"Nostalgia, huh?"

"Reach your thirties, nothing exciting in your life, nostalgia can take on a certain charm. Reliving the past could explain Backer going beyond the usual short-term s.h.a.g."

He phoned 206 information, probed for Backer or Ochs listings. Slammed down the receiver, shaking his head, called the Port Angeles police and talked to a friendly, ba.s.so-voiced cop named Chris Kammen. Kammen knew nothing helpful, promised to ask around.

"Booty-calls for nostalgia's sake."

"Strong chemistry can linger," I said. "But if Brigid was involved with another man, chapter two could get complicated."

"Alleged Brigid, who knows what her real name is? I'm thinking it's time to go public. Any reason I shouldn't?"

He was back on the phone to Parker Center before I finished saying, "Not that I can see."

Three underlings later, he was transferred to Deputy Chief Henry Weinberg. The D.C. mainlined smug. "Sounds like you're nowhere fast."

"It's a tough one."

"Thought that was the kind you liked."

"Up to a point."

"The point where you're nowhere fast, eh? I suppose I can find it within myself to put someone on it but no station's going to flash a morgue shot on screen, too d.a.m.n real for civilians. You have an artist who can make her look alive?"

"I'll find one."

"Do your homework, first," said Weinberg. "Then talk to me."

Milo's obvious first choice was Petra Connor, because she'd worked as a commercial artist before joining the department, had serious talent. A call to her office at Hollywood Division revealed she was in Cabo for R and R with her live-in, Eric Stahl. Additional poking around produced the name of Officer Henry Gallegos from Pacific Division, whose A.A. in art from Santa Monica College made him Rembrandt. Gallegos was off for the day at Disneyland with his wife and twin toddlers, but agreed to be in by six p.m. if traffic wasn't too crazy.

"Nothing fancy, Lieutenant, right?"

"Just make it so she doesn't scare anyone."

"Broke my finger last week playing ball," said Gallegos, "but I can still do pretty good."

That night at home, I checked the late news for the story, got a headful of politics and natural disasters, a horrific child abuse case that made me turn off the tube and hope I wouldn't be asked to get involved.

I played guitar and read psych journals and hung with Blanche and listened to a disk of Anat Cohen wailing on her clarinet and saxophones. Replaying "Cry Me a River" a couple of times because that was a great song, period. Robin and I ate chicken and mashed potatoes, took a long bath, did lots of nothing. When she yawned at midnight, I joined her and managed to stay asleep until seven a.m.

I found her eating a bagel and drinking coffee in the kitchen. The TV was tuned to a local affiliate morning show. Pretty faces prattling about celebrities and recipes and the latest trends in downloadable music.

She said, "You just missed that girl's face in the news."

"Good rendition?"

"I don't know what she actually looks like but the overall draftsmanship was okay. In that sidewalk-artist way."

I surfed channels, finally found an end-of-broadcast segment. Henry Gallegos wouldn't be giving up his day job but the resemblance was good enough.

I tried Milo's desk phone. He'd installed the recorded message that thanked tipsters in an appropriately professional tone and promised to get back as soon as possible.

The onslaught had apparently begun.

I finished a couple of reports, e-mailed invoices to attorneys, took a run, showered. Milo called just as I was getting dressed.

"Tip-storm?"

"Forty-eight helpful citizens in the first hour. Including twenty-two flagrant psychotics and five psychics posing as helpful citizens."

"Hey," I said, "politicians rely on the psychotic vote."

He laughed. "Binchy and Reed and I have been talking to a slew of well-meaning folk absolutely convinced Brigid is someone they know. Unfortunately, none of the facts fit and they're all wrong. The only decent bit of possible is a you-guessed-it anonymous tip from a pay phone. Listen."

A burst of static was followed by ambient hum. Rising traffic noise drowned out the first few words: "... that girl. At that unbuilt house." Shaky male voice. Old or trying to sound old. Ten-second gap, then: "She been with Monte."

I said, "Those hesitations sound like fear. It could be real."

"Too scared to use his own phone and leave a name, gee thanks. And just to keep you current, my most weak-willed judge said nyet to subpoenaing the Holmans' financials so it's air sandwich for brunch."

"Could you play the message again?"

When the tape ended, I said, "He knows this Monte well enough to use a name, has seen her with Monte but doesn't know her well enough to use her name. Maybe I've been wrong, the two of them had no relationship and this'll turn out to be one of those wrong-time, wrong-placers."

"Bite your tongue, right now I'm going with Mr. Tipster being too freaked to give me everything he knows. d.a.m.n pay phone-guy was lucky to find one that works."

"Where is it?"

"Venice Boulevard near Centinela. Lots of apartments all around."

I said, "He sounded elderly. The pre-cell generation."

"Brigid's been seen at Borodi by herself, maybe she had some connection to it-worked for one of the subs and she was the one who initiated the tryst with Backer. And maybe she knew Monte-or he knew her because your guess about a tradesman was right on. I'm going downtown, get a hands-on with all the permits for the job. Who knows, maybe it'll be constructive."

