Guilt

near the southwest corner of Linden Drive and Wilshire.

Busy stretch of impeccable Beverly Hills sidewalk, easy to blend in with a light pedestrian parade as I repeated a two-block circuit while pretending to window-shop.

The Seville was parked in a B.H. city lot. Two hours gratis, so shoppers could concentrate on consumer goods and cuisine.

I wasn’t planning to buy anything; I had something to sell. Or trade, depending on how things worked out.

Apex Management was headquartered in a forties-era three-story brick building that looked as if it had once housed doctors and dentists. A few months ago, I’d read about the Beverly Hills city council wanting to clamp down on medical offices because health care attracted hordes of-surprise! — sick people who took up too many parking spaces and failed to spend like tourists.

Entertainment ancillaries like Apex, on the other hand, churned expense accounts at the city’s truffled-up eateries and attracted publicity magnets and the paparazzi and there’s no such thing as bad publicity.

I was facing a collection of psychotically priced cashmere sweaters and wondering if the goats who’d donated their hair were having a rough winter when the first human outflow emerged from behind Apex’s carved oak doors.

Three men in their twenties and thirties, then four more, all wearing Italian suits, open-necked dress shirts, and loafers. Industry-ancillary uniform. Which was the point.

Next came a man and two women in tailored pantsuits, followed by a pair of younger women similarly but less expensively attired. Those two let the door close on the next person out: a tired-looking older man in a green janitor’s uniform.

Three minutes later the prey came into view.

Tall, late twenties, crowned by a thick mop of blond-streaked, light brown hair, he wore black-framed geek eyeglasses that stretched wider than his pasty, bony face. In the firm’s Christmas party photos he’d worn wire rims.

He’d also tended to pose standing slightly apart from his co-workers, which had led me to hope he was a loner.

Wish fulfilled: all by himself and looking worn out and distracted.

The perfect quarry.

I watched him stop and fidget. His suit was black with a pink pinstripe, narrow-lapelled, snugly fitted. Cheaply cut when you got close, as much hot glue as stitching in play. A Level Two Service Assistant’s salary wouldn’t cover high-end threads.

I walked toward him, noticed a loose thread curling from one shirt collar. Tsk tsk.

We were face-to-face. He was concentrating on the sidewalk, didn’t notice. When my shadow intruded on his, his head rose and he gave a start and tried to move past me.

I blocked him. “Kevin?”

“Do I know you?”

“No, but you do know JayMar Laboratory Supplies.”

“Huh?”

I held my LAPD consultant I.D. badge close to my thigh, raised it just enough so he had to strain to read the part I wasn’t covering with my thumb.

Showcasing the always-impressive department seal while concealing my name and ambiguous title.

“Police?”

I said, “Could I have a moment of your time, Kevin?”

His mouth opened wide. So did the carved oak door, ejecting more suits, male and female, a large group buoyant with liberation, headed our way, laughing raucously.

Someone said, “Hey, Kev.”

The quarry waved.

I said, “I can show them the badge, too.”

His jaws clenched. “Don’t.”

“Your call, Kev.” Walking back to Wilshire, I returned to the sweater display, kept my eye on him while pretending to study my cell phone.

Co-workers coalesced around him. A woman said something and pointed across Wilshire. Smiling painfully, he shook his head. The group continued on, merry as carolers. Crossing the boulevard, they continued toward a restaurant on the ground floor of a black-glass office building.

El Bandito Grill.

A banner proclaimed Happy Hour!!!

Not for Kevin Dubinsky.

As I waited for him, he kicked one heel with the other. Contemplating an alternative. Failing to come up with one, he removed his glasses and swung them at his side as pipe-stem legs propelled him toward me.

When he got close, he mumbled, “What’s going on?”

I said, “How ’bout we walk while we chat?”

“Chat about what?”

“Or we could talk right here, Kevin.” I pulled out the photocopied order form.

JayMar Laboratory Supplies, Chula Vista, California

Five hundred dermestid beetles and a set of surgical tools, including a bone saw, purchased four months ago.

It had taken me a while to get the info. Call after futile call using the address of the compound off Coldwater Canyon.

The pitch: “I’m calling to renew an order for dermestid beetles …”

No one knew what I was talking about. Then I realized I’d goofed big-time. People like that didn’t do things for themselves. After substituting Apex Management’s shipping address-a warehouse in Culver City-I had confirmation by the seventh call, a nice clean fax of the form.

Kevin Dubinsky’s name at the bottom as “purchaser.”

Facebook and LinkedIn supplied all I needed to know about him. Let’s hear it for cyber-truth.

He turned away from the order form. “So? It’s my job.”

“Exactly, Kev. Your job’s what we need to discuss.”

“Why?”

“You buy flesh-eating insects and scalpels regularly?”

“I figured it was …” He shut his mouth.

“It was what?”

“Nothing.” Flash of bitter smile. “I’m not paid to think.”

“Are you paid not to think?”

No answer.

“What you take home, Kev, you might want to reconsider your priorities.”

“There’s a problem?”

“Only if you don’t cooperate.”

“With what?”

“Better I ask the questions.”

“Something bad happened?”

“I don’t visit people to talk about jaywalking, Kev.”

“Oh, shit-what’s going on?”

“Like I said, Kev, the less you know the better.”

“Shit.” He licked his lips, began walking east on Wilshire. I kept up with his long stride. All those years with Milo, great practice.

I said, “Tell me about it.”