“Be nice to him,” said Robin, kneeling and holding her arms out. The dog charged her and she tussled with him for a second, then stood.
“I’d better figure out what I’m going to need to take.”
She left for the bedroom, dog at heel.
“True love,” said Milo.
I said, “Is there anything more you want to tell me?”
“You mean, am I shielding her from gory details? No. Didn’t figure I should.”
“No, of course not,” I said. “I just-I guess I still want to protect her.”
“Then you’re doing the right thing by moving.”
I didn’t answer.
“Nothing to be ashamed of,” he said. “The protective instinct. I keep my work out of Rick’s face, he does the same for me.”
“If anything happened to her. ..” From the back of the house came Robin’s footsteps, rapid and intermittent.
Pause and decision.
Dull sounds as clothing hit the bed. Soft, sweet words as she talked to the dog.
I paced some more, circling, trying to focus. .. what to take, what to leave. .. looking at things I wouldn’t be seeing for a while.
“Ring around the rosy,” he said. “Now you’re looking like me when I’m uptight.”
I ran my hand over my face. He laughed, unbuttoned his jacket, and pulled a notepad and pen out of an inner pocket. He was wearing his revolver in a brown cowhide hip holster.
“Do you have any more details for me?” he said. “Like about the psychiatrist-Stoumen?”
“Just the approximate date-early June-and the fact that the conference was the Northwest Symposium on Child Welfare. I’m pretty sure it’s sponsored by the Child Welfare League, and they have an office here in town. Maybe you can pry an attendance roster out of them.”
“You have a go at the Western Pediatric roster yet?”
“No. I’ll try right now.”
I called the Hospital and asked for the Office of Continuing Education.
The secretary told me records of past symposia were only kept for one year. I asked her to check anyway and she did.
“Nothing, doctor.”
“There’re no archives or anything?”
“Archives? With our budget problems we’re lucky to get bedpans, doctor.”
Milo was listening in. When I hung up, he said, “Okay, scratch that.
Onward. I’m going to hook up with the FBI’s violent crime data bank and see if bad love’ shows up on any out-oftown homicides.”
“What about Dorsey Hewitt?” I said. “Could he have killed Shipler and Paprock?”
“Let me try to find out if he was living in L.A. during their murders.
I’m still trying to get hold of jean Jeffers, the clinic director-see if Hewitt had clinic buddies.”
“The taper,” I said. “You know, that second session could have taken place the day of the murder-someone taping Hewitt right after he killed Becky.
Before he ran out and the TV mikes picked him up. That’s pretty damn coldalmost premeditated. Same kind of mind who could turn a child’s voice robotic.
What if the taper knew exactly what Hewitt was going to do and was ready to tape him?”
“An accomplice?”
“Or at least a knowing confederate. Someone who knew Becky was going to die, but didn’t stop it.”
He stared at me. Grimaced. Wrote something down. Said, “Ready to start packing now?”
It took an hour or so for Robin and me to throw together suitcases, plastic shopping bags, and cardboard cartons. A smaller collection than I would have expected.
Milo and I carried all of it into the living room, then I called my pond maintenance people and arranged for them to collect the fish.
When I returned to the pile, Milo and Robin were staring at it. She said, “I’m going to go over to the shop and get the small tools and the breakable things together-if that’s okay.”
“Sure, just be careful,” said Milo. “Anyone weird hanging around, just turn around and come back.”
“Weird? This is Venice we’re talking about.”
“Relatively speaking.”
“Gotcha.” She took the dog with her. I walked her down to her truck and watched as they drove away. Milo and I had a couple of Cokes, then the doorbell rang and he went to get it. After looking through the peephole, he opened the door and let in three men-boys, really, around nineteen or twenty.