ROBIN SAID, "First the daughter, now the mother?"

We were on the big couch in the living room. She was sitting at the far end, just out of reach, still wearing her work overalls and her red T-shirt. I'd come home determined to put everything aside, had ended up talking about all of it: Lauren's aborted therapy, Phil Harnsberger's party, Mi-chelle, Shawna, Jane Abbot, Mel Abbot's senescent terror.

Death kills confidentiality.

"You're making it sound like a confession," she said.

"Whose?"

"Yours. The whole sordid tale. As if you've done something wrong. As if you're a main player in all of it and not just an extra." She looked away. "It's almost as if she's seduced you—Lauren. Not sexually—you know what I mean. I guess I shouldn't be surprised. Seduction's how she made a living."

"I don't see that at all."

She got up, went into the kitchen, returned with two bottles of water, and handed me one. Sitting just as far.

"What's wrong?" I said.

"You saw this girl, what—twice, ten years ago?—yet you've convinced yourself that you're obligated to clarify every detail of her life. People like that don't lend themselves to solutions. For them it's always problems."

"People like that."

"Outcasts, troubled souls—patients, call them what you will. Didn't you tell me one thing you had to learn so as not to become a toxic sponge was how to let go?"

"It's not a matter of letting go—"

"What, then, Alex?" Her voice was low, but there was no mistaking the edge.

"Is there anything else that's bothering you?" I said.

"That," she said, "was very shrinky."

"Sorry—"

"Your mind's a fine piece of machinery, Alex. I've never encountered anything like it. You're like a precisely tuned watch, always ticking— relentless. But sometimes I think you use what God gave you to dig ditches. Lowering yourself. . . these people ..."

I reached for her, and she allowed me to touch her fingertips. But she exerted no stretch that would have allowed me to hold her.

"The thing is," she said, "you get yourself on a track and you just keep running. People around this girl tend to die, Alex, and you haven't even considered the possibility that you might be in danger."

"The people who've died knew her well—"

She sighed and got up. "Listen, I've got work to catch up on—catch you later."

"What about dinner?"

"Not hungry."

"You are wot happy with me."

"On the contrary," she said. "I'm very happy with you. With us. That's why I'd like us both to keep breathing for a while."

"There's no danger. I wouldn't do that to you again."

"To me? Why don't you start thinking of yourself? Check out your own boundaries—what you'll allow in and what you won't."

She bent and kissed my forehead. "I don't mean to be cruel, baby, but I'm weary of all this surmising and ugliness. You did what you could. Keep telling yourself that."

I spent the night alone, listening to music but ingesting no harmony, trying to read—anything but psychology—waiting for Robin to come back in the house. By eleven she hadn't, and I went to bed—early for me—and woke at 4:30 A.M., fighting the urge to bolt, exhausted yetcharged, using every relaxation trick in my repertoire to fall back asleep. I endured the tension for two more hours until Robin's eyes opened and I pretended to be ready to greet the day.

She smiled at me, tousled my hair, showered alone but made coffee for both of us, and sat down with the first section of the paper. If Jane Abbot's murder had made the edition, she didn't say. I took the Metro pages. Nothing there.

By eight she'd headed back to the studio and I was running up in the hills, harder than usual, punishing my joints, trying to sweat off adrenaline. I'd promised myself to avoid the paper, but when I got back I thumbed quickly and found the summary of Jane Abbot's death on page 25. Worded nearly exactly as I'd predicted: senile husband, shocked neighbors, domestic tragedy, investigation pending.

I finished up some court reports—a couple of personal injury cases where kids had experienced psychological sequelae and a custody battle with wealthy protagonists that might never end unless the principals died. Printing, signing, sealing, and addressing my findings to various judges, I reviewed my ledger books and tried to figure out if I'd owe taxes in April. By eleven I still hadn't figured it out. By eleven-thirty Robin bopped in, Spike in tow, and informed me she had to deliver two repaired D'Angelico archtops to the Los Feliz home of a movie star who was considering playing Elvis in an upcoming flick.

"Elvis never played D'Angelicos," I said.

"That should be the worst of it. This guy's got a tin ear." A peck on the cheek—hard, maybe dismissive—and she was off.

By noon I was jumping out of my skin.

At twelve-eighteen I gave up and drove away.

West. Toward Santa Monica. The ocean. Figuring I'd just cruise by Ben Bugger's high-rise, then take a nice, relaxed drive north on Ocean Front, down the ramp to Pacific Coast Highway.

Malibu. Day at the beach. Nothing to do with Lauren, because Lauren had left no clues in Malibu, and why should I avoid an entire coastline?

I could be as Californian as anyone.

But when I passed the building, Dugger was standing out in front, and I reduced my speed to a crawl. Standing alone. Checking his watch. Looking rumpled and tense in a tan corduroy sport coat, white shirt, gray slacks. Flicking his wrist again. Glancing at the ramp of the underground parking garage.

Circling the block, I returned, cruising as slowly as I could without drawing the ire of other motorists. That left me mere seconds to stare, but it was enough to catch a glimpse of a green-jacketed figure— the diminutive Gerald—pulling up in Bugger's old white Volvo, getting out, saluting, opening the door for Bugger.

Bugger gave him a tip and got in.

I drove fifty feet, veered to the curb, parked in front of a hydrant, waited until the Volvo chugged by. Allowing three cars to get between us, I began the tail, knowing this time I couldn't risk discovery. Figuring I could pull it off. No reason for him to suspect.

He turned right onto Wilshire, headed east to Lincoln, picked up the 10 east freeway and transferred to the 405 south. The route to Newport Beach. Probably just checking out the office; soon the Seville and I would be several dozen miles older with nothing to show.

It beat sitting around the house working at mellow.

But instead of continuing to Orange County, he exited at Century Boulevard and continued west.

LAX signs all over. Flying somewhere? I hadn't seen luggage, but perhaps the car was already packed.

He headed into the airport. Maintaining the three-car shield, I stayed with him as he entered a parking lot opposite Terminal 4. Several airlines shared the lot, most prominently American. The driver in front of me had trouble figuring out how to take the ticket from the machine, and by the time I got inside the Volvo was nowhere in sight.

No parking spaces on ground level, and I took the ramp down, hoping Bugger had done the same. Sure enough, I spotted the Volvo's square back just as Bugger nosed into a corner space between two SUVs. He got out and alarm-locked the car, carried no luggage as he headed for the elevators. I chanced parking the Seville in an illegal space and hurried after him.

I hid behind a concrete pylon as he stepped into the lift. Ran over in time to read the illuminated numbers. Two flights up. The footbridge to American Airlines. Vaulting up the stairs, I cracked the stairwell door andsaw him lope past. But he didn't take the right turn toward the escalator that led down to the ticket gates. Continuing straight toward the army of phony nuns and preachers hawking for nonexistent charities, he dropped a coin in a cup and walked hurriedly to the metal detectors.

Long queue of travelers at the single device in service and one sleepy-looking security attendant, so no problem putting space between us there. I watched Dugger place his wallet and keys in a plastic dish and keep his eyes on them as he sailed through. But the two people in front of me set off the machine, and I was forced to cool my heels as Dugger disappeared around a bend.

Finally, I got through and walked briskly through hordes of travelers and loved ones, flight attendants and pilots. No sign of Dugger. During the moments I'd lost sight of him he could've gone anywhere—the men's room, a shop, any of the gates.

I strolled up the corridor trying to look casual, searching for a flash of tan jacket. Then I came to an elevator that led to the private lounge—the Admirals ............