I found a photo of a mousy-looking middle-aged woman being escorted from the California Women's Inst.i.tution in Frontera by her lawyer. Susan Pollack didn't look like a threat to anyone these days. She looked more like a librarian or accountant, her hair cut unflatteringly short, her smile wan and resigned. She looked exhausted and her words sounded repentant. In a brief statement, she said she regretted the role she played in the horrible events of thirty-five years ago, that she renounced her past a.s.sociations and was looking forward to her new chapter in life.

"I was a lost and highly impressionable young girl," Pollack said, "and, though I take all responsibility for my actions, I was easily manipulated and was under the influence of hallucinogenic drugs. For more than thirty years I've regretted the unbearable pain I've caused. I fully renounce my past. I just want to live quietly and alone and go on to the next stage of my life."

The article did not say where she was planning on living.

I closed my laptop and tried to think if there was any possibility, other than the remotest of coincidences, that Evan's death could be linked to this killer. To Russell Houvnanian.

Charlie's friend.

Could it somehow have been tied to Susan Pollack's release from prison? Could Zorn have been trying to contact Evan? Maybe for information about her? Or to possibly warn him?

Or warn Charlie?

I heard my wife's persistent complaint, how I always managed to get drawn in. This time I couldn't even disagree with her.

My brain throbbed with the memory of how I'd once been in the same room with this gruesome murderer. Houvnanian.

I went over to the bed and closed my eyes-a fourteen-year-old's distant recollection rushing back at me through the haze of time.

The blond dude in the Hawaiian shirt going on about how great Charlie was. He and Charlie, rushing out to Phil's Jag. The anger and humiliation on their faces when they returned. My father and Phil laughing at them. The curses, the pointed fingers, accusations. Russell Houvnanian's dark, laser-like eyes and, with what I now knew, that restrained yet foreboding grin. Thank you for your time . . .

I was being drawn in.

And I wasn't even trying to stop it.

So many mysteries wound into my past: Charlie. My father. Evan. It was almost as if Charlie knew it and was trying to keep me away.

But I wasn't going away.

I wrapped my arms around my chest against the chill. In a minute I was asleep.

Chapter Twenty-Six.

"I think I found something," I said.

Sherwood's look suggested I was becoming a nuisance fast. "You think you found something; what . . . ?" he replied with an edge of irritation.

I took out the papers I had folded in my jacket. "I think I found the connection between Evan and Walter Zorn."

I'd called him as soon as I had awakened the next morning. Grudgingly, he agreed to give me a couple of minutes. It came with the promise that if what I had didn't go anywhere this would be the last time I'd bother him. Along with the looser commitment that if that happened, I'd be on a plane back to New York that afternoon.

He slumped back into his squeaky chair with a glance at his watch, then back at me, impatiently. "Your meeting, doc . . ."

I pushed the papers across his desk. "Yesterday I heard on the news that Zorn had worked a couple of high-profile cases back when he was on the force in Santa Barbara. One was the Veronica Verklin murder-"

"Don't tell me your nephew Evan was a fan of sixties p.o.r.n?" Sherwood clucked, rocking.

I let that pa.s.s. "The other was Russell Houvnanian."

I let that name settle until he gave me an almost indecipherable nod, his noncommittal gray eyes seeming to say, Go on.

"My brother Charlie lived on the Riorden Ranch for a while."

He furrowed his brow. "Your brother was a follower of Russell Houvnanian?"

"Not a follower. He only lived there for a while. It was the sixties . . . The early seventies, to be exact. He was rootless. A lot of people found their way there. He claims he was only there for the music and the drugs. Why, you think he prepped for his current status in life with a career at IBM?"

This time, Sherwood shot me a grin, the tiniest encouragement to go forward.

"He said he just hung out there for a couple of months. Long before anything bad happened. Charlie was a musician back then and Houvnanian was trying to raise money for a record."

"And the kicker to this is what, doc?" The detective leaned back in his chair. "Knock me out."

"The kicker is you were trying to find a connection between Evan and Zorn. I found one. I thought you might . . ."

"I might what, doc?" He rose back up, locking his meaty fingers together and dropping them on the desk. "Russell Houvnanian was attempting to arrange financing for your brother's career and you thought I'd go, Oh, we should check this out! You following me at all on just how this is sounding? Anyway, we're talking what here, thirty some-odd years ago?"

"Thirty-seven," I said. I heard exactly how it sounded.

"And so you're saying exactly what?" Sherwood said. "Zorn and your brother shared this six-degrees-of-separation thing, and now, half a lifetime later, the guy tries to contact his son?"

"I'm not sure what I'm saying," I said, my tone rising. "Other than it's a connection. Something."

"And this connection . . ." He picked up the articles I had slid over to him. "It's to prove exactly what-that your nephew didn't kill himself after all? That he-let me get this straight-had some other motivation to climb on up there? To go off his medications. After he'd threatened to kill himself. And excuse me if I appear completely pigheaded here, but . . . isn't everyone who had an a.s.sociation with Houvnanian, uh . . . in jail? Like for the rest of their natural f.u.c.king lives?"

"No," I said. "They're not."

"They're not?"

