"A PRINCE AMONG men," said Milo.

I was driving east on Ventura Boulevard. Blackened storefronts, bare sidewalks, a breeze had kicked up, and scraps of litter danced above the cement. Warm breeze. Unseasonal winter.

"He hated her, didn't he, Alex?"

"You consider him a suspect?" I said.

"Can't eliminate him. Am I the only one who picked up nuances of paranoia?"

"Unhappy man," I said. "Lots of anger. But he didn't try to soft-pedal. Doesn't that imply nothing to hide?"

"Or he's trying to be clever, pull some kind of stupid double bluff. What a family. The more I learn, the sorrier I feel for Lauren."

I knew what was taking place: Lauren's corpse had begun as business as usual, inanimate as the mountain of forms he was forced to fill out on every case. Enlarging her humanity brought out his empathy. It's happened to him on most of the cases we've worked together.

I said, "You didn't ask him where he was the night Lauren was killed."

"I don't know when she was killed—waiting till the coroner gives me an estimate. Also, there was no sense threatening him right off. If nothing else slam-dunks, he'll get a recontact. Maybe I can pay him a morning visit, see what he's like when he's not beered up."

"And the shotgun's not within arm's reach."

"Yeah, that was fun, wasn't it? Loose cannon like that having access to a double-barrel. Just what the Founding Fathers had in mind. . . . Wifey number two seemed quite the sheep. Think he slaps her around?"

"He dominates her."

"I wonder if Lyle and Jane had violent stuff going on when they were hitched—Jane kept saying he was mean. Maybe something else Lauren was exposed to. That never came out when you treated her?"

"She complained about them but never mentioned violence. But the treatment wasn't much."

"Two sessions." He rubbed his face. "Twenty-five years old and what did she have to show for it besides a nifty wardrobe? . . . People and their garbage. Some jobs you and I've got."

"Hey," I said. "Sure beats being rich and relaxed."

He laughed. "You won't catch me admitting this again, but your gig just might be tougher than mine."

"Why's that?"

"I know what people are. You try to change 'em."

As I turned onto Laurel Canyon, he phoned the officer at Lauren's apartment, found out Andrew Salander hadn't returned.

I said, "He works the night shift."

"You up for The Cloisters?"

"Sure," I said. "One of my favorite spots."

He laughed again. "Yeah, I'll bet. Ever been to a gay bar?"

"You took me to one," I said.

"I don't remember that. When?"

"Years ago," I said. "Tiny little place over in Studio City. Disco music, serious drinking, lots of guys who didn't look at all like you. Past Universal City—back of an auto body shop."

"Oh yeah," he said. "The Fender. Closed down a long time ago— I actually took you there?"

"Right after our first case together—the Handler murder. The way I figured it, some friendship rapport was developing and you were still nervous."

"About what?"

"Being gay. You'd already made the grand confession. I didn't get overtly repulsed, but you probably figured I needed more testing."

"Oh, come on," he said. "Testing you for what?"

"Tolerance. Could I really handle it."

"Why am I not remembering any of this?"

"Advanced middle age," I said. "I can describe the room precisely: aluminum ceiling, black walls, Donna Summer on tape loop, guys going off in pairs."

"Whoa," he said. Then nothing.

A few miles later he said, "You weren't overtly repulsed. Meaning?"

"Meaning, sure, it threw me. I grew up with sissies getting beat up on the school yard and 'fag' as acceptable speech. I never pounded on anyone, but I never stepped in to stop it either. When I started working, my practice emphasized traumatized kids, and homosexuality never came up much. You were the first gay person I'd ever known socially. You and Rick are still the only gay people I know in depth. And sometimes I'm not sure about you."

He smiled. "Aluminum ceilings . . . guys who didn't look like me, huh? So who'd they look like?"

"More like Andrew Salander."

"There you go," he said. "I am the great individualist."

