BY THE THIRD day Robin still hadn't called, and I tried to drag myself out of inertial sludge into a walking depression.

Finding Agnes Yeager was easy.

Olivia Brickerman, LCSW, a friend and former mentor at Western Pediatrics, now a professor of social work at the gracious old school crosstown, had full command of the Medi-Cal and private insurance data banks, and it took thirty seconds for her to pull up the name.

"The age of privacy," she said. "Always wear clean underwear. Yeager, Agnes Mavis, DOB fifty-one years ago. . . . Looks like she did some time at County Gen. . . . From the billing codes, endocrinology, cardiology, some lung workups ... a psych consult—short-term consult, four sessions. After that she was transferred to the rehab unit at Casa de los Amigos for a month, then discharged to an aftercare facility in San Bernardino—SweetHaven. Sounds like something from a kiddie book. That's the last thing I've got. Last billing was thirteen months ago." She read off the convalescent home's phone number. "So how's Gorgeous Robin?"

"Terrific."

"And you?"

"The same."

"Yeah?"

"What, I don't sound terrific?"

"The doctor gets defensive," she said, cheerfully. "You're forgetting, boychik, that before I became a big-shot academic I did what you do. And right now my third ear is telling me you're not smiling."

"Okay, now I am," I said. Actually forcing my lips into position. "How's that?"

"Meat but no motion, boychik—you're sure you're okay?"

"I'm terrific. How about you?"

"Changing the subject. Don't you think I deserve a more subtle form of resistance— I'm fantastic, Alex. Menopause is everything they claim and more. But my fine spirits should be obvious. Unlike other people I don't have that schleppy tone permeating my voice."

"Lack of sleep, that's all."

"Lack of sleep and Agnes Mavis Yeager?"

"No," I said. "It's complicated."

"With you it tends to be. We should have lunch, it's been a long time. You can tell me stories and I'll pretend to be your mother."

"It's a deal, Liv."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Meanwhile, I won't eat on the chance that if you do call my mouth won't be full."

A phone call to SweetHaven Convalescent Home leavened by a few lies got me the information that Agnes Yeager had moved out three months ago. Forwarding address: the Four Seasons Hotel, on Doheny. The personnel office there confirmed that Ms. Yeager was cleaning rooms on the eight A.M. to three P.M. shift.

Working again, so she'd mended, physically.

Returning to L.A., so maybe she hadn't given up.

At 2:15 P.M. I drove to the Four Seasons, handed the doorman a ten, and asked him to keep the Seville up front. I'd just had the car washed and waxed, and he smiled as he nosed it between a Bentley Arnage and a Ferrari Testarossa.

The lobby teemed with grim, skinny things in all-black, and I pushed past them and used the house phone to call Housekeeping. Once I got a supervisor on the line, I talked quickly and ambiguously, said it was important that I speak to Mrs. Yeager, old friend, some kind of family issue.

"Is this an emergency, sir?"

"Hard to say. I just need a few minutes."

"Hold on."

Several minutes later a weak, sibilant voice came on. "Yes?"

"Mrs. Yeager, my name is Alex Delaware. I'm a psychologist who works with the police and I've been looking into Shawna's case— I've just begun, nothing to report, I'm afraid. But I was wondering if we could talk."

"A psychologist? What, some kind of research?"

"No, ma'am. I consult to the police, am trying to find some answers— I know it's been a long time—"

"I like psychologists. One of them helped me. I was sick—they thought it was . . . Where are you, sir?"

"Down in the lobby."

"Here? Oh. Well, I'm off in a few minutes, I'll meet you out on Burton Way, near the employee exit."

She was there by the time I walked around the corner, a small, thin, gray-haired woman wearing a charwoman's pink uniform. Her hair was cropped and coarse, and her eyeglasses were steel-rimmed rectangles. Freshly applied scarlet lipstick screamed from chapped lips, and her cheeks had been rouged. High-waisted and flat-chested, she looked ten years older than fifty-one.

"Thank you so much for doing this, Dr.— Was it Delavalle?"

"Delaware. I'm afraid I can't promise you—"

"I'm past promises. I'm parked a few blocks down, do you mind walking?"

"Not at all."

"It's a nice day anyway," she said. "At least weather-wise."

We headed east on Burton, and she thanked me again for reopening Shawna's case. I tried to offer a disclaimer, but she wasn't hearing it. Went on about how it was about time, the police had never really investigated fully. "And that detective they assigned—Riley. Didn't do a darn thing. Not that I want to speak ill of the dead."

"He died?" I said.

"You didn't know? Just over two months ago. Retired to the desert and spent all his time playing golf and just keeled over on the golf course. I know because I used to call him—not too often, because frankly I didn't have much faith in him. But he was ... a link to Shawna. He wasn't a bad man, Riley. Just not. . . energetic. He did give me his home number when he retired. Last time I phoned him, his poor wife told me, and I ended up comforting her. So you see, I'm not hoping for miracles, but at least I have an open mind. 'Cause in my opinion, Riley and the rest of them never did. I'm not saying they deliberately set out not to care, but I feel, to this day, that they just thought finding Shawna was hopeless and never really tried."

No anger. A speech she'd recited often.

"What do you think they could've done?"

"Publicize more. I tried the newspapers, but they weren't interested. You have to be rich and famous to get attention. Or get killed by someone rich and famous."

"Sometimes it's like that in L.A.," I said.

"Probably everywhere, but all I know is L.A., 'cause that's where my Shawna died—you see, I'm not denying that anymore. I got past that. The last time I spoke to him, Leo Riley tried to tell me not to hope for the best. It was kinda funny the way he got all nervous and stuttery, like he was telling me something I didn't know. But I'd gotten there a long time ago. No way could my Shawna be missing this long without telling me and not be ... gone. All I want, now, is to know what happened. Know where she is, give her a decent Christian burial. The psychologist I talked to—Dr. Yoshimura—she said everyone made a big deal about closure but closure was foolishness made up by people who write books—it didn't exist, how could you ever heal something like that?"

She tapped her chest. "It leaves a big hole that can never be filled, but you try to learn what you can, and if you succeed maybe you coat it around the edges a little. She was terrific. Yoshimura. I did counseling with her 'cause one day I collapsed—everything went black and I fell down. Everyone thought I had a heart attack, they put me through every test known to modern mankind, found out I did have high cholesterol but my heart was still okay. In the end they said it was nerves. Anxiety. Dr. Yoshimura taught me how to relax. I became a vegetarian, stopped smoking. I could accept relaxing from Dr. Yoshimura because she wasn't telling me to get some closure the way everyone else was. That was the thing about Mr. Riley. He was real relaxed except when it came to talking about real things. Like the fact that he hadn't learned a thing about Shawna— He'd pretend to listen, but I knew he wasn't. I called him even after he retired because I figured it was rent he should be paying. And now he's gone. . . . Here, I'm parked on Swall."

We turned up a tree-lined block full of luxury apartment condominiums, and she led me to an old Nissan Sentra, once red, now faded to dusty rose. The car's trunk was littered with leaves.

"Two-hour limit," she said, pointing to a parking sign, "but usually they don't check. Sometimes I park in the employee lot under the hotel, but sometimes it's full. And I don't like those subterranean things. Spooky."

She unlocked the car. "Do you mind............