I am writing to you to express my feelings about seeing my daughters, namely Chondra Wallace and Tiffani Wallace, as their natural father and legal guardian.

Whatever was done to our family including done by myself and no matter how bad is in my opinion, water under the bridge. And such as it is, I should not be denied permission and my paternity rights to see my lawful, legal daughters, Chondra Wallace and Tiffani Wallace.

I have never done anything to hurt them and have always worked hard to support them even when this was hard. I don't have any other children and need to see them for us to have a family.

Children need their fathers as I'm sure I don't have to tell a trained doctor like yourself. One day I will be out of incarceration. I am their father and will be taking care of them. Chondra Wallace and Tiffani Wallace need me. Please pay attention to these facts.

Yours sincerely,

Donald Dell Wallace

I filed the letter in the thick folder, next to the coroner's report on Ruthanne. Milo called at noon and I told him about the fish. "Makes it more than a prank, doesn't it?"

Pause. "More than I expected."

"Donald Dell knows my address. I just got a letter from him."

"Saying what?"

"One day he'll be out and wanting to be a full-time dad, so I shouldn't deny him his rights now."

"Subtle threat?"

"Could you prove it?"

"No, he could have gotten your address through his lawyer- you're reviewing his claim, so he'd be entitled to it legally. Incidentally, according to my sources he doesn't have an audio recorder in his cell. TV and VCR, yes."

"Cruel and unusual. So what do I do?"

"Let me come over and check out your pond. Notice any footprints or obvious evidence?"

"There were some prints," I said, "though they didn't look like much to my amateur eyes. Maybe there's some other evidence that I wasn't sophisticated enough to spot. I was careful not to disturb anything- oh, hell, I buried the fish. Was that a screw-up?"

"Don't worry about it, it's not like we're gonna do an autopsy." He sounded uneasy.

"What's the matter?" I said.

"Nothing. I'll come by and have a look as soon as I can. Probably the afternoon."

He spoke the last words tentatively, almost turning the statement into a question.

I said, "What is it, Milo?"

"What it is, is that I can't do any full-court press for you on this. Killing a fish just isn't a major felony- at the most, we've got trespassing and malicious mischief."

"I understand."

"I can probably take some footprint molds myself," he said. "For what it's worth."

"Look," I said, "I still don't consider it a federal case. This is cowardly bullshit. Whoever's behind it probably doesn't want a confrontation."

"Probably not," he said. But he still sounded troubled, and that started to rattle me.

"Something else," I said. "Though it's also probably no big deal. I was looking at the conference brochure again and tried to contact the three local therapists who gave speeches. Two weren't listed, but the one who was had been killed this past spring. Hit by a car while attending a psychiatric symposium. I found out because his answering service just happens to be the same one I use and the operator told me."

"Killed here in L.A.?"

"Out of town, she didn't remember where. I've got a call in to one of his associates."

"Symposium," he said. "Curse of the conference?"

"Like I said, it's probably nothing- the only thing that is starting to bug me is I can't reach anyone associated with the de Bosch meeting. Then again, it's been a long time, people move."

"Yeah."

"Milo, you're bugged about something. What is it?"

Pause. "I think, given everything that's been happening- putting it all together- you'd be justified getting a little… watchful. No paranoia, just be extra careful."

"Fine," I said. "Robin's coming home early- tonight. I'm picking her up at the airport. What do I tell her?"

"Tell her the truth- she's a tough kid."

"Some welcome home."

"What time are you picking her up?"

"Nine."

"I'll get over well before then and we'll put our heads together. You want, I can stay at the house while you're gone. Just feed me and water me and tell Rover not to make demands."

"Rover's a hero as far as I'm concerned- he's the one who heard the intruder."

"Yeah, but there was no follow-through, Alex. Instead of eating the sucker, he just stood around and watched. What you've got is a four-legged bureaucrat."

"That's cold," I said. "Didn't you ever watch Lassie?"

"Screw that, my thing was Godzilla. There's a useful pet."

• • •

By three, no one had returned my calls and I felt like a cartoon man on a desert island. I did paperwork and looked out the window a lot. At three-thirty, the dog and I hazarded a walk around the Glen, and when I arrived back home, there were no signs of intrusion.

Shortly after four, Milo arrived, looking hurried and bothered. When the dog came up to him, he paid no mind.

He held an audiocassette in one hand, his vinyl attaché case in the other. Instead of making his usual beeline to the kitchen, he went into the living room and loosened his tie. Putting the case on the coffee table, he handed me the tape.

"The original's in my file. This is your copy."

Seeing it brought back the screams and the chants. That child… I put it in my desk and we went down to the pond, where I showed him the footprints.

He kneeled and inspected for a long time. Stood, frowning. "You're right, these are useless. Looks to me like someone took the time to mess them up."

He checked around the pond area some more, taking his time, getting his pants dirty. "Nope, nothing here worth a damn. Sorry."

That same troubled tone in his voice that I'd heard over the phone. He was holding back something, but I knew it was useless to probe.

Back in the living room, I said, "Something to drink?"

"Later." He opened the vinyl case and took out a brown plastic box. Removing a videocassette from it, he bounced it against one thigh.

The tape was unmarked, but the box was printed with the call letters of a local TV station. Rubber-stamped diagonally across the label was the legend PROPERTY LAPD: EVIDENCE RM. and a serial number.

"Dorsey Hewitt's last stand," he said. "Definitely not for prime time, but there's something I want you to check out- if your stomach can take it."

"I'll cope."

We went into the library. Before inserting the cartridge into the VCR, he peered into the machine's load slot.

"When's the last time you lubricated this?"

"Never," I said. "I hardly use it except to record sessions when the court wants visuals."

He sighed, slid the cartridge in, picked up the remote control, pressed PLAY, and stood back, watching the monitor with his hands folded across his waist. The dog jumped up on a big leather chair, settled, and regarded him. The screen went from black to bright blue and a hiss filtered through the speakers.

A half minute more of blue, then the TV station logo flashed over a digital date, two months old.

Another few moments of video stutter were followed by a long shot of an attractive, one-story brick building, with a central arch leading to a courtyard and wood-grilled windows. Tile roof, brown door to the right of the arch.

Close up on a sign: LOS ANGELES COUNTY MENTAL HEALTH CENTER, WESTSIDE.

Swing back to a long shot: two small, dark-garbed figures crouched on opposite sides of the arch- toylike: G.I. Joe figurines holding rifles.

A side shot revealed police barriers fencing the street.

No sound other than static, but the dog's ears had perked and pitched forward.

Milo raised the volume, and a soup of incomprehensible background speech could be heard above the white noise.