"I'll run it through."
"The kid I spoke to said he's been gone about a week. He also said Gritz was talking and singing about getting rich."
"Singing?"
"That's what he said."
"Oh those romantic hoboes, strumming around the campfire."
"Maybe Gritz had some kind of job lined up, or maybe it's baloney. The kid could very well have been putting me on. For what it's worth, he said he'd ask around, I should come back later."
"Getting rich," he said. "Everyone talks and sings about it. That Calcutta place might be the dregs, but it's still L.A."
"True," I said. "But wouldn't it be interesting if Gritz really did expect to get paid for something- like killing my koi, and other nasties."
"Hitman on a fish? So who's doing the hiring?"
"The anonymous bad guy- I know, it's a ridiculous idea."
"At this point nothing's ridiculous, Alex, but if someone was looking to hire a nighttime skulker, would they choose a homeless nutcase?"
"True… Maybe what Gritz was hired for was to scream on tape- to imitate Hewitt because he knew what Hewitt sounded like."
"Imitate?" he said. "Those voice tracks sounded identical to me, Alex. Though we may never be able to verify it. I talked to the voiceprint guy over at the sheriff's, and screams are useless, legally. In order to make a match that can be used in court, you need two samples, minimum of twenty words on each and the exact same phrases. Even then, it gets challenged a lot and thrown out."
"What about for nonadmissible comparison?"
"Matching screams is still an iffy business. It's words that have unique characteristics. I asked the sheriff to give a listen anyway. He said he's backlogged but would try to get to it eventually… Why would someone want to imitate Hewitt?"
"I don't know- I can't help but think the tape's part of a ritual. Something ceremonial that means something only to the killer."
"What about the kid on the tape?"
"Could be a homeless kid- someone from Little Calcutta or some place like it. Living down there could explain the robot quality of the voice- despair. You should have seen it, Milo. The boy's teeth were rotting, he had a tubercular cough. The girl was naked, wrapped up in a sheet, trying to feed the baby. If I'd offered enough money, I probably could have bought the baby."
"I've seen it," he said softly.
"I know you have. I have too. It's all around. But I haven't really let it register for a while."
"What're you gonna do, solve everyone's problems? Plenty of your own to deal with, for the time being. You get names on the freeway people?"
"Not the girl. He calls himself Terminator Three."
He laughed. "No one else down there besides them and the baby?"
"No one I could see, and I was flashing ten-dollar bills."
"Real smart, Alex."
"I watched my back."
"Yeah."
"The kid said the place fills up at night. I could go back after dark and see if anyone else knows Gritz."
"You're really in the mood to get your throat cut, aren't you?"
"If I had a macho cop with me I'd be safe, right?"
"Don't count on it… Yeah, okay, it's probably a waste of time, but that makes me feel right at home."
• • •
Robin was still working in the garage, hunched over her bench, wielding shiny sharp things that resembled dental picks. Her hair was tied up and her goggles were lodged in her curls. Under her overalls, her T-shirt was tightened by perspiration. She said, "Hi, doll," as her hands continued to move. The dog was at her feet and he stood and licked my hand as I looked over Robin's shoulder.
A tiny rectangle of abalone was clamped to a padded section of the bench. The edges were beveled and the corners were inlaid with bits of ivory and gold wire. She'd traced the shell with minuscule curlicue shapes, cut out some of them, and was in the process of excising another.
"Beautiful," I said. "Fretboard inlay?"
"Uh-huh. Thanks." She blew away dust and cleaned the edge of a pick with a fingernail.
"You do root canal, too?"
She laughed and hunched lower. The tools clicked as she carved out a speck of shell. "Kind of baroque for my taste, but it's for a stockbroker who wants a showpiece for his wall."
She worked some more, finally put the tools down, wiped her forehead, and wiggled her fingers. "Enough for one day, I'm cramping up."
"Everything okay?" I rubbed her neck.
"Nice and quiet. How about you?"
"Not bad."
I kissed her. The wind got stronger and drier, ruffling the cypress trees and shooting a cold stream through the open garage. Robin unclamped the abalone, and put it in her pocket. Her arms were goosebumped. I put mine around them and the two of us headed for the house. By the time we got to the door, the wind was whipping the trees and stirring the dust, causing the bulldog to blink and sniff.
"Santa Ana?" she said.
"Too cold. Probably the tail end of something arctic."
"Brr," she said, unlocking the door. "Leave your jacket in the car?"
I shook my head. We went inside.
"You were wearing one, weren't you?" she said, rubbing her hands together. "That baggy brown tweed."
Artist's eye.
"Yup."
"Did you lose it?"
"Not exactly."
"Not exactly?"
"I gave it away."
She laughed. "You what?"
"No big deal. It was fraying."
"Who'd you give it to?"
I told her about Little Calcutta. She listened with her hands on her hips, shaking her head, and went into the kitchen to wash her hands. When she came back, her head was still moving from side to side.
"I know, I know," I said. "It was a bleeding-heart reflex, but they really were pitiful- it was a cheap old thing, anyway."
"You wore it the first time we went out. I never liked it."
"You didn't?"
"Nope. Too philosophy prof."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
She shrugged. "It wasn't that important."
"Snoring, poor taste in haberdashery. What else don't you like that you haven't informed me about?"
"Nothing. Now that you've ditched the coat, you're perfect."
She ruffled my hair, walked to the French doors, and looked out at the mountains. They were shimmering, denuded in patches, where the foliage was brushed back like blow-dried hair. The pool water was choppy, the surface gritty with leaves and dirt.
Robin loosened her hair. I hung back and kept looking at her.
Perfect female statuary, rock-still against the turbulence.
She unsnapped one overall strap, then the other, letting the baggy denim collapse around her feet, and stood there in T-shirt and panties.
Half turning, hands on hips, she looked back at me. "How 'bout giving me something, big boy?" she said, in a Mae West voice.
The dog grumbled. Robin cracked up. "Quiet, you! You're wrecking my timing."
• • •
"Now it feels like a home," she said, snuggling under the covers. "Though I do prefer our little love nest, be it ever so humble. So what'd you find out today?"
My second summation of the day. I did it quickly, adding what Milo'd told me about the murders and leaving out the gross pathology. Even sanitized, it was bad, and she turned quiet.
I rubbed her lower back, allowing my hand to linger on swells and dimples. Her body loosened, but only for a moment.
"You're sure you've never heard of those other two people?" she said, stilling my hand.
"I'm sure. And there doesn't even seem to be any connection between the two of them. The woman was a white real estate agent, the man a black janitor. He was twenty-six years older, they lived on opposite ends of the city, were killed in different ways. Nothing in common but "bad love.' Maybe they were patients of de Bosch."
"They couldn't be old patients of yours?"
"No way," I said. "I've been through every one of my case files. To be honest, I don't see the patient angle as too likely, period. If someone has a hangup with de Bosch, why go after the people he treated?"