"Good old Werner Kaltenblud, president of the Poison Gas Club. Bastard's still alive in Syria, living like royalty, unrepentant. I've got a more recent connection to the Center. Last year someone painted swastikas on the side of the museum building they're putting up. Not my usual thing, but they called me because of Kaltenblud. Then it hit the news and the brass took over. ATD."

"Frisk?"

"No. The asshole who preceded him, but same old story: TV crews and politicos making speeches-Gordon Latch, in fact."

"How about Massengil?"

"Nope. Not his district."

"Maybe not his area of interest, either."

"Could be. It was a real circus, Alex. ATD playing I Spy, asking lots of clever questions, filing lots of paper, but they never bothered to surveill. Next week there were broken windows and an arson fire in one of the trailers out back in the construction site. We never found out who did any of it. So much for my credibility. But maybe I've still got enough good-will residue for them to think back and try to remember something about this Novato kid. Something more than his library card."

He turned left on Washington, driving parallel with the Marina. A different kind of crowd here. White slacks and deep tans and aggressive little foreign ears. The boulevard was lined with new construction-mostly low-rise designer office buildings festooned with reminders of an architectural heritage that had never existed, and nautical theme restaurants draped with BRUNCH! and HAPPY HOUR! banners.

"Pretty, huh?" said Milo. "The good life reigns."

He drove a couple of blocks, turned off on a street that dead-ended a block later. Small houses, in varying stages of gentrification. Cars lining the street, no people. He parked in front of a hydrant, left the motor running, got out, and opened the trunk.

He came back carrying a shotgun. Clamped it to the dashboard, barrel-up, and pulled the car out onto the street.

I said, "Where to?"

"Somewhere not so pretty."

He got back on Washington, took it to the Marina Freeway, switched to the 405, wrestled with the airport jam for a while, and got off on Imperial Highway heading east. Bordering the off-ramp were the broad gray lots of shipping terminals, import-export companies, and customs brokers, and a four-story self-storage facility that looked like the box an office building would come in. A red light halted us at the intersection of La Cienega and Imperial, and we waited it out, staring at the colossal truncated bulk of the unfinished Century Freeway: hundred-foot concrete dinosaur legs supporting a six-lane slab that ended in mid-air and was fringed with curling steel veins-a messy amputation.

The green arrow appeared and Milo turned. The terrain deteriorated rudely to a block of scabrous one-story buildings on a dry-dust lot. A pool hall, a liquor store, and a bar advertising "nude table dancers," all plywood-boarded and choked with graffiti. Even sin couldn't flourish here.

But a block later there were signs of revitalization. Weekly-rate motels, auto shops, car dealerships, wig stores, and rundown apartments. Several beautifully kept churches, a couple of shopping centers. The sprawling campus of Southwestern College. And for color, the Golden Arches and its rainbow-hued clones-modular fast-food setups so clean and unscarred they might have been dropped into the neighborhood just minutes before by some clumsy Franchise Stork.

Milo said, "Taking the scenic route."

I said, "Long time since I've been down here."

"Didn't know you'd ever been down here. Most folks of the fair-pigment persuasion never find the opportunity."

"Grad school," I said. "First year. I was a research assistant on a Head Start program trying to increase the reading skills of ghetto kids. I took an interest in one of the children-a very bright little boy named Eric. I visited him a couple of times at home-I can still picture the place. He lived on Budlong, near 103rd. Nice-looking building, not at all what I expected for the area. Widowed mother, the father had been shot in Vietnam. Grandma helping out-place was neat as a pin. Lots of pressure from both Mom and Grandma for Eric to get A's, become a doctor or a lawyer."

"How old was he?"

"Five."

Milo whistled. "Long ways to med school."

"Fortunately he had the brains for it."

"What happened to him?"

"I followed him for a couple of years-phone calls, Christmas cards. He was still getting A's. And starting to develop bad stomachaches. I was going up to San Francisco for my internship. Referred the mother to a good pediatrician and a community mental health center. After that, we just kind of lost touch. He'd be college age by now. Amazing. I have no idea what happened to him. Guess that makes me your typical superficial do-gooder, huh?"

Milo didn't say anything. I noticed he was driving faster than usual. Two hands on the wheel. As we zipped eastward, the business establishments grew smaller, sadder, rattier, and I noticed a certain consistency to their distribution: check-cashing outlets, rib joints, nail palaces, liquor stores. Lots of liquor stores. Thin dark men lounged against filthy stucco walls, holding paper bags, smoking, staring off into space. A few women in shorts and rollers sashayed by and caught whistles. But for the most part the streets were deserted-that much South Central and Beverly Hills had in common. A quarter mile farther, even the liquor stores couldn't make it. Plywood storefronts became as common as glass. Movie theaters converted to churches converted to garbage dumps. Vacant lots. Impromptu auto graveyards. Entire blocks of dead buildings shadowing the occasional ragpicker or stray child. More young men, glutted with time, starved of hope. Not a white face in sight.

