“She tried to find out. Broke her own rules and listened to his therapy tapes.
But there was nothing out of the ordinary in them.”
“This disillusioning thing definitely happened during a session?”
That’s what he told her.”
“So maybe the session where he died wasn’t the first with the killer.
So why wasn’t the first session on tape?”
“Maybe Rosenblatt didn’t take his recorder with him. Or the patient requested no taping. Rosenblatt would have complied. Or maybe the session was recorded and the tape got destroyed.”
“A stranger’s bedroom–that has almost a sexual flavor to it, don’t you think?”
I nodded. “The ritual.”
“Who owned the place?”
“A couple named Rulerad. They said they’d never heard of Harvey Rosenblatt.
Shirley said they were pretty hostile to her. Refused access to the private detective and threatened to sue her.”
“Can’t really blame them, can you? Come home and find out someone broke into your place and used it for a swan dive. Was Rosenblatt the type to be a soft touch for a sob story?”
“Definitely. He probably got the same kind of call Bert Harrison did and responded to it. And died because of it.”
Milo said, “So why did the killer keep his appointment with Rosenblatt but not with Harrison? Why, now that I’m thinking about it, was Harrison let off the hook completely? He worked for de Bosch, he spoke at that goddamn conference, too. So how come everyone else in that boat is sunk or sinking and he’s on shore drinking pina coladas?”
“I don’t know.”
“I mean, that’s funny, don’t you think, Alex? That break in the pattern–maybe I should learn a little more about Harrison.”
“Maybe,” I said, feeling sick. “Wouldn’t that be something. There I was, sitting across the table from him–trying to protect him. .. he treated Mitch Lerner. He knew where Katarina lived. .. hard to believe. He seemed like such a sweet guy.”
“Any idea where he’s gone?”
I shook my head. “But he’s not exactly unobtrusive with those purple clothes.”
“Purple clothes?” said Robin.
“He says it’s the only color he can see.”
“Another weird one,” said Milo. “What is it about your profession?”
“Ask the killer,” I said. “He’s got strong opinions on the subject.”
We spent the night at Milo’s. After he left for work, I stayed and listened to the tape another dozen times.
The chanting man sounded like an accountant tallying up a sum.
That maddening hint of familiarity, but nothing jelled.
We returned to Benedict Canyon, where Robin took the dog to the garage and I called in for messages. One from Jean Jeffers–No record of Mr. and a request to phone Judge Stephen Huff.
I reached him in his chambers.
“Hi, Alex. I assume you heard.”
“Is there anything I should know other than what’s been on the news?”
“They’re pretty positive who did it, but can’t prove it yet. Two Mexican gang members–they’re figuring some kind of drug war.”
“That’s probably it,” I said.
“Well, that’s one way to settle a case. Any word from the grandmother?”
“Not a one.”
“Better off–the kids, I mean. Away from all of this–don’t you think?”
“Depends on what environment they’ve been placed into.”
“Oh, sure. Absolutely. Well, thanks for your help. Onward toward justice.”
Several more tries at the tape, then I left for the Beverly Hills library.
I scoured four- and five-year-old editions of New York dailies all morning, reading very slowly and carefully, but finding no record of any “East Side Burglar.”
No great surprise: the 19th Precinct serviced a high-priced zip code, and its inhabitants probably despised getting their names anywhere in the paper other than the society pages. The people who owned the papers and broadcast the news probably lived in the 19th. The rest of the city would know exactly what they wanted it to.
Lack of coverage still didn’t mean Rosenblatt’s killer had committed the earlier break-ins. Local residents might be aware of the burglaries, and a local could know who was on vacation and for how long. But the idea of a 19th Precinct resident owning burglary tools and robbing from his neighbors seemed less than likely. So Mr. Silk probably had burgled before. Ritualistically.