"Yes," she said. "It will. But it gives him the chance to meet three boys who go to his new school."

"Is there anything you haven't thought of?"

"No. I'm a mom."

I nodded.

"Also, it gives us two weeks alone."

"Moms know everything."

It took about an hour to make the étouffée. We peeled the shrimp, then wilted the vegetables in canola oil, and added tomatoes and garlic. I found peace in the small motor activity, and in telling Lucy about Frank and Joe and Karen Garcia. To cook is to heal.

Lucy said, "Here's the important part. Pay close attention."

"Okay."

She pulled my face down, brushed her lips against mine, then let them linger.

"Feel better?"

I held up my hand. She laced her fingers through mine, and I kissed them.

"Better."

We were waiting for rice to cook when Joe Pike let himself in. I hadn't expected him, but he'll drop by like that. Lucy put down her drink, and gave him a warm hug. "I understand you knew her, Joe. I'm sorry."

Joe seemed gigantic next to her, like some huge golem masked in shadow even in my bright kitchen.

Ben yelled, "Hey, Joe! I've got Men in Black! You wanna watch?"

"Not tonight, little man." He looked at me. "Montoya worked out a deal with Bishop. We can report to Robbery-Homicide at Parker Center tomorrow morning. They'll assign a contact officer, and we'll be briefed."

"All right."

"They'll give us copies of all reports, transcripts, and witness statements."

He was giving me the information, but I wondered why he had come. He could have phoned it over.

I said, "What?"

"Can I talk to you about this?"

"Sure."

Lucy and I followed Joe out onto the deck. Outside, the cat appeared, moving between Joe's legs. Joe Pike is the only other human being I've known who can touch this cat.

"How's Frank?"

"Drunk."

Pike didn't say anything more. He picked up the cat, and stroked it. Lucy slipped her arm through mine and settled herself against me, watching him. She watches him often, and I always wonder what she's thinking when she does.

Finally, he said, "The Garcias are my friends, not yours, but now you're going to have to carry the weight with the police."

"You talking about Krantz?"

"Not just Krantz. You're going to have to deal with Parker Center. I can't do that." He was talking about the entire Los Angeles police force.

"I figured that, Joe. It's not a problem."

Lucy said, "What do you mean, deal with Parker Center?"

Pike said, "I won't take money from Frank, but I can't expect you not to."

"Forget that."

He looked at the cat, and I realized he was embarrassed. "I don't want to forget it. I want to pay you for your time."

"Jesus, Joe. How could you even ask that?" Now I was embarrassed, too.

Lucy said, "Let's pretend I asked a question."

I answered her just to change the subject. " Parker Center is the LAPD headquarters. These cops we're dealing with, the Robbery-Homicide Division, they have their offices there. I'll have to go down tomorrow to get briefed on their investigation. It's no big deal."

Lucy said, "But why wouldn't they co-operate with Joe?"

She wasn't making a point of it. She was just curious, but I suddenly wished she wasn't out here with us.

"Joe and LAPD don't get along. They'd freeze him out."

Lucy smiled at me, still not understanding. "But why on earth would they do that?"

Joe put down the cat and looked at her. "I killed my partner."

"Oh."

The black lenses stayed on Lucy for a time, and then Joe left. The winds had died and the smoke hung over the canyon like a curtain, blurring the lights that glittered below us.

Lucy wet her lips, then had more of the drink. "I shouldn't have pried."

We went inside and had the étouffée, but nobody said very much.

Nothing stops a conversation like death.

Predation

Edward Deege, Master Carpenter, citizen of the free world and Dave Matthews fan, waited among the wild acacias that covered the ridge above Lake Hollywood until the twilight sky deepened and the bowl of the lake was dim and purple. The shadows would hide him from the police.

He had watched them work the murder site for most of the day, until the fading light had forced them to stop. Two patrol officers, one man, one woman, had been left to preserve the scene, but they seemed more interested in each other than in walking the yellow tape.

Edward had no knowledge of the murdered girl, no interest in the crime scene, and no wish to be questioned by the police. His interest was simpler: dinner. Restaurants dotted the strip malls at the foot of the mountain, where well-fed people could be depended upon to part with a dollar or two. An hour's panhandling, and Edward could purchase fresh double-A batteries for his Discman, then stroll to the food stands along Ventura Boulevard, where he might choose between a Black Angus hamburger, perhaps, or a carne asada burrito, or Vietnamese spring rolls. The choices were limitless.

Later, having fed, he would enjoy the climb back up to the shack he'd fashioned for himself above the lake. There, his interests would shift to partaking of a bit of the evil weed, jotting thoughts on the world eco-balance in his journal, and a satisfying bowel movement.

Now, however, Edward stayed among the trees until he was past the radio car, then worked his way down the spiderweb of roads through the neighborhoods that spilled down the mountain. He knew these neighborhoods well, walking them several times each day on his way to panhandle the traffic lights and freeway exits during the cooler parts of the day, returning to the lake at night, and when the day grew warmer.

Edward, behind his evening schedule because of the saturation of police at the lake, was anxious not to miss the prime panhandling hour. Lost time meant lost wages. He took the fast route down, headphones in place, matching his pace to Mr. Dave Matthews's frenetic, multi-world beat. Edward slipped between two houses, skidded downhill along a watercourse, and emerged behind a gutted house that was being remodeled. He had come this way a hundred times, and thought nothing of it. The house sat on a cul-de-sac, most of the houses there hidden by shrubs or walls. Eyeless houses. Edward often wondered if anyone really lived in them, or if they were movie facades that could be struck and moved at will. Such thoughts creeped out Edward, and he tried to avoid them. Life was uncertain enough, as is.

He was hurrying around a great blue Dumpster, expecting to see absolutely nothing, the same empty dark street that he'd seen a hundred times before, and was surprised when he saw the four-wheel-drive truck idling in the lightless street. He stopped, his first thought to run, but the hour was late, and his hunger gave him pause.

The truck was familiar. It took a moment for Edward to realize that this was the same vehicle he had earlier described to the two men looking for the jogging girl.

Run, or not run?

Hunger got the better of him. So did base greed.

Edward averted his face and plowed forward, hoping to slip past the truck and vanish between the houses before whoever was within could interfere. He was doing a good job of it, too, until the man with the sunglasses stepped out from behind the wheel. Here it was night, but he still wore the dark glasses.

"Edward?"

Edward quickened his pace. He did not like this man, whose muscular arms glowed blue in the moonlight.

"Edward?"

Edward walked faster, but the man was suddenly beside him, and jerked him roughly behind the Dumpster. Edward's headphones were pulled askew, and Dave Matthews's voice became tinny and faraway.

"Are you Edward Deege?"