The Cloisters was on Hacienda just north of Santa Monica, notched unobtrusively into the gray side wall of a two-story building. It was nearly three A.M., but unlike the postnuclear silence of the Valley, the streets here were alive, lit by a steady stream of headlights, sidewalk cafes still serving a garrulous clientele, the pavement crowded with pedestrians—mostly, but not exclusively, male. West Hollywood was one of the first L.A. neighborhoods to earn itself a nightlife. Now people emerge for after-dark strolls in Beverly Hills, Melrose, Westwood. One day, Los Angeles may grow up and become a real city.

I found a parking space half a block up, and we walked to the front door. No bouncer on duty and we stepped right in. I'd allowed myself the luxury of prediction and expected the place to be stone walls, refectory windows, gothic gloom. It turned out to be off-white plaster, recessed lighting dimmed to soft-and-easy, a mahogany-and-black-granite bar with a brass rail and beige suede stools, a few booths along the opposite wall. Light classical music eased from unseen speakers, and the conversation from the fifteen or so men inside was low and relaxed. Casually but well-dressed men in their thirties and forties. Shrimp and meatball bar snacks, toothpicks sporting colored cellophane frizz. But for the fact that there were only men, it could've been an upscale lounge in any slick suburb.

Andrew Salander was easy to spot, working alone behind the bar, wiping down the granite, refilling glasses, attending gregariously to half a dozen patrons. His dress duds were a pale blue button-down shirt under a white-and-blue-striped apron. We were right in his face when he noticed us—first me, then Milo, back to me, back to Milo. One of the drinkers saw the scared-animal heat in his eyes and turned toward us with hostile curiosity. Milo leaned on the bar and nodded at him, and the man returned to his Scotch.

"Mr. Sturgis?" said Salander.

"Hi, Andy. Anyone to cover for you?"

"Uh . . . Tom's on break— Hold on, I'll get him." Salander ran through a rear door with a tall young man dressed in a similar shirt and apron, holding a cigarette. Tom stubbed out his light and put on a smile, and Salander came around through Dutch doors at the other end of the bar.

"Please tell me this isn't business," he said to Milo. "Please."

Milo eased him toward the door. Waited to say "Sorry," until we were outside.

Salander wept. "It can't be— I can't believe it, why would anyone hurt her?"

"I was hoping you might be able to help me with that, Andy."

"I can't—Dr. Delaware already knows that. I already told him everything I knew—didn't I, Doctor?"

I said, "Is there anything else you might remember?"

"What? You think I was holding back?"

"Back when we thought Lauren was coming back, I can see your not wanting to violate her privacy. But now ..."

"That's true, I was being discreet. But there's still nothing else I can tell you."

"Lauren gave you no hint of where she was going?" said Milo.

"No. It wasn't that weird—her taking off. I already told the doctor she'd done it other times."

"For a day or two."

"Yes."

"This was a week."

"I know, but..." said Salander. "I wish I could help."

"Those short trips," said Milo. "Did you ever have any reason to think they were for anything other than rest and relaxation?"

"What do you mean?"

"Did Lauren ever mention another reason for traveling?"

"No. Why?"

"Okay, Andy, let's backtrack to the last time you saw her."

"Last Sunday—a week ago," said Salander. "I didn't sleep well, got up around noon and Lo was in the kitchen."

"How was she dressed?"

"Slacks, silk blouse—casual elegant, as always. She rarely wore jeans."

"Did you guys talk?"

"Not much—just small talk. We had a light lunch before she left. Eggs and toast—I can eat breakfast any time of day. She left shortly after—I'd say one, one-thirty."

"But she didn't say where."

"I assumed the U."

"Her research job."

"That's what I figured."

"On a Sunday?"

"She'd worked other Sundays, Detective Sturgis."

"But this time she didn't take her car."

"How would I know that unless I followed her downstairs?"

"And you didn't."

"No, of course not—"

"When did you notice she'd left the car?"

"When I went to get my own car."

"Which was?" said Milo.

"Later that evening, when I left for work—around seven-thirty."

"And what did you think when you saw Lauren's car?"

"I didn't—didn't think much, one way or the other."

"Was that typical, Andy? Lauren not taking her car?"

"Not really. I just— It wasn't on my mind. I can't say I even consciously noticed it. When I got home she wasn't there, but that wasn't unusual either. She was often gone by morning. We were on different biorhythms—sometimes days would pass before we bumped into each other. I started to get a little concerned by Wednesday or so, but you know. . . . She was an adult. I figured she had a reason for doing the things she did. Was I wrong?"

