THE CRIME FILES had nothing to say about Benjamin Dugger. DMV spit out his address.

The beach. An icy, white high-rise on Ocean Avenue in Santa Monica, one of those no-nonsense things knocked into place in the fifties and filled with moderate-income retirees until someone figured out that heart-stopping views of the Pacific and sweet air weren't bad things after all. Now units started at a half million.

The nineties upgrade included new paint and windows, palm trees transplanted from the desert, and locked-door security. We stood out in front. Milo had punched the buzzer three times so far.

He peered through. "Doorman's right there, yapping with some woman, pretending he doesn't see or hear." He cursed. "Give me hookers over petty bureaucrats any day."

Echo Park to Santa Monica had been a rush-hour crawl across the city, and it was nearly five P.M. Ocean Avenue teemed with tourists, and restaurants ranging from quick grease to wait-at-the-bar haute were jammed. Across the street salt-cured planks and a cheery white arch marked the entry to the Santa Monica Pier, newly rehabbed. The Ferris wheel was still dormant. Evening lights started to switch on. Old Asian men carrying rods and reels exited the wharf, and kids holding hands entered. The ocean at dusk was polished silver.

Just a short ride up the coast was Malibu, where Lauren had suppos-edly escaped for rest and recreation. Where she'd called a pay phone at Kanan-Dume.

"Come on" said Milo. He buzzed again, tapped his foot, clenched his hands. "Bastard actually turned his back." He toed the doorframe. Pounded on the glass. "Finally."

The door opened. The doorman wore a bright green uniform and matching hat. Around sixty and a head shorter than me, with a squat, waxy face scored with frown lines and the squint of someone weaned on No.

He inspected the glass in the door, wagged a finger. "Now look here, you coulda broke—"

Milo advanced on him so quickly that for a moment I thought he'd bowl the little man down.

Green Suit stumbled backward. His uniform was pressed to a shine, festooned with gold braids and tarnished brass buttons. A gold plastic badge said GERALD.

"Police business." The badge flashed an inch from Gerald's eyes.

"Now, what kind of business are we talking about here?"

"Our business." Milo moved around him, swung the door out of his grasp, and stepped in. Gerald hurried in after Milo. I caught the door and brought up the rear.

The lobby was a chilly vault rilled with a clean, salty smell and the giddy glissando of Hawaiian guitar music. Dim, despite mirrored walls. Plush carpeting blunted our footsteps. A grouping of aqua leather chairs blocked our way to the doorman's station. We stepped around, headed for the elevators. Gerald the doorman huffed to keep up.

"Wait a minute."

"We waited enough."

"I was on the phone, sir."

We continued to the directory. B. Bugger: 1053. Top floor. The penthouse. The money trail ...

Gerald said, "We're a high-security—"

"Is Dr. Dugger in?"

"I must call up first."

"Is he in?"

"Until I call, I couldn't say—"

"Don't call. Just tell me. Now." A big finger wagged in Gerald's face."But—"

"Don't argue."

"He's in."

As we boarded the lift the doors closed on the doorman's frog-eyed outrage.

"Yeah, I know," said Milo. "Just doing his job. Well, tough shit—he's the one chosen by God as today's scapegoat."

Three apartments on the penthouse level, all with high, gray double doors. Dugger's was one of the pair that faced the beach. Dugger answered Milo's knock within seconds, a rolled magazine in his hand, reading glasses hanging from a chain around his neck.

His clothes were a variant of yesterday's rumpled casual: white shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, beige Dockers, crepe-soled brown loafers. The magazine was U.S. News.

"Dr. Dugger?" said Milo, flashing the badge.

"Yes—what's going on?"

I was standing behind Milo, and Dugger hadn't looked at me closely.

"I'd like to ask a few questions."

"The police? Of me?"

"Yes, sir. May we come in?"

Dugger stood there, perplexed. Through the doors I caught an eyeful of floor-to-ceiling glass, black granite flooring, endless ocean. What I could see of the furniture looked medium-priced and insipid.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand," he said.

"It's about Lauren Teague."

"Lauren? What about her?"

Milo told him.

Dugger went ghostly white and swayed. For a moment I thought he'd faint, and I got ready to catch him. But he stayed on his feet and tugged at his collar and pressed a palm to one cheek, as if stanching a wound.

"Oh, no."

"I'm afraid so, Doctor. Did you know her well?"

"She worked for me. This is ... hideous. My God. Come in."