At two p.m., he showed up at my house, lugging his scarred vinyl attache case. The customary kitchen scrounge produced last night's chicken and mash, a bottle of ketchup, stalks of celery in need of v.i.a.g.r.a. Everything ingested at warp speed while standing at the counter then chased with a carton of orange juice. When he offered Blanche a sc.r.a.p she turned away.

"Picky?"

"She doesn't want to deprive you."

"Empathic."

"She takes the psych boards this year. I'm predicting a pa.s.s."

Stooping to pet, he sat at the table, unlatched the case. "The general contractor was an outfit named Beaudry, out in La Canada, they specialize in big projects, got a website full of 'em. Not including Borodi."

"Another confidentiality agreement?"

"I pressed a V.P., couldn't pry a d.a.m.n thing out, including any subs. And no knowledge of anyone named Monte. As if he'd tell me different."

The attache case rattled, twitching atop the table like a frog in a nasty experiment.

He pulled out his cell phone. "Sturgis ... you're kidding... on my way." Standing and brushing bits of chicken from his shirt. "Bit of conflict at the dream palace."

Sc.r.a.ps of yellow tape blew in the breeze. Two uniformed patrolmen held Doyle Bryczinski by his skinny arms. Thirty feet up, another pair of cops restrained a well-dressed, white-haired man, who wasn't going down easy. Shouting, one foot stomping; the uniforms looked bored.

Bryczinski said, "Hey, Lieutenant. Could you tell them this is my turf?"

Milo addressed a female officer tagged Briskman. "What's up?"

"This one and that one took issue with each other's presence. Loud issue, a neighbor phoned 911. We got it as a 415, possible a.s.sault. When we arrived, they were just about ready to tussle."

"No way I tussle," said Bryczinski. "Why would I tussle? He's an old fart, this is my turf."

Milo placed a finger near Bryczinski's lips. "Hold on, Doyle."

"Can they at least let go of me? My arms hurt and I need to get off the leg."

Milo glanced past Bryczinski, at something big and green-handled, lying just outside the fence. "Bolt cutters, Doyle?"

"Just in case."

"In case of what?"

"An emergency."

"I put that chain there, Doyle."

"I wasn't going to cut nothing. It was just in case I had to go in."

"For what?"

"What I said, an emergency."

"Such as?"

"I dunno, another crime? A fire?"

"Why would there be another crime or a fire, Doyle?"

"There wouldn't, I'm just saying."

"Saying what?"

"I like to be prepared."

"If I search your car, Doyle, am I going to find anything criminally useful-or flammable?"

"No way."

"Do I have permission to search your car?"

Hesitation.

"Doyle?"

"Sure, go ahead."

"Let go of him, guys, so he can give me his car key."

Milo rummaged in the Taurus, came back. "Nothing iffy, Doyle, but I'm gonna have these officers bring you to my office so we can chat some more."

"I didn't do nothing, Lieutenant. I can't leave, I'm on the job-"

"The job's temporarily suspended, Doyle."

"What about my car? I leave it there, I'll get a ticket."

"I'll put a sticker on the windshield."

Bryczinski's eyes watered. "If I don't work, company'll can my a.s.s."

"We'll talk at the station, Doyle, everything works out, you're back here today. But don't mess with neighbors."

"He ain't a neighbor, he's a maniac. Claims he owns the place and tried to hit me upside the head when I told him to buzz off."

"Charles Ellston Rutger."

The man cleared his throat for the third time, smoothed back thin white hair, cast a derisive look.

His houndstooth sport coat was high-grade cashmere with working leather b.u.t.tons, suede elbow patches, and a cut that said tailor-made, but the lapels were several decades too wide. Knife-pressed cream slacks broke perfectly over spit-shined oxblood loafers. His shirt was once-blue pinpoint oxford faded to lavender-gray and frayed along the rim of the collar. A gold gizmo shaped like a safety pin held the collar in place, elevating the Windsor knot of a pine-green foulard patterned with bugles and foxhounds. More fabric erosion fuzzed the tie. Same for a canary-yellow pocket square.

Charles Rutger's driver's license made him sixty-six. Skin as cracked and dry and blotched as the seats of a convertible left open to the elements would have made me guess older. He'd lied about his height and weight, adding an inch or two, subtracting the fifteen pounds that strained the b.u.t.tons of the sport coat. The white hair, slicked back, waxy and furrowed by comb marks, was topped by a yellowish sheen. Heavy eyelids were specked with tiny wens.

South Pasadena address, not the fashionable part of that city, an apartment unit. The single vehicle registered in his name was a fifteen-year-old maroon Lincoln Town Car. The very same sedan parked haphazardly near the fence.

"Bit of a drive from South Pasadena, Mr. Rutger."

"This is my homestead, I can get here in my sleep." Plummy voice, vaguely mid-Atlantic, explicitly disapproving.

"You say you own this property?"

"I don't say it, basic decency says it. When I heard about what happened, I rushed right over."

"How'd you find out?"

"The news. Of course." Charles Ellston Rutger tugged his lapels straight.

"The registered owner is a company named DSD."