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as you could. . . . I’ll give it some thought. I’m sure I won’t come up with anything, but I’ll give it a try.”
    â€œI’d appreciate it,” she said. Not meaning a word but keeping the damn smile on high-beam.
    Nearly nine P.M. The kid was working late, too. And not getting paid for it.
    She said, “How about some dinner—a burger, whatever.”
    â€œThanks, but I need to get home. My mother made dinner and it’s a big deal to her if we don’t all show up.”
    â€œOkay,” she said. “Maybe another time.” The genius still lived with his folks . . . the Union District, she recalled. Probably some shabby little apartment. Huge contrast to the green lawns and towering trees at USC. Getting all that attention as boy-genius. Working here, his own desk in the detectives’ room. No reason not to stay late.
    â€œMake me a copy of that list,” she said.
    â€œYou’re not dismissing it?”
    â€œLet me think about it some more.”
    Biiiiig smile. “Will do. Have a nice evening, Detective Connor.”
    â€œYou, too.”
Professor Gomez.
    He left and Petra’s mind shifted back to the Paradiso slaughter.
    Gun as “weapon of choice.” At least in that way it was typical.
    Which, for some reason, made her feel worse.

CHAPTER
    6
    A copy of the list was on Petra’s desk the following afternoon.
    Yellow Post-it in the upper right-hand corner:
“Detective C: Thanks. I. G.”
    She put it aside and spent the next two days talking to Missing Persons cops throughout California, faxing morgue shots of the girl in the pink shoes, getting a few callbacks but no leads. She thought about expanding to neighboring states. The chubby girl appeared Hispanic, so the Southwest seemed a good bet.
    Phoning her way through Arizona and Nevada took another full day, then she moved on to New Mexico, where a Santa Fe P.D. detective named Darrel Two Moons said, “She might be a girl who went missing from the San Ildefonso pueblo last year.”
    â€œOur vic had a recent abortion.”
    â€œEven better,” said Two Moons. “There was a rumor of an unwanted pregnancy. A married man, not a good guy. We’ve been wondering if he got rid of her, but so far no body. It’s the tribal police’s case but they called us in. Send the photo.”
    â€œThe father,” said Petra. “Is he the kind of guy who’d drive to L.A. to shoot her?”
    â€œIn terms of amorality, sure. Would he work that hard? Can’t say.”
    Twenty minutes later, Two Moons’s partner, a guy named Steve Katz, called back and said, “I know Darrel talked to you about Cheryl Ruiz. Sorry, the picture’s not her. Also, the tribal police didn’t think to tell us they found Cheryl. She took Greyhound to Minnesota, had a baby, has been living with her aunt all this time.”
    â€œInteragency cooperation. So what else is new?” said Petra.
    â€œYeah,” said Katz. “L.A., huh? I used to be NYPD, worked midtown Manhattan. I remember what it’s like to be busy.”
    â€œMiss it?”
    â€œDepends.”
    â€œOn what?”
    â€œOn how long the night stretches. On what else I’ve got going on in my life.”
    Another shift full of nothing made her grouchy. Some nice, athletic sex with a touch of romance wouldn’t have hurt, but it had been a week since Eric’s last call, she wasn’t even sure where he was.
    Time to pack it in; go home; take a long, hot, gel-lubed bath; maybe actually cook herself something decent and healthy. That meant stopping off to buy veggies and whatever and she decided she just wasn’t up to cold, fluorescent supermarket aisles and other lonely people. She’d snarf whatever was in the fridge, hopefully have the energy to take a stab at her O’Keeffe project.
    Big, tall New York buildings that turned the city into a shady warren.
    Buildings, no