Milo turned left on Broadway, drove until 108th, and made a right. We passed an enormous, windowless brown brick fortress.

"Southeast Division," he said. "But we're not meeting him there."

He drove for another few miles, through silent residential blocks of tiny, characterless bungalows. Ocher and pink and turquoise texture-coat competed with the angry black-and-Dayglo tangle of gang scrawl. Dirt lawns were surrounded by sheets of chain link. Undernourished dogs scrounged through the trash that lined the curbs. A quick turn took us to 111th. Another led us into a cracked-asphalt alley lined with an alternating band of garage doors and more chain link.

A group of black men in their early twenties loitered midway down the alley. When they saw the Ford cruising toward them, they stared defiantly, then sauntered away and disappeared into one of the garages.

Milo said, "Strictly speaking, this isn't Watts-that's farther east. But same difference."

He turned off the engine and pocketed the keys, then unclasped the shotgun.

"This is where it happened," he said. "Novato. You want to stay in the car, feel free."

He got out. I did the same.

"Place used to be a major crack alley," he said, looking up and down, holding the shotgun in one hand. "Then it got cleaned up-one of those neighborhood group things. Then it got bad again. Depends what week you're here."

His eyes kept moving. To each end of the alley. To the garage doors. I followed his gaze and saw the pock and splinter of bullet holes in stucco and wood-malignant blackheads among the graffiti blemish. The ground was struggling clumps of weeds, garbage, used condoms, cellophane packets, empty matchbooks, the cheap-jewelry glitter of foil scraps. The air stank of dog shit and decomposed food.

"You tell me," said Milo. "Can you think of any reason for him to come down here except for dope?"

The sound of a car engine from the north end of the alley made both of us turn. Milo lifted the shotgun and held it with both hands.

What looked like another unmarked. A Matador. Sage-green.

Milo relaxed.

The car nosed up next to the Ford. The man who got out was about my age, medium-sized and trim, very dark, clean-shaven, with a medium Afro. He wore a banker's pin-striped gray suit, white button-down shirt, red silk tie, and glossy black wing-tips. Square-jawed and straight-backed and very hand-some, but, despite the good posture, tired-looking.

Milo said, "Maury."

"Milo. Congratulations on the promotion."

"Thanks."

The two of them shook hands. Smith looked at me. His face was beautifully shaved and fragrant with good cologne. But his eyes were weary and bloodshot under long thick lashes.

Milo said, "This is Dr. Alex Delaware. He's a shrink, called in to work with the kids at Hale School. He was the one who discovered the connection between the Burden girl and your guy. Been a department consultant for years but had never done a ride-along. I thought Southeast might be instructive."

"Doctor," said Smith. His grip was very firm, very dry. To Milo: "If you wanted to be instructive, how come you didn't give him his own shotgun?"

Milo smiled.

Smith took out a pack of Marlboros, lit one, and said, "Anyway."

Milo said, "Where exactly did it go down?"

"Far as I can remember," said Smith, "just about exactly where you're parked. Hard to recall with all the shootings we get around here. I brought the file-hold on."

He went back to his ear, opened the passenger door, leaned in, and pulled out a folder. Handing it to Milo, he said, "Don't show the pictures to the doctor here unless you want to lose yourself a consultant."

"That bad?"

"Shotgun, from up close-you know what that does. He must have put his hands up in a defensive reflex because they got shredded to pieces-I'm talking confetti. The face was . . . shotgun stuff. Barely enough blood left in him by the time the crime-scene boys arrived. But he was dope-positive all right. Coke and booze and downers-regular walking pharmacy."

Milo thumbed through the folder, his face impassive. I moved closer and looked down. Sheets of paper. Lots of typewritten police prose. A couple of photos taped to the top. Living color. Long-view crime-scene shots and close-ups of something lying face-up on the filthy asphalt. Something ragged and wet that had once been human.

My stomach churned. I looked away but struggled to remain outwardly calm.

Smith had been watching me. He said, "I guess you guys see that stuff-medical school and all that."

"He's a Ph.D.," said Milo.

"Ph.D.," said Smith. "Philosophy doctor." He stretched his arm down the alley. "Any ideas about the philosophy of a place like this?"

I shook my head and smiled. As Milo read, Smith kept checking the alley. I was struck by the silence of the place-a sickly, contrived silence, like that of a mortuary. Devoid of birdsong or traffic, the hum of commerce or conversation. I entertained postnuclear fantasies. Then all at once, noise intruded with all the shock and harshness of an armed robber: the scream and wobble of an ambulance siren from afar, followed by high-pitched human screams-an ugly duet of domestic violence-from somewhere close. Smith gave a distasteful look, glanced at Milo's shotgun, opened his suit jacket, and touched the butt of the revolver that lay nestled in his shoulder holster. Then silence again.

"Okay. Let's see. Ah, here's the toxicology," said Milo, flipping pages. "Yeah, the guy was definitely fried."

