got up to get the door. We rarely played cards; her idea.
I made the introductions. Robin knew about the break-in and the bugging, but she smiled evenly and shook Sharavi's hand.
I heard the dog door slam shut, then Spike's mini-gallop across the kitchen floor. He raced into the living room, snorting and panting. Stopping several feet from Sharavi, he tightened his neck muscles and growled.
Robin stooped and tried to calm him. Spike barked and wouldn't stop. “What's the matter, handsome?”
“He doesn't like me,” said Sharavi. “I don't blame him. When I was here, I had to put him in the bathroom for a few minutes.”
Robin's smile withered.
“I'm sorry, Ms. Castagna. I used to have a dog of my own.”
“C'mon, handsome, we'll let them do business.” Spike followed her back into the kitchen.
“You're still willing to do this?” he said.
“Any reason I shouldn't be?”
“Sometimes people get enthusiastic, then they reconsider. And Ms. Castagna-”
“She's fine with it.”
We sat down and he placed the satchel on the table. “I've learned more about the New York lawyer, Farley Sanger. His last trip to Los Angeles was two weeks before Irit's murder. He stayed at the Beverly Hills Hotel and as far as we can tell, conducted business for his firm. So far, we've got no records of his being back since, but those kinds of things can be hidden.”
He removed papers. “Still no trace of Meta. After the publicity from Sanger's article, the group either dissolved or went underground. When it was active, the meetings were held in a building on Fifth Avenue. A very exclusive building and this particular suite houses the Loomis Foundation- a charitable group started by a wealthy Louisiana farming family over one hundred years ago. A relatively small foundation, from what we can tell. Last year they gave out less than three hundred thousand dollars. One-third went to a psychological study of twins in Illinois, another third to agricultural research, and the rest to various scientists conducting genetic studies.”
“Did the twin research have a genetic bent, also?”
“The researcher's a professor of comparative biology at a small college. These are the data.” He handed me a stapled reprint.
The journal was
“Loomis… sounds familiar. What do they farm?”
“Tobacco, alfalfa, cotton. The Loomis family prided itself on its geneology- links to European nobility, that kind of thing.”
“Prided?” I said. “They're no longer around?”
“The family name died out but a few cousins remain and they run the business and the foundation. No new cash has been added to the principal for years.”
“Is there any record of their funding Meta?”
“Not so far, but the fact that Meta used their office says something.”
“And controversy from Sanger's article could attract unwanted attention.”
“Exactly. So maybe that's why the group was disbanded.”
“Or moved to L.A.,” I said. “Loomis- one sec.” I went into my office and pulled
The author bio on the back flap.
Arthur Haldane, Ph.D., resident scholar, the Loomis Institute, New York City.
I brought it back to Sharavi.
“Oh,” he said. “I bought the book yesterday, haven't gotten around to reading it… So there's an institute in addition to the foundation.”
“Maybe other money you didn't trace.”
He turned the book over, opened it, and inspected the table of contents. “May I use your phone?”
He made a calling-card connection, spoke briefly in Hebrew, hung up, returned to the table.
“A best-seller,” I said. “If any of the royalties were returned to Loomis, that kills their tax-free status. With their cash depletion, they might have been willing to take the risk.”
“Both Sanger and that securities analyst, Helga Cranepool, work in financial fields. Her specialty's farm commodities.”
“Loomis's product,” I said. “Assuming they still farm.”
“Oh, they do,” he said. “Not in America, overseas. Cotton, hemp, jute, alfalfa and other feeds, various packing materials. They own plantations in Asia and Africa. I'd assume because of the lower wages.”
“Oh, for them mint-julep days,” I said. “Does the foundation keep offices out here?”
“Not under the Loomis name. I'm looking into it.”
“Fifth Avenue suite in New York and all we know about them here is a possible link to a bookstore in Silverlake. Bit of a contrast.”
“We know they're snobs,” he said. “Maybe it extends to their view of California.”
I made coffee while he sat, motionless, almost entranced. When I brought back two mugs, he thanked me and gave me a white envelope. In it were a social-security card, Visa, MasterCard, Fedco membership, Blue Shield enrollment, all made out to Andrew Desmond.
“Health insurance,” I said. “What's the deductible?”
He smiled. “Ample.”
“In case I get hurt?”
“I'll do my best to take care of you.”
“What about a driver's license?”
“We'll need a photo for that and I want to wait til Thursday or Friday when your beard's thicker. I'll have some educational credentials for you at that time, also. We've come up with an L.A.-based, unaccredited psychology program that closed down ten years ago. Even if by some strange coincidence you happened to meet another alumnus, it was home-study, no contact between the students.”
“Sounds perfect.”
He squared the stack of papers. “Few civilians would disrupt their life to this extent, Alex.”
“I'm a masochist. And frankly, I think we're overdoing the espionage bit.”
“Better that than the opposite. Should you need a home away from home, you've got one. I was able to get a place in the city. Genesee Avenue. The Fairfax district.”
He waved his good hand around the room. “I'm afraid it's nothing like this, but the neighbors don't pry.”
From his pocket came a ring bearing several keys. He spread them on the table, touched each in turn.
“Front and back doors, garage, your car. It's a Karmann Ghia, ten years old, but customized with a new engine, and runs better than it looks. It's in the garage.”
He slid the keys across the table.
“Sounds like you've thought of everything,” I said.
“If only that were possible.”
Milo rang the bell just after ten-thirty and Petra Connor was with him. She was dressed in a pantsuit again, this one chocolate brown, wore less makeup, and looked younger.
Milo said, “Superintendent Sharavi, Detective Petra Connor, Hollywood Division.”
They shook hands. Connor's dark eyes shifted to me, then to the false ID.
“Something to drink?” I said.
“No, thanks,” she said.
Milo said, “If you've got coffee left, I'll have some. Where's Robin?”
“Out in back.”
I filled a mug and Milo studied my social-security card. “Just finished interdivisional show-and-tell. Pierce couldn't make it, McLaren and Hooks were out on other cases, so it was Alvarado, Detective Connor, and me.”
Connor twisted a cameo ring. “Thanks for letting me in on this. I recontacted Malcolm Ponsico's parents in New
