I CRACKED THE bedroom door. Robin was curled on her side, the top sheet pulled down to her bare belly, mouth parted, breathing slowly. As I approached the bed and shut off the alarm clock, her eyes opened.

"A minute to six," I whispered. "Good morning."

She yawned and stretched. "I got tired . . . didn't see you much today—what'd you do?"

"Took a little drive up the coast."

"Oh ... I was thinking maybe we'd have dinner somewhere at the beach. Guess not, now that you've already—"

"The beach is one thing," I said. "The beach with you is another."

Kissing her chin. What a sweet guy. But all the time thinking: Malibu's a small place. Running into someone I knew would not be pretty.

By the time we left the house it was eight P.M., and we reached the coast highway twenty minutes later. I bypassed all the trendoid-infested spots-of-the-week and tried a place we'd never been before—a gray-wood cafe resembling an oversized bait shack perched on a mound of dirt above PCH. On the land side, just past Big Rock, where massive mudslides are the rule and thirty-foot-wide beach properties level off at a million and a half bucks. The decor was rickety picnic tables, sawdust floors, daily printed menus with all the polish of a high school bulletin, char broilers on overdrive, beery dialogue. The room was high enough to catch a clean vista of black ocean, and if the grandmotherly old waitress who greeted us with "Hello, dearies" had ever harbored showbiz illusions, they predated Technicolor.

Several miles before Paradise Cove.

We huddled at a tiny table in the corner, gorged on the mixed seafood grill, fresh corn, creamed spinach, decent Chablis, terrible coffee.

Having a life, and when Robin said, "You seem a little more relaxed," I hid my surprise and nodded innocently. Cheryl Duke's number sat in my wallet, but Robin never goes through my things.

I reached for her hand. She allowed me to hold it for a few minutes, then let go, and I wondered if I was less Olivier than I'd given myself credit for.

"Everything okay?" I said.

"Everything's fine. Just a little tired."

"Still?"

"Guess so."

We went to bed without making love, and I slept restlessly. The next morning she was up way before me, and by the time I reached the kitchen she was heading out with Spike. "Errands? "I said.

"Elvis, again. He still thinks he can sing— Stay safe." "You too."

"Me?" she said. "That's never an issue for me." Before I could respond, she was gone.

I didn't hear from Milo until three P.M. "No progress on LeMoyne and Salander's travel plans, couldn't get past the front desk at Morris, and the prosecutor who handled Gretchen's case has been kicked upstairs to Washington, D.C. Her assistant has taken over, and she says Kent Irving's name doesn't ring a bell. I asked her to check anyway— I suppose there's a chance she will. I asked her about garment guys, period, and she did admit that Gretchen's girls had worked the Mart—servicing buyers, that kind of thing. But the main reason I'm calling is I identified your Mr. Goombah."

"The task force knows him?"

"Didn't have to go to the task force. I had the photos spread out on my desk last night, and when Rick came in to drag me out to dinner he glommed on to them and said, 'How do you know Maccaferri?' As in Dr. Maccaferri. First name, Rene. The guy's a renowned physician, Alex. Big-time researcher headquartered in Paris, but he consults to the National Cancer Institute. Rick recognized him because he attended a seminar Maccaferri gave last year. Prostate cancer. It's his specialty."

"Oh," I said. "Tony Duke's sick."

"And Dutiful Son went to the airport to pick up his doctor."

I laughed. "So much for my big-time mafia theories."

"Hey, you tried."

"Maybe the rest of it's worthless. . . . Can............