Swans glided below in the still, green pond, cutting through the water with blissful ignorance. A white lattice marriage canopy was being set up on the banks. Huge pine and eucalyptus umbrellaed the grounds, air-conditioning the morning.

We passed through the pink stucco arcade hung with black-and-white photos of monarchs gone by. The stone pathways had been freshly watered, the ferns dripped dew, and the azaleas were in bloom. Room service waiters rolled carts to sequestered suites. An emaciated, androgynous, long-haired thing in brown velvet sweats walked past us unsteadily, carrying The Wall Street Journal under one atrophied arm. Death was in its eyes, and Robin bit her lip.

I held her arm tighter and we entered the dining room, exchanged smiles with the hostess, and were seated near the French doors. Several years ago- soon after we'd met- we'd lingered right here over dinner and seen Bette Davis through those same doors, gliding across the patio in a long, black gown and coronation-quality diamonds, looking as serene as the swans.

This morning, the room was nearly empty and none of the faces had a measurable Q-rating, though all looked well tended. An Arab in an ice cream suit drank tea, alone, at a corner table. An elderly, dewlapped couple who could have been pretenders to a minor throne whispered to each other and nibbled on toast. In a big booth at the far end, half a dozen dark suits sat listening to a crewcut, white-haired man in a red T-shirt and khakis. He was telling a joke, gesturing expansively with an unlit cigar. The other men's body language was half humble servant, half Iago.

We had coffee and took a long time deciding what to eat. Neither of us felt like talking. After a few moments, the silence began to feel like a luxury and I relaxed.

We finished a couple of fresh grapefruit juices and put in our breakfast order, holding hands until the food came. I'd just taken the first bite of my omelet when I spotted the hostess approaching. Two steps ahead of someone else.

A tall, broad someone, easily visible over her coiffure. Milo's jacket was light blue- a tint that clashed with his aqua shirt. Pigeon-gray pants and brown-and-blue-striped tie rounded off the ensemble. He had his hands in his pockets and looked dangerous.

The hostess kept her distance from him, clearly wanting to be somewhere else. Just before she reached our table, he stepped ahead of her. After kissing Robin, he took a chair from another table and pulled it up perpendicular to us.

"Will you be ordering, sir?" said the hostess.

"Coffee."

"Yes, sir." She walked away hastily.

Milo turned to Robin. "Welcome home. You look gorgeous, as ever."

"Thank you, Milo-"

"Flight okay?"

"Just fine."

"Every time I'm up in one of those things I wonder what gives us the right to break the law of gravity."

Robin smiled. "To what do we owe the honor?"

He ran his hand over his face. "Has he told you about what's going on?"

She nodded. "We're thinking of moving into the shop until things clear up."

Milo grunted and looked at the tablecloth.

The waiter brought the coffee and a place setting. Milo unfolded the napkin over his lap and drummed a spoon on the table. As the coffee was being poured, he glanced around the room, lingering on the suits in the far booth.

"Meals and deals," he said, after the waiter left. "Either showbiz or crime."

"There's a difference?" I said.

His smile was immediate but very weak- it seemed to torment his face.

"There's a new complication," he said. "This morning I decided to have a go at the computer, tracking down any references to "bad love' in the case files. I really didn't expect to find anything, just trying to be thorough. But I did. Two unsolved homicides, one three years old, the other five. One beating, one stabbing."

"Oh God," said Robin.

He covered her hand with his. "Hate to spoil your breakfast, kids, but I wasn't sure when I'd be able to catch both of you. Service said you were here."

"No, no, I'm glad you came." She pushed her plate away and gripped Milo's hand.

"Who got killed?" I said.

"Does the name Rodney Shipler mean anything to you?"

"No. Is he a victim or a suspect?"

"Victim. What about Myra Paprock?"

He spelled it. I shook my head.

"You're sure?" he said. "Neither of them could have been old patients?"

I repeated both names to myself. "No- never heard of them. How does "bad love' figure into their murders?"

"With Shipler- he was the beating- it was scrawled on a wall at the crime scene. With Paprock, I'm not sure what the connection is yet. The computer just threw out "bad love' under "miscellaneous factors'- no explanation."

"Did the same detectives work both cases?"

He shook his head. "Shipler was in Southwest Division, Paprock over in the valley. Far as I can tell, the cases were never cross-referenced- two years apart, different parts of the city. I'm going to try to get the actual case files this afternoon."

"For what it's worth," I said, "I spoke to Dr. Stoumen's associate last night. The accident was a hit-and-run. It happened in Seattle, in June of last year."

Milo's eyebrows rose.

"It may have just been a hit-and-run," I said. "Stoumen was almost ninety, couldn't see or hear well. Someone ran into him as he stepped off a curb."

"At a psych conference."

"Yes, but unless Shipler or Paprock were therapists, what link could there be?"

"Don't know what they were yet. The computer doesn't give out that level of detail."

Robin's head had dropped, curls spilling onto the table. She looked up, clear eyed. "So what do we do?"

"Well," said Milo, "you know I'm not Mr. Impulsive, but with everything we've got here- nut mail, nut call, dead fish, two cold-case homicides, hazardous conferences-" He looked at me. "Moving's not a bad idea. At least till we find out what the hell's going on. But I wouldn't go to the shop. Just in case whoever's bothering Alex has done enough research on him to know the location."

She looked out the window and shook her head. He patted her shoulder.

She said, "I'm fine. Let's just figure out where we're going to live." She looked around. "This place ain't shabby- too bad we're not oil sheiks."

"As a matter of fact," said Milo, "I think I've got an option for you. Private client of mine- investment banker I moonlighted for last year. He's in England for a year, put his house up for rent, and hired me to keep an eye on the premises. It's a nice size place and not that far from you. Beverly Hills PO, off Benedict Canyon. It's still empty- you know the real estate market- and he's coming back in three months, so he unlisted it. I'm sure I can get his permission for you to use it."

"Benedict Canyon." Robin smiled. "Close to the Sharon Tate house?"

"Not far, but the place is as safe as you're gonna get. The owner's security conscious- has a big art collection. Electric gates, closed-circuit TV, screaming siren alarm."

It sounded like prison. I didn't say a thing.

"The alarm's hooked up to Beverly Hills PD," he went on. "And their response time's averaging two minutes- maybe a little longer up in the hills, but still damn good. I'm not going to tell you it's home, chillun, but for temporary lodgings you could do worse."

"And this client of yours won't mind?"

"Nah, it's a piece of cake."

"Thanks, Milo," said Robin. "You're a doll."

"No big deal."

"What do I do about my work? Can I go to the shop?"

"Wouldn't hurt to avoid it for a few days. At least until I find out more about these unsolveds."

She said, "I had orders piled up before I went to Oakland, Milo. The time I spent up there already set me back." She grabbed her napkin and crushed it. "I'm sorry, here you are getting threatened, baby, and I'm griping…"