The Murder Book

the ashes, Alex. The hell of it is I've accomplished nothing… you finished? Let's get back to the smog. This city's too damn pretty.'

During the drive back to Albuquerque, he was glum and unreachable. The taverna's food had been excellent, but I'd finished more of my plate than he had, and that was a first.

He spent the flight to L.A. dozing. When we were back in the Seville, he said, 'Finding Melinda was progress in terms of motive, means, and opportunity. But what the hell's all that worth when I have no idea where my suspects are? If I had to bet, my money would be on Willie Burns in some unmarked grave. The money folks behind Caroline would have seen him as a threat, and even if they never got to him, there was his heroin habit. Crazy Caroline, who could also be dead, or anywhere from the Bahamas to Belize. Even if I found her, what could I prove? They'd bring in one of your colleagues, and she'd go right back to some plush-padded room.'

'Sounds bleak,' I said.

'Some therapist you are.'

'Reality therapy.'

'Reality is the curse of the sane.'

I took Sepulveda to Venice, got onto Motor Avenue going south, drove past Achievement House.

'Talk about subtle,' he said.

'It's a shortcut.'

'There are no shortcuts. Life is tedious and brutish… it can't hurt to look into those SROs. Something I can do without attracting attention. But don't expect anything. And don't get yourself in trouble thinking you can fight my battles.'

'Trouble, as in?'

'As in anything.'

Robin had left a message on my machine, sounding hurried and detached. The tour had moved on to Vancouver and she was staying at the Pacific Lodge Hotel. I called the number and connected to her room. A happy male voice answered.

'Sheridan,' I said.

'Yes?'

'It's Alex Delaware.'

'Oh. Hi. I'll go get Robin.'

'Where is she?'

'In the bathroom.'

'How's my dog?'

'Uh… great-'

'The reason I'm asking is because you seemed pretty in tune with him. Showing up prepared with a Milk-Bone. Very intuitive.'

'He- I like dogs.'

'Do you?' I said.

'Well, yeah.'

'Well, good for you.'

Silence. 'Let me tell Robin you're on the phone.'

'Gee, thanks,' I said, but he'd put down the receiver, and I was talking to dead air.

She came on the line a few moments later. 'Alex?'

'Hi,' I said.

'What's wrong?'

'With what?'

'Sheridan said you sounded upset.'

'Sheridan would know,' I said. 'Being a sensitive guy and all that.'

Silence. 'What's going on, Alex?'

'Nothing.'

'It's not nothing,' she said. 'Every time I call you're more…'

'Insensitive?' I said. 'As opposed to you-know-who?'

Longer silence. 'You can't be serious.'

'About what?'

'About him.' She laughed.

'Glad to amuse you.'

'Alex,' she said, 'if you only knew- I can't believe this. What's gotten into you?'

'Tough times bring out the best in me.'

'Why in the world would you even think that?' She laughed again, and that was probably what set me off.

'The guy shows up with a damned dog biscuit,' I said. 'Let me tell you, hon, men are pigs. Altruism like that always comes with strings-'

'You are being totally ridiculous-'

'Am I? Each time I call your room, he's right there-'

'Alex, this is absurd!'

'Okay, then. Sorry.' But there was nothing remorseful in my tone, and she knew it.

'What's gotten into you, Alex?'

I thought about that. Then a rush of anger clogged my throat, and out it came: 'I suppose I can be forgiven a bit of absurdity. The last time you left me didn't turn out so great.'

Silence.

'Oh… Alex.' Her voice broke on my name.

My jaw locked.

She said, 'I can't do this.'

Then she hung up.

I sat there, perversely satisfied, with a dead brain and a mouth full of bile. Then that sinking feeling set in: Idiot idiot! I redialed her room. No answer. Tried the hotel operator again, was informed that Ms. Castagna had gone out.

I pictured her running through the lobby, tear-streaked. What was the weather in Vancouver? Had she remembered her coat? Had Sheridan followed, ever ready with consolation?

'Sir?' said the operator. 'Would you like her voice mail?'

'Uh… sure, why not.'

I was connected, listened to Robin's voice deliver a canned message. Waited for the beep.

Chose my words carefully, but ended up choking and letting the phone drop from my hand.

I moved to my office, drew the drapes, sat in gray-brown darkness, listened to the throbbing in my head.

A fine fix you've gotten yourself into, Alexander… the hell of it was Bert Harrison had warned me.

Bert was a wise man, why hadn't I listened?

What to do… send flowers? No, that would insult Robin's intelligence, make matters worse.

Two tickets to Paris…

It took a long time before I was able to shove my feelings somewhere south of my ankles, turn suitably numb.

I stared at the wall, visualized myself as a speck of dirt, worked hard at disappearing.

I booted up the computer and downloaded Google, because that search engine could locate a hamburger joint on Pluto.

'Walter Obey' pulled up three hundred and some-odd hits, 90 percent of them pertaining to the billionaire, with a quarter of those repetitive. Most were newspaper and business journal articles, about evenly divided between coverage of Obey's philanthropic activities and his financial dealings.

Walter and Barbara Obey had contributed to the Philharmonic, the Music Center, Planned Parenthood, the Santa Monica Mountains Convervancy, the Humane Society, shelters for homeless youth, a slew of foundations raging battle against tragic diseases. The Sierra Club, too, which I found interesting for a developer.

I came up with no connection to organized sports nor to any link between any of the aborted plans to bring sports teams to L.A. In none of the articles was Obey's name mentioned alongside those of the Cossack brothers or