"A convention?"

"You know, one of those medical meetings. He was a nice man, too-never lost patience the way some of the-" Nervous laugh. "Scratch that comment, Dr. D. Anyway, if you're calling about a patient, Dr. Stoumen's were divided up among the rest of the doctors in the group, and I can't be sure which one took the one you're calling about."

"How many doctors are in the group?"

"Carney, Langenbaum, and Wolf. Langenbaum's on vacation, but the other two are in town-take your pick."

"Any recommendations?"

"Well ..." Another nervous laugh. "They're both-all right. Wolf tends to be a little better about returning calls."

"Wolf'll be fine. Is that a him or a her?"

"A him. Stanley Wolf, M.D. He's in session right now. I'll put a message on his board to call you."

"Thanks a lot, Joan."

"Sure bet, Dr. D. Have a nice day."

I installed the dog door, making slow progress because I kept pausing between saw swings and hammer blows, convinced I'd heard footsteps in the house or unwarranted noise out on the terrace.

A couple of times I actually went down to the garden and looked around, hands clenched.

The grave was a dark ellipse of dirt. Dried fish scales and a slick gray-brown stain marked the pond bank.

I went back up, did some touch-up painting around the door frame, cleaned up, and had a beer. The dog tried his new passageway, ingressing and egressing several times and enjoying himself.

Finally, tired and panting, he fell asleep at my feet. I thought about who'd want to scare me or hurt me. The dead fish stayed in my head, a cognitive stench, and I remained wide-awake. At eleven, he awoke and raced for the front door. A moment later, the mail chute filled.

Standard-sized envelopes that I sorted through. One had a Folsom POB return address and an eleven-digit serial number hand-printed above it in red ink. Inside was a single sheet of ruled notebook paper, printed in the same red.

Doctor A. Delaware, Ph.D.

Dear Dr. Delaware, Ph.D.: I am writing to you to express my feelings about seeing my daughters, namely Chondra Wallace and Tiffani Wallace, as their natural father and legal guardian.

Whatever was done to our family including done by myself and no matter how bad is in my opinion, water under the bridge. And such as it is, I should not be denied permission and my paternity rights to see my lawful, legal daughters, Chondra Wallace and Tiffani Wallace.

I have never done anything to hurt them and have always worked hard to support them even when this was hard. I don't have any other children and need to see them for us to have a family.

Children need their fathers as I'm sure I don't have to tell a trained doctor like yourself. One day I will be out of incarceration. I am their father and will be taking care of them. Chondra Wallace and Tiffani Wallace need me. Please pay attention to these facts.

Yours sincerely, Donald Dell Wallace I filed the letter in the thick folder, next to the coroner's report on Ruthanne. Milo called at noon and I told him about the fish. "Makes it more than a prank, doesn't it?"

Pause. "More than I expected."

"Donald Dell knows my address. I just got a letter from him."

"Saying what?"

"One day he'll be out and wanting to be a full-time dad, so I shouldn't deny him his rights now."

"Subtle threat?"

"Could you prove it?"

"No, he could have gotten your address through his lawyer-you're reviewing his claim, so he'd be entitled to it legally. Incidentally, according to my sources he doesn't have an audio recorder in his cell. TV and VCR, yes."

"Cruel and unusual. So what do I do?"

"Let me come over and check out your pond. Notice any footprints or obvious evidence?"

"There were some prints," I said, "though they didn't look like much to my amateur eyes. Maybe there's some other evidence that I wasn't sophisticated enough to spot. I was careful not to disturb anything-oh, hell, I buried the fish. Was that a screw-up?"

"Don't worry about it, it's not like we're gonna do an autopsy." He sounded uneasy.

"What's the matter?" I said.

"Nothing. I'll come by and have a look as soon as I can. Probably the afternoon."

He spoke the last words tentatively, almost turning the statement into a question.

I said, "What is it, Milo?"

"What it is, is that I can't do any full-court press for you on this. Killing a fish just isn't a major felony-at the most, we've got trespassing and malicious mischief."

"I understand."

"I can probably take some footprint molds myself," he said. "For what it's worth."

"Look," I said, "I still don't consider it a federal case. This is cowardly bullshit. Whoever's behind it probably doesn't want a confrontation."

"Probably not," he said. But he still sounded troubled, and that started to rattle me.

"Something else," I said. "Though it's also probably no big deal. I was looking at the conference brochure again and tried to contact the three local therapists who gave speeches. Two weren't listed, but the one who was had been killed this past spring. Hit by a car while attending a psychiatric symposium. I found out because his answering service just happens to be the same one I use and the operator told me."

"Killed here in L.A.?"

"Out of town, she didn't remember where. I've got a call in to one of his associates."

"Symposium," he said. "Curse of the conference?"

"Like I said, it's probably nothing-the only thing that is starting to bug me is I can't reach anyone associated with the de Bosch meeting. Then again, it's been a long time, people move."

"Yeah."

"Milo, you're bugged about something. What is it?"

Pause. "I think, given everything that's been happening-putting it all together-you'd be justified getting a little ... watchful. No paranoia, just be extra careful."

"Fine," I said. "Robin's coming home early-tonight. I'm picking her up at the airport. What do I tell her?"

"Tell her the truth-she's a tough kid."

"Some welcome home."

"What time are you picking her up?"

"Nine."

"I'll get over well before then and we'll put our heads together. You want, I can stay at the house while you're gone. Just feed me and water me and tell Rover not to make demands."

