Survival Of The Fittest

Attentive, but maintaining distance.

Professional distance?

So she probably was a patient.

Or a sister. It definitely didn't look romantic.

He copied down the license plate number on the blond woman's Mustang, waited til the two of them had driven off, then sauntered to the rear of the duplex in his electrician's uniform and let himself through the rear door by popping an absurd lock.

Pretty clear why the woman had looked so miserable.

Burglarized.

He poked around in the debris, found utility bills with the name Nolan Dahl on them that matched the address. Later that night, after a cold-sandwich-and-bottled-water dinner and some praying with insufficient conviction, he turned on his computer, hacked into the Department of Motor Vehicles file, and ran the woman's license plates.

Helena Allison Dahl, thirty years old, blond hair, blue eyes, an address in Woodland Hills.

Ex-wife of the burglarized Nolan?

So where was Nolan?

Or maybe the guy was an irate husband who'd ruined his own place to get back at the wife.

She'd call her therapist for something like that.

One thing seemed likely: nothing to do with murder.

Which made sense. Sturgis would be concentrating full-time on Irit, but the psychologist would have a whole other life. To him, Irit would be just another consultation.

Tentative conclusion: Outing number 1 didn't relate to any of his concerns.

Neither, as far as he could tell, did the second one.

Downtown, terrible traffic all the way, and following the psychologist's green Cadillac at a discreet distance had been difficult. Another challenge was finding parking for the van near the lot the psychologist chose without losing sight of that curly head for too long.

Getting into the limestone building, though, was easy.

No guard, and the electrician's uniform gave him that air of belonging.

The van, too.

Uniforms and vans. He'd spent so much of his life in them.

His main prop for the building was a nice little toolbox whose contents could serve as more than props. He carried it in his good hand and kept the bad one in his pocket because why attract unnecessary attention.

He made it to the lobby just as the psychologist entered the elevator, watched the lift rise to the top floor.

Moments later, up there himself, he examined the doorplates, trying to figure out where the guy had gone.

Law firms, accountants, investment bankers, and one Ph.D.

Another psychologist? The sign said only CONSULTANT.

Roone M. Lehmann, Ph.D.

One consultant visiting another.

Unless the psychologist was a major investor and had come to check out his holdings.

Unlikely. The guy lived nicely but not extravagantly. Lehmann the consultant was the best bet.

He copied the name down for a DMV run, ducked around a corner that gave him a view of Lehmann's door, pulled out his electric meter, and unscrewed an overhead light fixture. If any of the wood-paneled doors had opened, he was ready to probe and tinker and look official.

Nothing happened until nearly a half hour later when the psychologist stepped into the hall.

Out of Lehmann's office. Lehmann, a big, flabby-looking white-haired guy with bushy eyebrows, watched Delaware depart with no friendliness in his eyes. Stood there looking unhappy til Delaware was on the elevator.

Delaware seemed to surround himself with unhappy people.

Occupational hazard?

Finally, Lehmann went back inside.

The meeting had lasted twenty-eight minutes.

Brief consultation? About something relevant to him?

He screwed the fixture back in and put the meter in the box. Under the top tray of tools was a nine-millimeter automatic, not the one from the car, but the identical model, fully loaded, wrapped in black felt. With all the gear he was lugging he was a metal detector's dream.

So few buildings had metal detectors.

Even government buildings.

Last week an employee of the city's electronic-repair plant had come to work with a machine pistol and mowed down six coworkers.

So much madness and violence but people continued to pretend otherwise.

Crime and denial.

He understood that.

Back home, in the silence, he played.

The DMV listed Roone M. Lehmann, Ph.D., fifty-six, six one, 230, as living in Santa Monica.

The Thomas Guide map placed the address in one of the canyons that led down to Pacific Coast Highway.

Not all that far from Irit.

Another of life's little coincidences.

It was 8:00 P.M. and time to switch gears.

He phoned the West L.A. station and asked for Sturgis. A few moments later the big policeman came on the line. He hung up.

So the guy was still staying put.

Dedicated civil servant.

Back to the psychologist? Probably useless, but since the girl on the playground, nothing interesting had happened and he had to keep busy.

Keeping busy was his nature. It helped fight off the loneliness.

He drove to Beverly Glen and parked a ways down the road from the narrow pathway that curled up to the psychologist's and the sculptress's modern white house.

As luck would have it, eighteen minutes later the green Cadillac nosed out onto the glen and sped by him.

He caught a blur of two good-looking, smiling faces.

Ten minutes later he was at the front door, ringing the bell with a gloved good hand.

From inside, a dog barked. From the sound of it a small dog. Dogs could be dangerous, but he liked them.

He'd once had a dog that he loved, a friendly little spaniel with a black spot over one eye. A man had brutalized the animal and he'd killed the man in front of the dog. The dog recovered, though he was never quite as trusting. Three years later a bladder tumor finished him off.

Yet another loss… He examined the door lock. Dead bolt. A good brand, but a common one and he had masters for it.

The eighth key he tried worked and he was inside.

Nice place inside, too. High, airy ceilings, white walls, some art, good furniture, a couple of Persian rugs that looked to be quality.

A high-pitched alarm warning buzzer sounded as the dog raced forward.

Small and cute. Dark brindle, with ridiculous ears and a flat face that couldn't be taken seriously. Some kind of bulldog. A miniature. It charged his pants, snarling and howling and scattering spittle. Deftly, he picked it up- heavier than it looked, he needed two hands to keep it at arm's length as it struggled. Carrying it to a bathroom, he locked it in and it butted the door, over and over.

The alarm buzzer still going.

The keypad by the door flashing red.

Probably less than a minute before the alarm bells kicked in, but no worry, there. Police response in Los