THE STORY WAS easy to find.

Shawna Teaser.

Beautiful face, heart-shaped, unlined, crowned by a tower of pale ringlets. Almond eyes, shockingly dark. Pixie chin, perfect teeth, beauty undiminished by grainy black-and-white miniaturization, the cold, metal frame of the microfiche machine, the stale air of the research library microfilm vault.

I stared at lovely glowing shoulders exposed by a strapless gown, sparkly things dotting the bodice. The gown Shawna Yeager had worn at her coronation as Miss Olive Festival. Silly little rhinestone crown pinned to the luxuriant curls, happiest-girl-in-the-world grin.

The contest had taken place two years ago in her hometown, an aggie community east of Fallbrook named Santo Leon. Shawna Yeager held a scepter in one hand, a giant plastic olive in the other.

The Daily Cub article said she'd graduated fifth in her class at Santo Leon High. A single paragraph summed up her precollege history: smalltown beauty queen/honor student travels to the city to attend the U. Shawna had surprised her friends by not pledging a sorority, choosing instead to live in one of the high-rise dorms. Turning into a "study grind."

She'd majored in psychobiology, talked about premed, used her beauty contest winnings and income from a summer teacher's aide job to pay her bills. She'd been enrolled for only a month and a half when she left the dorm on a late October night, informing her roommate that she was heading to the library to study. At midnight the roommate, a girl named Mindy Jacobus, fell asleep. At eight A.M. Mindy woke, found Shawna's bed empty, worried a bit, went to class. When Shawna still hadn't returned by two P.M., Mindy contacted the campus police.

The unicops engaged in a comprehensive search of the U's vast terrain, notified LAPD's West L.A. and Pacific Divisions, Beverly Hills and Santa Monica Police, and West Hollywood sheriffs of the girl's disappearance.

No leads. The campus paper carried the story for a week. No sightings of Shawna, not even a false report. Her mother, Agnes Yeager, a widowed waitress, was driven to L.A. from Santo Leon by a representative of the chancellor's office and provided living quarters in a graduate student dorm for the duration of the search.

A Cub follow-up—still no news—said the search had lasted three weeks.

After that, nothing.

I returned to the microfilm librarian, filled out cards, obtained spools from the Timesand the Daily News for the corresponding dates. Shawna's disappearance merited two days of page 20 media attention, then a senator's drunken son crashed his Porsche on the 1-5, killing himself and two passengers, and that story took over.

I returned to the Cub spool, wrote down the reporter's name—Adam Green—and studied Shawna Yeager's beauty contest photo some more, searched for a resemblance to Lauren.

She and Lauren did share a sculpted, blond loveliness but nothing striking. Both A students. Psychology major, psycho biology major.

Both were self-supporting too, one banking on pageant money, the other, "investments." Had each been on the lookout for extra income? Consulted the campus classifieds and gotten involved in one of the research studies Gene Dalby had described?

I searched for more parallels, found none. All in all, nothing dramatic. And plenty of differences:

At nineteen Shawna had been considerably younger than Lauren when she disappeared. Small-town olive queen, big-city call girl. Divorced mother, widowed mother. And Shawna had vanished during the second month of the quarter, Lauren during the break. I scrolled to the Cub's want ads, worked backward until I came upon a boldface entry in the middle of the JOBS!! section, posted two weeks before Shawna vanished.

Tired? Listless? Inexplicably sad? These may be normal mood changes, or they may be signs of depression.

We are conducting clinical trials on depression and are looking for

$$ PAID $$ volunteers. You will be offered free evaluation and, if you qualify,

may receive experimental treatment as well as a handsome stipend.

No address, just a phone number with a 310 area code. I copied the information, kept scrolling, found two similar ads for the entire month, one researching phobias and featuring a different 310 listing, the other a study of "human intimacy" that provided a 714 callback.

"Human intimacy" had a sexual flavor to it. Racy research in Orange County? Sex was commerce to Lauren. Might something like that have caught her eye?

I obtained microfiche for the last quarter, checked classified after classified. No repeat of the intimacy ad, nothing even vaguely similar, and the only paid-research solicitation was for a study on "nutrition and digestion," with a campus phone extension that meant the med school. I wrote it down anyway, left the library, headed for the Seville.

Two girls gone missing, a year apart, very little in common.

Shawna had never been found. I could only hope that Lauren's disappearance would amount to nothing at all.

