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Kamala, and she lowered her expression for a long even stare at the detective.
She mouthed, wow!
    "You just
brought a repressed memory into your conscious mind," said Joan,
matter-of-factly. She was making notes in a book of her own now. "That
memory was bothering you, and it was part of the reason you called Merci."
    "I understand
that now. You're right. God, this is weird." "So, you had seen him
before, Kamala," said Merci, betraying no enthusiasm in her voice. She had
in her heart a cold and efficient place from which to work, and she always knew
where to find it. "Now, the first time you saw him, in Brea, was he just
walking by?"
    "By the pet
store. He was walking slowly and he looked at me."
    Of course he did,
thought Merci. And you looked back. "Did he say anything?"
    "No."
    "What was his
expression?"
    "It was like he
thought something was funny. Me."
    The psychiatrist
motioned Merci to silence. "Because of the way you looked at him?"
    "That's
right."
    Joan looked at Merci and
nodded.
    "And how did you look
at him?" Merci asked.
    A pause. "I don't
know, really. But I thought he was very handsome, like a model, and he must
have seen this on my face. And thought it was funny."
    "Did you turn around
and look again, after you had passed each other?" "Yes. And he did too, and he had the
same look."
    "But you didn't go up
to him?" "No." Merci dug in. "Did any of your friends go up
to him?"
    "No."
    "You're sure?"
    "Way sure."
    Merci considered.
"Kamala, what was he doing the second time, when you saw him that Tuesday
night? You said he was looking at his car in, quote: a very interesting way. What did you mean by that?"
    "He had his
hands on his hips and he was looking at the car like it had... misbehaved. Or like he was unhappy at it."
    "Did you see any
obvious problem with it? Like a flat tire or the emergency flashers on or the
hood up?"
    "No."
    "What kind of car was
it?"
    "I think it was
either a Mercedes or a BMW, but I'm not sure. It was white? Kind of square in
the back?"
    Merci made a note and
thought for a moment. "How did you know it was his car?"
    "I... don't. I didn't. I assumed it was, until just now. I
guess it could have been anyone's. He was just looking at it like there was a
problem he was trying to figure out."
    Like whether or not it had
an alarm.
    Merci glanced at Joan, who
was studying her with a grave expression.
    "If we went back to
the Laguna Hills Mall together, could you show me were he was, and where the
white car was?"
    "It was about in the
middle of the lot, in front of the food court.
But I could show you, sure."
    Merci wrote and thought.
"Kamala, did this man see you at Laguna Hills Mall, the second time you
saw him?"
    "No."
    "You didn't slow down
and roll down your window, ask if you could help, something like---“
    “---I did not." Dr.
Cash was shaking her head. "Okay. Okay, Kamala. Now, could you help one of
our artists draw a picture of this man?
    "Yes. His face is
mostly clear to me now. Anytime you want"
     

CHAPTER
SIX

Matamoros Colesceau drove his pickup through the
narrowing streets of Irvine until he reached the Quail Creek Apartment Homes.
The buildings were tan stucco and wood slat, built around grassy knolls. The
knolls had large decorative rocks arranged on them to suggest nature's balance
and harmony. The units were not built in straight back-to-back rows, but
arranged in wandering molecular-looking clusters that were supposed to promote
a feeling of privacy. They were called apartment homes, not apartments. The
place was like a gigantic beehive.
    During his first two
months here, some three years ago, Colesceau had gotten lost in his own complex
four times. The many small streets all looked infuriatingly the same. There
were four swimming pools designed exactly alike. The knolls were even similar,
with like numbers and arrangements of stones. Now he could walk the grounds
blindfolded and know exactly where he was. He lived in 12 Meadowlark, a
two-level unit in the B