“For what?”

“Grand Guignol.”

He shut his eyes, knuckled a temple. “Your mind…” The eyes opened. “If Dowd and Meserve have an evil hobby, why wasn’t Michaela actually messed with?”

“She was rejected,” I said. “Same for Tori Giacomo. Or not. Scattered bones make it impossible to know.”

“Why?”

I shook my head. “That level of pathology, the symbolism can be beyond anyone else’s comprehension.”

“Two pretty girls wrong for the part,” he said. “The Gaidelases, on the other hand, have never been found. Meaning maybe their heads are hanging on a damn wall?”

Another temple massage. “Okay, now that the images are firmly planted in my brain and I’m sure to have a lovely day, let’s get the hell out of here.”

I followed him up the hall. When we reached the stairwell, he said, “Snuff and stuff. I can always count on you to cheer me up.”

On our way out, Tom the receptionist sang out, “Have a nice day, Lieutenant.”

Milo ’s reply was sotto voce and obscene. He left me standing on the sidewalk and continued to the staff parking lot.

Seeing his irritation at the lost messages brought to mind the disgusted look on Albert Beamish’s face yesterday.

Constitutional crankiness? Or had the old man, ever eager to spread dirt on the Dowds, poked around and actually learned something useful? Tried to tattle and got no callback?

No sense overloading Milo ’s circuits. I drove to Hancock Park.

Beamish’s doorbell was answered by a tiny Indonesian maid in a black uniform clutching a dust-clogged feather duster.

“Mr. Beamish, please.”

“No home.”

“Any idea when he’ll be back?”

“No home.”

Walking over to Nora’s house, I took a close look at the barn doors of her garage. Bolted. I nudged the panels, felt some give, but my bare hands were unable to spread the doors wide enough. Milo had left it at that. I wasn’t bound by the rules of evidence.

Fetching a crowbar from the trunk of the Seville, I carried it parallel to my leg, went back, and managed to pry the doors an inch apart.

A stale gasoline smell blew out. No Range Rover or any other vehicle. At least Milo could be spared the bother of a warrant.

My cell phone beeped. “Dr. Delaware? It’s Karen from your exchange. I’ve got a message from Dr. Gwynn that was marked priority. He asked if you can come by his office soon as you have a chance.”

“Dr. Gwynn’s a she,” I said.

“Oh…sorry. Louise wrote this one down, I’m new. Do you usually specify gender?”

“Don’t worry about it. When was the call?”

“Twenty minutes ago, just before I came on.”

“Did Dr. Gwynn give a reason for wanting me over?”

“It just says asap, Doctor. Want the number?”

“I know it.”

For Allison to reach out, it had to be something bad. Her grandmother. Another stroke? Worst-case scenario?

Even so, why call me?

Maybe because she had no one else.

Her message tape picked up. I drove to Santa Monica.

Empty waiting room. The red light next to her name was unlit, meaning no session in progress. I pushed open the door to the inner offices, proceeded through a short hall to Allison’s corner suite. Knocked on her door and didn’t wait for an answer.

She wasn’t at her desk. Or in one of the soft white patient chairs.

When I said, “Allison?” no one answered.

This felt wrong.

Before I could process that thoroughly, the back of my head exploded in pain.

Hammer-on-melon pain.

Cartoonists are right; you really do see stars.

I reeled, got smashed again. Back of the neck this time.

I sank to my knees, wobbled on Allison’s soft carpet, fought for consciousness.

A new pain burned my right flank. Sharp, electric. Was I being cut?

Heavy breathing behind me, someone straining with effort, blur of dark trouser leg.

The second kick to my ribs took all the fight out of me and I went down on my face.

Hard leather continued to have its way with bone. My brain rang like a gong. I tried to ward off further blows but my arms were numb.

For some reason, I counted.

Three kicks, four, five, six for good meas-

Gray soupy world, viewed from the bottom of a stockpot.

I drowned in my chair, blinked, trying to clear eyes that wouldn’t open. Someone played a trombone solo. My eyelids finally cooperated. The ceiling swooped down, changed its mind, soared miles above, a white plaster sky.

Blue sky. No, the blue was off to the left.

A smudge of black on top.

Pale blue, same exact color as the burned cork smell in my throat.

The black, Allison’s hair.

The pale blue, one of her suits. Memories flooded my head. Fitted jacket, skirt short enough to show a nice bit of knee. Braiding around the lapels, covered buttons.

Lots of buttons; it could take a long, sweet time to free them.

The pain in my skull took over. My back and my right side-

Someone moved. Above Allison. To the right.

“Can’t you see he needs help- ”

“Shut up!”

My eyelids sank. I blinked some more. Turned it into an aerobic activity and finally achieved some focus.

There she was. In one of the soft white chairs where she hadn’t been before…how long ago?

I tried to look at my watch. The face was a silver disk.

My vision cleared a bit. I’d been right: She was wearing the exact suit I’d pictured, give the boy an A for…

Movement from the right.

Standing over her was Dr. Patrick Hauser. One of his hands had vanished in her hair. The other held a knife pressed to her smooth white throat.

Red handle. Swiss Army knife, one of the larger versions. For some reason, I found that ludicrously amateurish.

Hauser’s clothes clinched it. White golf shirt, baggy brown pants, brown wingtips.

Hard-toed wingtips, way too dressy for the outfit. White was the wrong color if you wanted to avoid those stubborn bloodstains.

Hauser’s shirt was sweat-splotched but free of red. Beginner’s luck. No sense rubbing it in. I smiled at him.

“Something funny?”

I had so many snappy comebacks. Forgot all of them. Gong. Gong.

Allison’s eyes shifted to the right. Past Hauser, toward her desk?

Nothing else there but a wall and a closet.

Closet blocked by the door when you opened it.

Deep blue irises moved again. Definitely the desk. The far end, where her purse sat.

Hauser said, “Sit up and get that pen.”

I was already sitting. Silly man.

I spread my arms to show him, hit an arm of the wooden desk chair.

Not sitting at all. Slumped, nearly prone, head tilted back, spine in an odd position.

Maybe that’s why everything hurt so bad.

I tried to straighten, nearly passed out.

“C’mon, up, up, up,” barked Hauser.

Every inch of movement heated the toaster coils that had replaced my spinal nerves. It took years to reach a sitting position and the ordeal robbed me of breath. Inhaling was hellish, breathing out, worse.

A few more centuries and my eyes got clearer. I gained a sense of context: Allison and Hauser fifteen feet away. My chair pushed up to Allison’s desk. The side where a new patient might sit, seeking consultation.

Therapy charts and Allison’s desktop doodads on the pale oak surface. She’d been doing paperwork when he’d-

Hauser said, “Get the pen and start writing.”

What pen? Ah, there it was, hiding among the noise and the color. Next to a clean, white sheet of paper.