I drove home trying to convince myself she'd show up tomorrow, a little richer and a lot tanner, laughing off everyone's worries.

Gene Dalby had pegged her at thirty, and maybe he was right about her maturity. She'd been living on her own for years, had street smarts. So no shock if the last week came down to a quick jaunt to Vegas, Puerto Vallarta, even Europe—money shrinks the world.

I drove up the bridle path that leads to my house imagining Lauren partying with a potentate. Then seeing the dark side of the fantasy: Those kinds of adventures can go very bad quickly.

Lauren getting herself into something she hadn't counted on.

Silly to let my mind run. I barely knew the girl.

Thcjirl. She was well past childhood. No sense obsessing.

I'd bother Milo one more time, tell him about Shawna Yeager, receive the expected response—the logical detective's response—

Interesting, Alex, but. . .

I pulled up in front of the carport, pleased to see Robin's Ford pickup there, ready to stop wondering about a near stranger and be with someone I cared about.

But as I parked and climbed the stairs to the front door, I wondered: What would I tell Jane Abbot?

I knew I'd say little, if anything, to Robin about my day.

Confidentiality protects patients. What it does to therapists' personal relationships can be interesting. Private by nature, Robin's never had a problem with my not discussing work in detail. Like most artists, she lives in her head, can do without people for long stretches of time, hates gossip.

We've had perfectly romantic dinners where neither of us uttered a word. Part of that's her, but I tend to drift off and ruminate. Sometimes I feel she's not with me, and I know there are instances when she views me as inhabiting another planet.

Mostly, we connect.

I called out a "Looocey, I'm home, babaloo!" and she shouted back, "Ricky!"

She was in jeans and a black tank top, everything filling nicely as she squatted to fill Spike's feed bowl and sang along with the radio. Country station, Alison Krauss and Keith Whitley doing "When You Say Nothing at All." Whitley's rich baritone exhumed from the grave. Technology could resurrect sound waves, but it couldn't dampen a mother's grief.

Robin finished pouring kibble, stood, and stretched to her full, barefoot five-three. No bra beneath the tank top, and when I pressed her to me her breasts spread across my shirtfront. When I kissed her, her tongue tasted of coffee. Her auburn curls were loose and longer than usual—six inches past the middle of her back. When she gets her hair done, it's a half-day, three-figure affair at a place in Beverly Hills that reeks of nail polish and people trying too hard. I couldn't remember the last time she'd spent the time and money. Busy with a seemingly endless flow of guitar construction and repairs. "Better than the alternative" was her comment when I remarked on her long days. A few weeks ago she'd recorded a new phone message:

"Hi, this is Robin Castagna. I'm out in the studio carving and gluing, would love to talk to you, however it's going to be a while before I can be polite. If you have an urgent message, please leave it in detail, but..."

We kissed some more, and Spike yelped in protest. He's a French bulldog, twenty-five pounds of black brindle barrel, bat ears perked, and deceptively soft brown eyes. I'm the one who rescued him on a hot, arid summer day, but forget gratitude; the moment Robin smiled at him, I came to be viewed as an annoyance.

Keeping one hand on Robin's bottom, I set my briefcase on the table. Spike nudged her shin. She said, "Hold on, handsome."

"Sure," I said. "Keep feeding his ego."

She laughed. "You ain't chopped liver either."

Spike's flat face pivoted, and he glared at me—I can swear he understands English. His attenuated larynx let out a strangled growl, and he pawed the floor.

"Tom Flews deigns to speak," I said.

Grumble, grumble.

"Don't feud, boys," said Robin, bending to pet him. "Long day, sweetie?"

"Me or him?"

"You."

I'd thought the cheer in my voice sounded authentic, wondered why she'd asked. "Long enough, but over."

Spike sputtered. A twenty-one-inch neck quivered. Drool sprayed.

"I'm staying for the evening, pal. Deal with it."

His eyes pinched at the corners as he let out a belly grunt. I kissed the back of Robin's neck, as much out of spite as anything. Spike began bouncing higher than stumpy legs had any right to take him, and Robin added something from the fridge to his dinner and toted it to the service porch. His nose was buried before the dish hit the floor.

"Is that last night's Stroganoff?" I said.

"I figured we're finished with it."

"We are now."

She laughed, bent, picked up a stray bit of meat, hand-fed it to him. Breathing hard, he plunged his head back into the bowl. "Bon appetit, monsieur."