"Rover's a hero as far as I'm concerned-he's the one who heard the intruder."

"Yeah, but there was no follow-through, Alex. Instead of eating the sucker, he just stood around and watched. What you've got is a four-legged bureaucrat."

"That's cold," I said. "Didn't you ever watch Lassie?"

"Screw that, my thing was Godzilla. There's a useful pet."

By three, no one had returned my calls and I felt like a cartoon man on a desert island. I did paperwork and looked out the window a lot. At three-thirty, the dog and I hazarded a walk around the Glen, and when I arrived back home, there were no signs of intrusion.

Shortly after four, Milo arrived, looking hurried and bothered. When the dog came up to him, he paid no mind.

He held an audiocassette in one hand, his vinyl attache case in the other. Instead of making his usual beeline to the kitchen, he went into the living room and loosened his tie. Putting the case on the coffee table, he handed me the tape.

"The original's in my file. This is your copy."

Seeing it brought back the screams and the chants. That child.... I put it in my desk and we went down to the pond, where I showed him the footprints.

He kneeled and inspected for a long time. Stood, frowning. "You're right, these are useless. Looks to me like someone took the time to mess them up."

He checked around the pond area some more, taking his time, getting his pants dirty. "Nope, nothing here worth a damn. Sorry."

That same troubled tone in his voice that I'd heard over the phone. He was holding back something, but I knew it was useless to probe.

Back in the living room, I said, "Something to drink?"

"Later." He opened the vinyl case and took out a brown plastic box. Removing a videocassette from it, he bounced it against one thigh.

The tape was unmarked, but the box was printed with the call letters of a local TV station. Rubber-stamped diagonally across the label was the legend PROPERTY LAPD: EVIDENCE RM. and a serial number.

"Dorsey Hewitt's last stand," he said. "Definitely not for prime time, but there's something I want you to check out-if your stomach can take it."

"I'll cope."

We went into the library. Before inserting the cartridge into the VCR, he peered into the machine's load slot.

"When's the last time you lubricated this?"

"Never," I said. "I hardly use it except to record sessions when the court wants visuals."

He sighed, slid the cartridge in, picked up the remote control, pressed PLAY, and stood back, watching the monitor with his hands folded across his waist. The dog jumped up on a big leather chair, settled, and regarded him. The screen went from black to bright blue and a hiss filtered through the speakers.

A half minute more of blue, then the TV station logo flashed over a digital date, two months old.

Another few moments of video stutter were followed by a long shot of an attractive, one-story brick building, with a central arch leading to a courtyard and wood-grilled windows. Tile roof, brown door to the right of the arch.

Close up on a sign: LOS ANGELES COUNTY MENTAL HEALTH CENTER, WESTSIDE.

Swing back to a long shot: two small, dark-garbed figures crouched on opposite sides of the arch-toylike: G.I. Joe figurines holding rifles.

A side shot revealed police barriers fencing the street.

No sound other than static, but the dog's ears had perked and pitched forward.

Milo raised the volume, and a soup of incomprehensible background speech could be heard above the white noise.

Nothing for a few seconds, then one of the dark figures moved, still squatting, and repositioned itself to the left of the door. Another figure came from around a corner and lowered itself to a deep crouch, both hands on its weapon.

A close-up inflated the new arrival, turning dark cloth into navy blue, revealing the bulk of protective vesting, white letters spelling out LAPD across a broad back. Combat boots. Blue ski mask revealing only eyes; I thought of Munich terrorists and knew something bad was going to happen.

But nothing did for the next few moments. The dog's ears were still stiff and his breathing had quickened.

Milo rubbed one shoe with another and ran his hand over his face. Then the brown door on the screen swung open on two people.

A man, bearded, long-haired, scrawny. The beard, a matted frenzy of blond and gray corkscrews. Above a blemished, knotted forehead, his hair haloed in spiky clumps, recalling a child's clumsily drawn sun.

The camera moved in on him, highlighting dirty flesh, sunken cheeks, bloodshot eyes so wide and bulging they threatened to shoot off the shaggy launchpad of his face.

He was naked from the waist up and sweating furiously. The wild eyes began rotating madly, never blinking, never settling. His mouth was agape, like a dental patient's, but no sound issued forth. He appeared to be toothless.

His left arm was clamped around a heavy black woman, imbedded so tightly in her soft, skirted waist that the fingers disappeared.

The skirt was green. Over it the woman wore a white blouse that had come partially untucked. She was around thirty-five and her face was wet, too-perspiration and tears. Her teeth were visible, lips stretched back in a rictus of horror.

The man's right arm was a bony yoke around her neck. Something silvery flashed in his hand as he pressed it up against her throat.

She closed her eyes and kept them clenched.

The man was leaning her back, pressing her to him, convexing her neck and revealing the full breadth of a big, shiny carving knife. Red-stained hands. Red-stained blade. Only her heels touched the pavement. She was off balance, an unwilling dancer.

The man blinked, darted his eyes, and looked at one of the SWAT cops. Several rifles were aimed at him. No one moved.

The woman trembled and the collaring hand moved involuntarily and brought forth a small red mark from her neck. The blotch stood out like a ruby.

She opened her eyes and stared straight ahead. The man screamed something to her, shook her, and they closed again.

The camera stayed on the two of them, then shifted smoothly to another of the SWAT men.