"Deep-fried," said Smith, sniffing. "Why else would he be down here?"

Milo said, "One thing I wonder about, Maury. The kid lives in Venice. Ocean Front's a pharmacy in its own right-why bother coming down here?"

Smith thought for a moment and said, "Maybe he didn't like the brand they were selling locally. People do that now-get picky. The businessmen we're dealing with nowadays are into packaging and labeling. Dry Ice, Sweet Dreams, Medellin Mouton-choose your poison. Or maybe he was a businessman himself-selling, not buying, came here to collect something the boys over in Venice weren't providing."

"Maybe," said Milo.

"Why else?" said Smith. "Anyway, don't lose too much sleep over it. If I wasted my time trying to second-guess junkies and wet-heads, might as well nail my foot to the floor and run in circles all day." He puffed on his cigarette.

Milo said, "Yeah, saw your stats on the last report."

"Grim," said Smith. "Wholly uncivilized."

He smoked and nodded, tapped one wing-tip and kept looking up and down the alley. The silence had returned.

Milo returned the file to him. "Not much in the way of background on him-no priors, no history, no family."

"Phantom of the opera," said Smith. "Sucker came right out of nowhere, no files on him anywhere. Which fits if he was an amateur businessman. They're getting crafty. Organized. Buying phony paper, moving around a lot, hiding behind layers, just like the corporations do. They've even got subsidiaries. In other cities, other states. Novato told his landlady he was from somewhere back east-that's as specific as I got. She forgot exactly where. Or didn't want to remember."

"Think she was lying?"

"Maybe. She was something, that one-flaming commie, didn't like cops, wasn't shy about telling you. Being with her was like being back in the sixties, when we were the enemies. Before Miami Vice made it hip to oink."

Smith laughed at his own wit, smoked, and said, "Nice to be hip, right, Milo? Take it to the bank, try to get a loan."

Milo said, "She tell you anything?"

"Diddly." It was all I could do to get her to let me in her house. She was real uppity. Actually called me a cossack-asked me how did it feel to be a black cossack. Like I was some kind of traitor to the race. You get anything out of her?"

"Couldn't," said Milo. "She's gone. Disappeared four days after Novato got hit. No one's seen or heard from her since."

Surprise widened Smith's weary eyes. He said, "Who's on the case?"

"Hal Mehan out of Pacific. He's on vacation, back in two weeks. From what I can gather, he did the usual missing-persons stuff, found out she hadn't packed or taken money out of the bank. Followed it for a couple of weeks and told her friends to hire a P.I. or forget about it. Told her neighbor it looked like foul play out on the streets."

Smith's foot tapped faster. "Mehan know about Novato?"

"The friends say they told him."

Smith said, "Hmm." His eyes half-closed.

Milo said, "Yeah, I know, he coulda told you. Shoulda. But the bottom line is you didn't lose anything. He dead-ended, moved on to greener pastures. The next-door neighbor saved her mail-I just had a look at it. Not much of it, just junk and a few bills."

Smith continued to look perturbed. "Who are these friends of hers? No one in the neighborhood seemed to know much about her. Only one who knew anything at all was the guy next door, some kind of English rabbi. He the one who saved the mail?"

Milo nodded. "Just spoke to him. The friends were a few old folk she knew from temple. Acquaintances more than friends. According to them she wasn't sociable, kept to herself."

"That's true," said Smith. "Man, that was some little old battle-ax."

"They also said she didn't have any family. Same as Novato."

Smith said, "Think that means anything?"

"Who knows?" said Milo. "Coulda been misery loving company. Two loners finding each other."

Smith said, "Black kid and an old white woman? Some company. Or maybe the two of them were up to something, huh? When I went around there on the Novato thing, saw how hostile and radical she was, how she didn't even want me to come inside, I asked around about her being involved in a dope thing. Asked the neighbors about people coming in and out at weird hours, fancy cars parked outside-the usual thing. No one knew anything."

"No one still does," said Milo. "There's one other thing you should know. A few days after she was gone, someone burglarized her place. The rabbi's too. Took small stuff, trashed everything, wrote nasty stuff on the walls."

"What kind of nasty stuff?"

"Anti-Semitic. And something about remembering John Kennedy, in red paint they'd stolen from the garage. That jibe with any of the gang stuff you've been seeing?"

Smith said, "Kennedy? No. There's some punk band-the Dead Kennedys. That's all that comes to mind." He thought. "If they got the paint right there, doesn't sound like they came to paint."

"Could have been just an opportunist junkie," said Milo. "Asshole got caught up in the intruder high and got artistically inspired."

Smith nodded. "Like a shitter." To me: "There're these guys break into houses, steal stuff, and dump a load on the floor. Or the bed. What do you think of that, psychologically? Or philosophically?"

"Power trip," I said. "Forbidden fruit. Leave a signature someone'll remember. Same as the ones who ejaculate. Or eat all the food in the fridge."

Smith nodded.

"Anyway," said Milo, "just thought you should know about all this."