I got up, walked around, took deep breaths, and told myself it was my imagination; pretend these were homemade buns right out of the oven, baked by some TV commercial mom with a wide-awake smile and a strong interest in nutrition.

It worked a little. The rest of the bun didn't taste great, but I got it down. Back to the mountains.

As I climbed, the road got steeper and I started to pass houses. Mowed lawns, and all sorts of trees and plants and flowers, but no people I could see, not a one. Now, after four months in L.A., I'm used to that. People here like to stay inside, especially at night, and anyone out there after dark is probably prowling for something.

At the top, Western curved and turned into another street called Los Feliz and these houses were huge, behind high walls with fancy metal gates and surrounded by pine trees and palms. This must have been what Hollywood was like when the movie stars lived here.

The mountains were still far away, but in front of them was a big stretch of clean green grass, a few people lying on blankets, some of them sleeping, even with all the traffic noise. Behind the grass, tons of trees.

A park.

I waited for traffic to slow down and ran across the street.

GRIFFITH PARK, the sign said.

The only park in Watson is a dry little square in the center of town with one bench, an old cannon, and a brass sign saying it's dedicated to men who've died in wars. This was different. Humongous. You could get lost in here.

“Interesting,” said Stu, hearing about the library book, but he sounded distracted.

He'd been on the phone and now it went back in his pocket. “West L.A. uniforms are with Lisa Ramsey's maid, it's not Beverly Hills, a few blocks away. Sunday was the maid's day off, she just got back, Lisa hadn't slept in her bed. Lisa's Porsche isn't in the garage, so it looks like she drove herself somewhere, either hooked up with the killer and switched to his vehicle or got jacked. We've got to hustle over to Ramsey's place in Calabasas to do the notification, then return to interview the maid. He wasn't at his studio office, and protocol says we make every attempt to notify in person. He lives in one of those gated-estate deals; I've got the address.”

They walked to their white Ford. It was Stu's day to drive and he got behind the wheel.

“Calabasas is tan-shirt territory,” said Petra as he started the engine. He drove slowly. As usual. More slowly than any cop she'd known.

“Tan as an anchorman,” he said. “Schoelkopf called the boss sheriff out at the Malibu station to define some ground rules, but seeing as it's a 187, they punted to their downtown Homicide boys. The jurisdiction's ours, but they want to be there when we notify, 'cause Ramsey's house is their turf- they don't want to be perceived as out of the loop. A couple of their downtown Homicide investigators will meet us outside the gates.”

“Big drive from downtown to Calabasas,” said Petra. “So on some level they do think they're investigating it?”

“Who knows. Maybe they can help us.”

“As in getting hold of Ramsey's domestic-violence history?”

“That. Anything.”

As they got on the stretch of road that ran between the park and the 5 freeway, Stu said, “Schoelkopf gave me the kind of lecture I haven't heard since I rookied: Don't go in without permission, don't climb any walls, treat him a hundred percent like a grieving ex, not a suspect. No searching of any kind, don't go to the john if it can be construed as a search. No asking questions that might incriminate anyone, because then you'd have to Mirandize the guy and I don't want even a hint that he's a suspect.”

“What about getting hold of that TV tape?”

“Not even that yet, because it would show clear signs of suspicion.”

“Come on. It's public domain,” said Petra.

Stu shrugged.

Petra said, “When do we get to detect?”

“When we know more.”

“But we're not allowed to look for more.”

Stu gave a tight smile.

Petra said, “All this smoke because Ramsey's VIP?”

“Welcome to Locustland. I love my job.”

Till recently he had. What was going on?

He entered the freeway heading north. A mile later, Petra said, “What about the book and that food wrapper? Potential witness?”

“If whoever was eating and/or reading just happened to be there when Lisa was killed. My religion tells me to believe in miracles, but…”

“And/or?”

“Could be two separate guys. Even if it's one, the scene spells homeless guy, or woman. Lau said the body impression was small.”

“A bag lady,” said Petra.

“Whoever it was didn't call 911, so if he/she was there, it shows a certain lack of civic responsibility. Don't hold your breath waiting for someone to come forward.”

“So many bag ladies are schizophrenic,” said Petra. “Witnessing a murder would be terrifying to anyone, but someone already over the edge…”

Stu didn't answer. Petra let him drive awhile before she said, “I was also thinking- I know it's remote- what if whoever was behind the rock killed Lisa?”

He thought about that, then rattled off the same objections Petra had come up with.

“Plus,” he added, “I agree with your first impression: All that facial damage, the overkill, implies passion, someone she knew. If what Susie Shutterbug said about Ramsey beating up Lisa is true, he sure fits that bill.”

“But we can't treat him like a suspect.”

“But we can psych him out while playing sympathetic public servant during the notification. Which is why I'm glad you're here. He's an actor- a bad one, but even bad ones are better at hiding their feelings than the average person.”

“What does that have to do with me?” said Petra.

“You're good at reading people.”

Not at reading you, she thought.

Soon after they got on the 134 West, they got stuck in traffic.

Common enough situation, and whenever Petra found herself in a jam she fantasized about flying cars of the future- those VW-with-propeller gizmos predicted in Dad's old Popular Mechanics.

Just sitting there drove her crazy and both of them knew it. Stu was a calm driver, sometimes maddeningly so.

“We could take the shoulder,” she said.

He'd heard it a hundred times before and smiled wearily.

“We could at least put on the lights and the howler,” she added.

“Sure,” he said, shifting the car into park and gunning the engine. “Let's use our guns, too, shoot our way out… so what approach should we take with Ramsey?”

“Sympathetic, like you said. Be there with tissues for his crocodile tears.”

“Crocodile,” he said. “So you've decided hedunit.”

“If Mormons gambled, where would you put your money?”

He nodded, turned his head in order to suppress a yawn, and they crawled a quarter mile, then stopped again. Rubbing her eyelids, Petra created twin kaleidoscopes behind the thin flesh. A headache was coming on. She had to learn to deal better with frustration.

“All these years working Hollywood,” Stu said, “and I never had a celebrity murder. Closest I came was this old guy, Alphonse Dortmund. German émigré character actor, used to play nazis in World War II movies. Got strangled in his apartment on Gower. Real dump. He hadn't worked in years, drank, let himself go. Uniforms responding to a bad odor call found him all tied up in his bed- hog-tied with the rope around his neck, complicated knots.”

“Sexual asphyxia?”

“That was my first impression, but I was wrong. He didn't do it to himself. Turns out he picked up a fifteen-year-old on the Boulevard, showed the kid how to truss him, then the kid decided to take it further, choked him out, ransacked the apartment.”