I heard a metallic click to the left, looked over, and saw the muscular man light up a cigarette. Late twenties or early thirties, two-day growth of heavy beard, thick, black Fu Manchu mustache. His cap was black and said CAT. He blew smoke toward the bar.

I said, "You know Rodriguez, too?"

He gave a long, slow headshake and held out his mug.

The bartender filled it, then extended his own hand. The mustachioed man jostled the pack until a cigarette slid forward. The bartender took it, nodded, and lit up.

Guns 'n Roses came on the radio.

The bartender looked at my half-empty mug. "Anything else?"

I shook my head, put money down on the bar, and left.

"Asshole," said the skinny man, raising his voice to be heard over the music.

• • •

I drove back to the Rodriguez house. Still dark and empty. A woman across the street was holding a broom, and she began looking at me suspiciously.

I called over: "Any idea when they'll be back?"

She went inside her house. I drove away and got back on the freeway, exiting on Sunset and heading north on Beverly Glen. I realized my error just as I completed the turn, but continued on to my house anyway, pulling up in front of the carport. Looking over my shoulder with paranoid fervor, I decided it was safe to get out of the car.

I walked around my property, looking, remembering. Though it made no sense, the house already looked sad.

You know how places get when they're empty…

I took a quick look at the pond. The fish were still there. They swam up to greet me and I obliged with food.

"See you guys," I said, and left, wondering how many would survive.

I made it to Benedict a few minutes later.

The black van and the unmarked were gone. Two of the three garage doors were open and I saw Robin inside, wearing work clothes and goggles, standing behind her lathe.

She saw me coming and turned off the machine. A gold BMW coupe was parked in the third garage. The rest of the space was a near duplicate of the Venice shop.

"Looks like you're all set up," I said.

She pushed her goggles up on her forehead. "This isn't too bad, actually, as long as I leave the door open for ventilation. How come you're back so soon?"

"No one home."

"Flake out on you?"

"It looks like they're gone for a while."

"Moved out?"

"Must be the week for it."

"How could you tell?"

"Two days' mail in the box and her husband's business was padlocked."

"Considerate of her to let you know."

"Etiquette isn't her strong suit. She wasn't thrilled about my evaluation in the first place, though I thought we were making progress. She probably took the girls out of state- maybe Hawaii. When I spoke to her yesterday she made a crack about a Honolulu vacation. Or Mexico. Her husband may have family there… I'd better call the judge."

"We set up an office for you in one of the bedrooms," she said, leaning over and pecking my cheek. "Gave you the one with the best view, plus there's a Hockney on the wall- two guys showering." She smiled. "Poor Milo- he was a little embarrassed about it- started muttering about the "atmosphere.' Almost apologizing. After all he did to help us. I sat him down and we had a good talk."

"About what?"

"Stuff- the meaning of life. I told him you could handle the atmosphere."

"What he say to that?"

"Just grunted and rubbed his face the way he does. Then I made coffee and told him if he ever learned to play an instrument I'd build one for him."

"Safe offer," I said.

"Maybe not. When we were talking, it came up that he used to play the accordion when he was a kid. And he sings- have you ever heard him?"

"No."

"Well, he sang for me this afternoon. After some prodding. Did an old Irish folk song- and guess what? He's got a really nice voice."

"Basso profundo?"

"Tenor, of all things. He used to be in the church choir when he was a little boy."

I smiled. "That's a little hard to picture."

"There's probably a lot about him you don't know."

"Probably," I said. "Each year I get in touch with more of my ignorance… Speaking of grunts, where's our guest?"

"Sleeping in the service porch. I tried keeping him here while I worked, but he kept charging the machines- he was ready to take on the bandsaw when I got him out of here and locked him in."

"Tough love, huh? Did he do his little strangulation routine?"

"Oh, sure," she said. She put her hand around her throat and made a gagging sound. "I yelled at him to be quiet and he stopped."

"Poor guy. He probably thought you were going to be his salvation."

She grinned. "I may be sultry and sensual, but I ain't easy."

• • •

I let the dog loose, gave him time to pee outside, and took him into my new office. A chrome-and-glass-topped desk was pushed up against one wall. My papers and books were piled neatly on a black velour couch. The view was fantastic, but after a few minutes I stopped noticing it.

I phoned superior court, got Steve Huff in his chambers, and told him about Evelyn Rodriguez's no-show.

"Maybe she just forgot," he said. "Denial, avoidance, whatever."

"I think there's a good chance she's gone, Steve." I described Roddy Rodriguez's locked yard.

"Sounds like it," he said. "There goes another one."

"Can't say that I blame her. When I saw her two days ago, she really opened up about the girls' problems. They're having plenty of them. And Donald wrote me a letter- no remorse, just tooting his own horn as a good dad."

"Wrote you a letter?"

"His lawyer's been calling me, too."

"Any intimidation?"

I hesitated. "No, just nagging."

"Too bad. No law against that… no, can't say that I blame her either, Alex- off the record. Do you want to wait and try again, or just write up your report now- document all the crap she told you?"

"What's the difference?"

"The difference is how quickly you want to get paid versus how much lead time you want to give her, if she has hightailed it. Once you put it in writing and I receive it, I'm obligated to send it over to Bucklear. Even with reasonable delays he gets it in a couple of weeks or so, then he files paper and gets warrants out on her."

"A murderer gets warrants on a grandmother taking her grandkids out of town? Do we file that under "I for irony' or "N for nuts'?"

"Do I take that to mean you'll wait?"

"How much lead time can I give her?"

"A reasonable period. Consistent with typical medical-psychological practice."

"Meaning??"

"Meaning what shrinks normally do. Three, four, even five weeks wouldn't chafe any hides- you guys are notorious for being sloppy about your paperwork. You might even stretch it to six or seven- but you never heard that from me. In fact, we never had this talk, did we?"

"Judge who?" I said.

"Attaboy- oops, bailiff's buzzing me, time to be Solomonic again, bye-bye." I put the phone down. The bulldog placed his paws on my knees and tried to get up on my lap. I lifted him and he settled on me like a warm hunk of clay. At least thirty pounds.

The Hockney was right in front of me. Great painting. As was the Thomas Hart Benton drawing on the opposite wall- a mural study depicting hypermuscular workmen cheerfully constructing a WPA dam.

I looked at both of them for a while and wondered what Robin and Milo had talked about. The dog stayed as motionless as a little furry Buddha. I rubbed his head and his jowls and he licked my hand. A boy and his dog… I realized I hadn't gotten the number for the bulldog club, yet. Almost five p.m. Too late to call the AKC.

I'd do it tomorrow morning.

Denial, avoidance, whatever.