"So what's going on downstairs?" she said to Bobby, her gaze still pinned on me. Her speech was ever so slightly slurred and her eyes seemed to swim in and out of focus. I wondered if she was drunk or had just popped some pills.

"They're standing around sucking up booze as usual. Speaking of which, I brought us wine," he said. "Got a glass?"

She leaned over to her bed-table and sorted through the mess, coming up with a tumbler with something sticky and green in the bottom: absinthe or creme de menthe. She held the glass out to him. The wine he poured into it became tainted with the remnants of liqueur.

"So, who's the chick?"

I loathe being called a chick.

Bobby laughed. "Oh God, I'm sorry. This is Kinsey. She's the private detective I told you about."

"I should've figured as much," Her eyes came back to mine, her pupils so dilated I couldn't tell what color the irises were. "So how do you like our little sideshow? Bobby and I are the family freaks. What a pair, right?"

This child was getting on my nerves. She wasn't smart enough or quick enough to pull off the tough air she was affecting, and the strain was evident, like watching a stand-up comic with second-rate gags,

Bobby cut in smoothly. "Dr. Kleinert's downstairs."

"Ah, Dr. Destructo. What did you think of him?" She took a drag of her cigarette, feigning nonchalance, but I sensed that she was genuinely curious about my response.

"I didn't talk to him," I said. "Bobby wanted me to meet you first."

She stared at me and I stared back. I remembered doing this sort of stuff in sixth grade with my mortal enemy, Tommy Jancko. I forget now why we disliked each other, but stare contests were definitely the weapons of choice.

She looked back at Bobby. "He wants me hospitalized. D'l tell you that?"

"You going?"

"Hey, no twit/! Get all those needles stuck in me? Uh-un, no thanks. I'm not interested." She swung her long legs over the side of the bed and got up. She crossed the room to a low dressing table with a gilt-edged mirror above it. She studied her face, glancing back at me. "You think I look thin?"

"Very."

"Really?" She seemed fascinated by the notion, turning slightly so she could see her own flat behind. She studied her face again, watching herself take a drag of her cigarette. She did a quick shrug. Everything looked fine to her.

"Could we talk about this murder attempt?" I said.

She padded back to the bed and flopped down again. "Somebody's after him. Definitely," she said. She stubbed out her^ cigarette, with a yawn.

"What makes you say that?"

"The vibes."

"Aside from the vibes," I said.

"Oh balls, you don't believe us either," she said. She turned sideways and settled against the pillows, folding an arm under her head.

"Is someone after you too?"

"Nun-un. I don't think so. Just him."

"But why would someone do that? I'm not saying I don't believe you. I'm looking for a place to start and I want to hear what you have to say."

"I'd have to think about it some," she said and then she was quiet.

It took me a few minutes to realize she'd passed out. Jesus, what was she on?

I waited in the hallway, shoes in hand, while Bobby covered her with a blanket and tiptoed out of the room, closing the door gently.

"What's the story?" I said. "She's O.K. She was just up late last night." "What are you talking about? She's half dead!" He shifted uneasily. "You really think so?" "Bobby, would you look at her? She's a skeleton. She's doing drugs, alcohol, cigarettes. You know she's smoking dope on top of that. How's she going to survive?"

"I don't know. I guess I didn't think she was that bad ofЈ" he said. He was not only young, he was naive, or maybe she'd been going under so gradually that he couldn't see the shape she was in.

"How long has she been anoretic?" "Since Rick died, I guess. Maybe some before that. He was-her boyfriend and she took it pretty hard."

"Is that what Kleinert's seeing her for? The anorexia?" "I guess. I never really asked. She was a patient of his before I started seeing him."

A voice cut in. "Is there some problem?" Derek Wenner was approaching from the gallery, highball in hand. He was a man who'd been good-looking once. Of medium height, fair-haired, his gray eyes magnified by glasses with steel-blue frames. He was in his late forties now, by a charitable estimate, a solid thirty pounds overweight. He had the puffy, florid complexion of a man who drinks too much and his hairline had receded in a wide U that left a runner of thinning hair down the center, clipped short and brushed to one side. The excess pounds had given him a double chin and a wide neck that made the collar of his dress shirt seem tight. His pleated gabardine pants looked expensive and so did his loafers, which were tan and white, with vents cut into the leather. He'd been wearing a sport coat earlier, but he'd taken it off, along with his tie. He unbuttoned his collar with relief.

"What's going on? Where's Kitty? Your mother wants to know why she hasn't joined us."

Bobby seemed embarrassed. "I don't know. She was talking to us and she fell asleep."

"Fell asleep" seemed a bit understated to me. Kitty's face had been the color of a plastic ring I sent away for once as a kid. The ring was white, but if you held it to the light for a while and then cupped your hand over it, it glowed faintly green. This, to me, did not connote good health.

"Hell, I better talk to her," he said. I had to guess he'd had his hands full with her. He opened the door and went into Kitty's room.

Bobby gave me a look that was part dismay and part anxiety. I glanced in through the open door. Derek put his drink on the table and sat down on Kitty's bed.

"Kitty?"

He put a hand on her shoulder and shook her gently. There was no response. "Hey, come on, honey. Wake up."

He shot me a worried look.

He gave Kitty a rough shake. "Hey, come on. Wake up."

"You want me to get one of the doctors from downstairs?" I said. He shook her again. I didn't wait for a response.

I slipped my shoes on and left my handbag by the door, heading for the stairs.

When I reached the living room, Glen Callahan glance'd over at me, apparently sensing that something was wrong.

She moved forward. "Where's Bobby?"

"Upstairs with Kitty. I think it might be smart to have somebody take a look at her. She passed out and your husband's having trouble rousing her."

"I'll get Leo."

I watched while she approached Dr. Kleinert, murmuring to him. He glanced over at me and then he excused himself from his conversation. The three of us went upstairs.

Bobby had joined Derek at Kitty's bedside, his face creased with concern. Derek was trying to pull Kitty into a sitting position, but she slumped to one side. Dr. Kleinert moved forward swiftly and pushed both men out of the way. He did a quick check of her vital signs, pulling a penlight out of the inside breast pocket of his suit. Her pupils had contracted down to pinpoints, and from where I stood, the green eyes looked milky and lifeless, apparently responding little to the light he flashed first in one, then the other. Her breathing was slow and shallow, her muscles flaccid. Dr. Kleinert reached for the telephone, which was sitting on the floor near the bed, and dialed 911.

Glen remained in the doorway. "What is it?"

Kleinert ignored her, apparently talking to the emergency dispatcher.

"This is Dr. Leo Kleinert. I'm going to need an ambulance out on West Glen Road in Montebello. I've got a patient suffering from barbiturate poisoning." He gave the address and a brief set of instructions about how to reach the place. He hung up and looked at Bobby. "You have any idea what she took?"