The penthouse was lots of wide-open space. A step-down conversation pit increased the size of the glass wall, magnified the view. No terrace onthe other side of the glass, just air and infinity. One of the few walls was covered with metal shelving, filled with journals and books. No food smells from the open kitchen. No woman's touch or sign of domesticity. The first time I'd seen Dugger I hadn't taken a look at his hands. Now I did. No ring.

He sat down, hung his head, dropped it into his hands. When he looked up his eyes aimed for Milo; he still hadn't focused on me. "For God's sake, what happened?"

"Someone shot her and dumped her in an alley, Doctor. Do you have any idea who would do something like that?"

"No, of course not. Unbelievable." Dugger's chest rose and fell. Breathing fast. He shook his head. "Unbelievable."

"What kind of work did she do for you, sir?"

"She was a research aide on a project I'm conducting. I'm an experimental psychologist."

"What kind of project, Doctor?"

Dugger's hand flapped distractedly. "I run a small market research firm. We do mostly contract work with ad agencies—focus groups, limited-topic opinion surveys, that kind of thing. . . . Poor Lauren. When did it happen?"

"Several days ago. When's the last time you saw her?"

"A couple of weeks. We're on hiatus. . . . This is so ..."

"What was Lauren researching?" said Milo.

"She wasn't actually—the study I hired her for is on interpersonal space," said Dugger. "Why does that matter?"

Milo's answer was a blank look. One of many tricks in his bag; it unsettles some people. It caused Dugger to shift his attention, and now he saw me and his mouth turned down. "You were just in the elevator at my office. Have you people actually been following me? Why in the world would you do that?"

Milo and I had prepared for this. He said, "First things first, sir. Please tell us about Lauren Teague's role in your research."

Dugger kept his eyes on me for several moments. "Lauren worked as an experimental confederate. But. . ." He shook his head. Still white.

"But what, sir?"

"I was going to say her job couldn't be relevant. But I'm sure my saying so means nothing to you."Milo smiled and took out his notepad. "What's a confederate, sir?"

Dugger touched the chain of his eyeglasses. "What psychologists call a plant."

"I'm not a psychologist, sir."

"She role-played."

"Acting?"

"In a sense," said Dugger. "Lauren pretended to be an experimental subject."

"But she was really in on the game?"

"Not a game, a study. Limited deception. It's standard operating procedure in social psychology."

"Limited?"

"When the studies are over, we always debrief the subjects."

"You tell them they've been fooled."

"We—Yes."

"How do people react to being fooled, Doctor?"

"It's no problem," said Dugger. "We pay them well and they're good-natured."

"No one gets irate?" said Milo. "No one who might want to take it out on Lauren?"

"No, of course not," said Dugger. "You can't be serious. . . . Yes, I suppose you are. No, Detective, we've never had that kind of problem. We pretest our subjects, take only psychologically balanced people."

"No weirdos even though it's a psychology experiment."

"I don't deal with abnormal psychology."

Milo said, "The client doesn't want nutcases."

Dugger scooted forward. "We're not talking about anything strange here, Detective. This is quantitative marketing research."

"Nothing sexy," said Milo.

Dugger colored. "Nothing controversial. That's the point, in marketing research one tries to establish norms, to define the typical. Deviance is our enemy. Nothing Lauren did for us could possibly have led to her death. Besides, her identity was always kept confidential."

"But the subjects found out she'd fooled them."

"Yes, but Lauren's name and personal information were always kept confidential." His chin quaked. "I can't believe she's . . . gone."

"Tell me more about the study, sir."

"Nothing about it could possibly be important to you."

"Sir, this is a homicide investigation, and I need to know about the victim's activities."

The word victim made Dugger wince. His forehead was sweating, and he wiped it with his sleeve.

"Lauren," he said. "It's so ... This is horrible, this is just horrible." He shifted in his chair, played with his glasses. Stared at me and his eyes slitted. "The study Lauren's been working on involves the geometry of personal space. How people configure themselves in various interpersonal situations. For example, if the client was a cosmetics company, they might want to know about the geometry of comfort zones."

"How close people get to each other," said Milo.

"How close people get to each other when they're in varying social situations. How people approach each other."

"Men and women?"

"Men and women, women and women, men and men, the influences of age, culture, distraction, physical attractiveness. That's where Lauren fit in. She was very beautiful, and she served as our attractiveness confederate."

"You wanted to know if guys got closer to good-looking as opposed to ugly women?"

"It's not that simple." Dugger smiled weakly. "Yes, I suppose that's basically it."

"How'd you come to hire Lauren, sir?"

............