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something she set up. Or her parents did. According to the story, they were perfectly happy to take the money and run.”
    â€œIt’s a wise father who knows his child.” Forget about it. Deal with the case.
    He nodded. “I believe I read that somewhere.” Ed had once taught English at a small New England college.
    I smiled. The smile felt a bit wan. “What else do you have?”
    Someone, just then, knocked at the door. Ed called out, “Come in,” and the door opened. A tea caddy entered the room, followed by the young woman from the anteroom. I stood up as she pushed the table toward the sofa. She was taller than I’d thought and she looked more voluptuous in a businesslike skirt and a demure white blouse than anyone has a right to look. I wondered if she kept secrets from people.
    â€œJoshua,” said Ed, smiling up at us from the sofa, “this is my associate, Bonnie Nostromo. Bonnie, Joshua Croft.”
    She smiled that remarkable smile again. Her eyes, in the natural light from the window, now seemed blue. “Pleased to meet you.”
    â€œAnd pleased to meet you.”
    She smiled the smile once more and then turned and walked back to the door and out through it, closing it behind her. Walking , though, is really too prosaic a term to describe accurately the pneumatics and mechanics of her movement.
    Ed, grinning, had been watching me watch her.
    â€œAttractive woman,” I said, feeling suddenly like a lickerish old man on a park bench.
    He nodded. “A friend of mine—an unredeemed sexist, of course—described her as having the kind of body that made you proud to be a mammal.”
    â€œProud to be a biped, too. And listen, just exactly where do you go to redeem your sexists?”
    He smiled. “She’s got a rated IQ of 160. She’s wasted as a secretary—she’s only filling in this week as a favor to me. She’s one of the best surveillance people I’ve got. In another year she’ll have her P.I. license. A year or two after that, and she’ll probably open an agency of her own.”
    â€œDoes she have an older sister? One with an IQ closer to mine? Something in the double digits?”
    Ed raised his left eyebrow. I’ve always found this, probably because I’ve never been able to do it myself, an irritating habit. “Are you really in the market, Joshua?” He had known Rita and me for a long time now.
    â€œNo,” I admitted. “Not really.” I took a deep breath and nodded to the computer printout. “Okay. What else do we have on Roy?”
    â€œNo more dirt. You already know most of the rest. The divorce from Melissa Bigelow Alonzo in ‘eighty-seven. The court battle in ‘eighty-nine, her accusing him of sexual abuse, him denying it.”
    â€œHe was found not guilty.”
    â€œThe jury liked his doctor.”
    â€œBetter than hers, you mean.”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œYou figure him for guilty?”
    He shrugged. “No way to know.”
    I nodded to the manila envelope. “You have transcripts in there?”
    He shook his head. “Press coverage. L.A. Times. We can get the transcripts if you want them.”
    â€œLet’s wait on that. Why don’t you tell me about Melissa Alonzo.”

Five
    M ELISSA ALONZO ,” SAID SERGEANT BRADLEY, SITTING back in his swivel chair, his fingers laced comfortably together beneath the round, comfortable swell of his belly. He shook his head. “I got nothing to do with her. Like I told your buddy Norman, you should check with missing persons. Or the FBI.”
    â€œWhy the FBI?” I asked him. “Why are they involved? There’s no kidnapping here. She was the daughter’s legal guardian.”
    â€œHey,” said Bradley, and showed me the palms of his meaty hands. “I look to you like a PR guy? Ask someone at the Bureau.” He put a nice ironic twist on the word