"He'd prefer foie gras and a fine burgundy," I said, "but he'll condescend."

She laced her arms around my neck. "So, what's up?"

"What shall our dinner be?"

"Haven't thought about it," she said. "Any ideas?"

"How about his leftovers?"

"Now you're being cranky." She started to leave, but I held her back, stroked her neck, her shoulder blades, slipped my hands under the tank top and kneaded the knobs of her spine, cupped a breast—

"Food, first," she said. "Then, maybe."

"Maybe what?"

"Fun. If you behave yourself."

"Define your terms."

"I'll define them as we go along. So what went wrong today?"

"Who says anything went wrong?"

"Your face. You're all stressed around the edges."

"Wrinkles," I said. "The aging process."

"Don't think so." Her small, fine-boned hand topped my knuckles.

"Look," I said, stretching my lips with my thumbs and letting go. "Mr. Happy."

She said nothing. I sat there and enjoyed her face. Another heart-shaped face. Olive-tinted, set upon a long, smooth stalk, framed by the mass of curls. Straight, assertive nose, full lips swelled by a hint of over-bite, the faintest beginnings of crow's-feet and laugh lines around almond eyes the color of bittersweet chocolate.

"I'm fine," I said.

"Okay." She played with her hair.

"How was your day?"

"No one bugged me, so I got more done than I'd planned." Her hand finger-walked over to mine, and she began playing with my thumb. "Just tell me this, Alex: Is it one of your own cases or something Milo's gotten you into?"

"The former," I said.

"Got it," she said, zipping a finger across her lips. "So nothing dangerous. Not that I'm harping."

"Not remotely dangerous," I said. Remembering the talk we'd had last year. After I'd role-played with a group of eugenic psychopaths and ended up too close to dead. The pledge I'd given her . . .

"Good," she said. "'Cause when I see you . . . burdened, I start to wonder if maybe you're feeling constrained."

"It's just a case from the past that I might've handled better. I need to make a few phone calls, and then we can figure out dinner, okay?"

"Sure," she said.

And that's where we left it.

I went into my office, poured the contents of my briefcase onto the desk, found the numbers Gene Dalby had given me for Professors Hall and de Maartens, and dialed. Two answering machines. I left messages. Next: Adam Green, the student journalist. Information had four Adam Greens listed in the 310 area code. No sense, at this stage of the game, trying to figure out which, if any, was the kid who'd covered the Shawna Yeager story. He'd spent three weeks of his life on the story a year ago. What could he possibly have to offer?

Arranging the photocopies I'd made of the Daily Cub microfiches, I retrieved the three phone numbers accompanying the want ads. The depression and phobia study listings were out of service, and the Orange County intimacy project—I'd saved the best for last—connected to a Newport Beach pizza parlor. In L.A. it's not just the tectonic plates that shift.

Finally, I looked up hotels and motels in Malibu and made a dozen calls. If Lauren had checked into any of the establishments, she hadn't used her real name.

One last call: Jane Abbot. That would wait till tomorrow.

No, it wouldn't. I dialed the Valley number, planning to be vague but supportive, careful not to leech her hope. The phone rang four times, and I rehearsed the little speech I'd deliver to her robot guardian—ah, here he was: "No one can take your call but if you care to . . ."

Beef.

"Mrs. Abbot, this is Dr. Delaware. I've talked to a police detective about Lauren. Nothing really to report, but he's been made aware of the details. I'll stay on it, get back to you the moment I learn—"

A real man's voice broke in, very soft, halting. "Yes?" I identified myself.

Long silence.

I said, "Hello?"

"This is Mr. Abbot." More of an announcement than an exchange.

"Mr. Abbot, your wife spoke to me recently—"

"?Mrs. Abbot," he said.

"Yes, sir. She and I—"

"This is Mr. Abbot. Mrs. Abbot isn't here.''''

"When will she be back, sir?"

Several seconds of dead air. "The house is empty. . . ."

"Your wife called me about Lauren, and I was getting back to her."

More silence.

"Her daughter, Lauren," I said. "Lauren Teague."

Still nothing.

"Mr. Abbot?"

"My wife's not here," said the frail voice plaintively. "She goes out, comes back, goes out, comes back."

"Are you all right, sir?"

"I'm upstairs, trying to read. Robert Benchley—ever read Benchley? Funny as hell, but the words get small ..."

"I'll call back later, Mr. Abbot."

No reply.

"Sir?"

Click.