"About her having reasons?"

"About not doing something sooner. I mean, what could I have done?"

Milo didn't reply.

Salander said, "I just wish— I feel sick— This is unbelievable."

"Back to Sunday, Andy. What did you do after Lauren left?"

"Um, tried to go back to sleep, couldn't, got up and went shopping over at the Beverly Center. I thought I'd buy some shirts, but I didn't find anything, so I saw a movie—Happy, Texas. Hilarious. Have you seen it?"

Milo shook his head.

Salander said, "You should see it. Really funny—"

"What'd you do after shopping?"

"Came back, had some dinner, got dressed for work, came here. The next day I slept late. Till three. Why are you asking me all this? You can't seriously think ..."

"Routine questions," said Milo.

"That's so TV," said Salander. "So Jack Webb." Trying to smile, but his face had lost tone, as if someone had yanked out the bones.

"Okay, Andy," said Milo. "There are police officers at your apartment. It's going to be disruptive for a while. Legally, I don't need your permission to search, but I'd like to know that I have your cooperation."

"Sure. Of course—you mean my room too?"

"If the search does carry over to your room, would you have a problem with that?"

Salander kicked one shoe with the other. "I mean, I wouldn't want my stuff trashed, or anything."

"I'll do it myself, Andy. Make sure everything gets put back in place."

"Sure—but can I ask why, Mr. Sturgis? What does my room have to do with anything?"

"I need to be thorough."

Salander's narrow shoulders rose and fell. "I guess. Why not, I have nothing to hide. Nothing's ever going to be the same, is it? Can I go back to work now?"

"When do you get off shift?"

"Four—then I clean up."

"The officers may still be there when you arrive—you are planning to come home."

"Where else would I go? At least for now."

"For now?"

"I don't know if I can afford the place by myself. . . . Oh, God, this is just so nauseating— Did she suffer?"

"I don't have the forensic details yet."

"Who would do this?" said Salander. "What kind of twisted mind— Oh, Mr. Sturgis, I feel as if everything's unraveling."

Milo said, "Yeah, it's rough." He looked out at the traffic on Santa Monica, eyes unreadable. Then a glance at me.

I said, "Andrew, that lunch Lauren had with her mother, when she said she didn't want to be controlled? Do you have any idea what she meant?"

"No. And even when she was upset at Mrs. A, she said she knew her mother loved her."

"What about her father? Did he ever come up?"

"No, she never talked about him—refused to. Just clammed up the first time I brought him up, so I never did that again. It was pretty obvious she had no use for him."

"But she never said why."

Headshake. "There are so many reasons, though, aren't there," he said. "So many men who screw up fatherhood."

"So," I said, "you have no idea what the control issue was?"

"I just thought it was one of those family tension things, you know. I mean it's not as if she told me about any big festering Jerry Springer thing."

Salander rubbed the back of his head against the wall. "This is horrible, I hate this."

"Hate what, Andy?"

"Talking about Lauren in the past tense—thinking about her suffering. Can I get back to work?"

"The show must go on?" said Milo.

Salander froze. "That was unkind, Mr. Sturgis. I cared about her, I really did. We cared for each other, loved to hang out together, but we didn't—she didn't confide in me. Can I help it if she didn't confide? What I told the doctor about that lunch is all that I remember. She came back and looked miffed, didn't want to talk about it, and I tried to get her to open up. But she really didn't."

"What did she say—as closely as you can remember?" I said.

"Something to the effect that she'd come this far on her own and wouldn't be controlled—that's it. Come to think about it, she might not have even said controlled by Mrs. A, specifically. I just assumed that's who she was talking about, because it was Mrs. A she'd just had lunch with." He sidestepped closer to The Cloisters' front door.

"Let's get back to that research job," said Milo. "What else do you know about it?"

"Something to do with psychology—or maybe I'm assuming that, too. I'm so shook up, I don't even know what I know."

"When did the job start?"

Salander thought. "Soon after the quarter started—so maybe two, three months............