I pointed to the Examiner's article on Susan Pollack I had printed and pushed it across to him. He took out his reading gla.s.ses and scanned it, looking back up at me when he was done.

"You're saying what now? That this follower of his, this Susan Pollack, has something to do with your nephew's death? You're a doctor. You're supposed to deal in facts. Not fantasies. It was a suicide! The kid jumped off a cliff."

I knew there was no one else here I could count on. What I'd said in that TV interview had surely taken care of that. Just people with zero interest in reversing their findings. On a case that had already been put to bed.

And now I was implying the so-called suicide was tied into a horrific, decades-old crime.

"You said you'd look into it," I said, kind of desperate.

"I said I might look into it. And for the record, I did."

"You did?" That took me by surprise. "And you didn't find anything?"

"Tying Walter Zorn to your nephew? No. At least, not anything rational," he said, sinking back in his chair. "Nothing any sane person would respond to . . ."

"So try me. What did you find?"

Sherwood gave me another grudging smile. He rubbed his jaw. Not in discomfort; more in exasperation or dismay. "There were possible markings on the victim's body that brought back something familiar . . ."

"Familiar?"

"To something related to your nephew. Something we found on him. If you chose to look at it that way."

"Now you're kind of sounding like me," I said, holding back a smile. "What kind of markings are we talking about? And familiar how?"

"I'm afraid I can't tell you. It's one of the details not released to the public yet."

"For G.o.d's sake, Sherwood, I'm a doctor. I think I understand about confidentiality. I'm not going to divulge anything."

"Just like you didn't to that reporter?"

"I know. I get it. I screwed up. Look, I'm sorry," I said, imploring, "but this is about Evan, detective, not me . . ."

He looked at me a long time. Then he said, as if against his better instincts, "There were knife wounds . . ."

"Knife wounds? I thought the cause of death was strangulation?"

"Think of this as a kind of asterisk. And if that gets out, I'll boot your a.s.s back to Westchester so fast you won't need a plane."

"Knife wounds . . . ," I said, nodding that I got the message. "You said they were familiar. Familiar how?"

"You remember that plastic bag I handed back to your brother? With your nephew's personal effects in it?"

I nodded. I thought back to what was in it. A few dollars, some loose change, a key chain . . .

Then it hit me. "That plastic hologram . . . ," I said. Our gazes met. "An eye? The markings on Zorn resembled an eye!"

Sherwood shrugged without a change in his expression. "If you wanted to see it that way."

"And how did you see it?" I stared back, suddenly feeling vindicated.

In his gray, noncommittal eyes, I could see the slightest giving in.

Sonovab.i.t.c.h . . . I felt a surge rush up in me. He's beginning to have misgivings too!

"Look," he said, pushing back, "I'm a coroner's detective, not homicide. I don't solve crimes any longer. I just see if they warrant an investigation. And this one is about as flimsy as it gets. Beyond flimsy! This Miguel Estrada kid says Zorn and your nephew were talking. You find something in your brother's past that connects him and Zorn. Three decades ago. There are knife marks on the victim that kind of resemble something we found on your nephew. They'd laugh me out of the squad room."

"I'm not laughing."

"Yeah." He chuckled. "I know. That's my problem."

"Can I see them?" I asked. "These knife marks."

"Not in the cards."

"I just thought it might help. To confirm what you thought you saw. So where were they?" I asked. "On the body?"

Sherwood picked up and tapped his pencil. "On the underside of the victim's tongue."

"Oh . . ." The feeling snaked through me that I had stepped in something bad. Houvnanian. His victims carved with symbols. Blood all over the walls. Zorn.

Charlie.

"You have to look into this, Sherwood."

He pushed the articles back to me. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves, doc."

"Someone, maybe this woman, Susan Pollack, may have had something to do with Evan's death."

"There's nothing tying her into anything, doc. Your nephew still went up on the rock. He jumped off. Or d.a.m.n well fell while attempting to." He looked at me unwaveringly.

"You told me no one would talk to me over at homicide. And maybe no one gives a s.h.i.t about Evan," I said, "but they d.a.m.ned well might give one about Zorn."

"Look . . ." He glanced at his watch. "I got things to do. And you, you're supposed to be on a plane. Right?"

I looked back at him unwaveringly. "You really think I'm going anywhere until this is resolved?"

The detective stared at me a long time before he threw the pencil back on his desk and shook his head. "Anyone ever tell you, doc, you make it awfully hard for someone to like you?"

I shrugged. "My wife says it all the time."

He stood up and grabbed his jacket. "Yeah, well your wife knows what she's talking about on this one."

I said I'd call him the next day. And the day after that. Until he looked into the possibility of what those cuts meant.

And until he checked out Susan Pollack.

"I know, I know . . . ," I said with a smile. "Don't wait by the phone."

Chapter Twenty-Seven.

Kathy called when I got in the car. I had just pushed off a procedure on the daughter of a friend. Now I was pushing for a few days more. Her patience was running thin. Mine might have been too, if the situation was reversed.

"It's time to come home, Jay."

I didn't answer for a second. I wasn't exactly sure how to. "I can't, Kath. I just can't."