my guest alone too long already."

"What guest? Oh, him. Why can't you leave him? Is he lonely and depressed?"

"It's more of a gastrointestinal issue," I said, rubbing the dog behind the ears. "He just ate and will be needing easy ingress and egress."

"Ingr- oh… fun. Well, get a dog door, Alex. Then, get a life."

"A dog door means sawing a hole. He's only a short-term lodger."

"Suit yourself."

"Fine," I said. "I'll put a door in- Robin wants a dog anyway. How about you bring one over, I'll install it, and then we can go out."

"Where the hell am I gonna find a dog door at this hour?"

"You're the detective."

Slam.

He arrived at nine-fifteen, pulling an unmarked Ford into the carport. His tie was loose, he looked wilted, and he carried two bags- one from a pet store, the other from a Chinese restaurant.

The dog came up and nuzzled his cuffs and he gave the animal a grudging pat and said, "Ingress and egress."

Removing a metal and plastic contraption from the pet store bag, he handed it to me. "Seeing as I don't feel like manual labor before dinner and the handy resident of this household is out of town, I figured we'd better do takeout."