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door fall shut and went back along the soundproof hallway. She wasn’t at her desk. She was on the air. He watched her through double panes of glass from a dim, narrow room walled with busy picture tubes tended by a man in earphones whose hands moved on switches and slide controls. Out in the studio, the silhouetted floor people, directors, and technicians stood among hulking cameras like marionettes strung with fallen wires. Beyond them, at the curved desk, newscasters sat in shafts of light. The men shuffled papers, smiled at the cameras. Daisy Flynn’s dye job flared. Her face was suddenly on all the monitors. Her voice came out of loudspeakers above Dave’s head. She said:
    “And finally, a Channel Ten Newsdesk exclusive. A new development in the bludgeoning death last week of Police Chief Benjamin J. Orton of La Caleta. Medallion of Los Angeles, the company that insured Chief Orton’s life, is busy today interviewing persons connected with the case. Death-claims investigator David Brandstetter declined to be taped or photographed and told this reporter his inquiries were simply routine. But he did express doubt that Clifford Thomas Kerlee, the gay-activist leader now in jail awaiting trial for Chief Orton’s murder, is guilty of that killing.” She paused, then smiled. “And now, good afternoon from all of us here at Channel Ten’s Newsdesk.”
    The screens showed a blue plastic bottle of detergent, lighted and filmed with reverence. He pushed out of the control room. He yanked open the twin doors to the studio. She came out of the harsh lights into the shadows. She was laughing between the two men. When she saw Dave, she stopped—stopped laughing, stopped walking. The two men glanced at her, at him, and went on past. Dave told her, “I said I wasn’t a story.”
    “I’ve been in this business a long time,” she said. “Don’t you think I know a story when I see it?”
    “Quick enough to kill it,” Dave said.
    “The people have a right to know,” she said.
    “People who murder other people give up a lot of rights,” Dave said. “Someone out there was breathing easy, walking around smiling, sure that Kerlee would get it for what he did. Now what’s he doing?”
    “You’ll get him,” she said. “Or her. I checked you out with the L.A. police. You’re the best in your game.”
    “Except it’s not a game,” Dave said. “Can you find me a photo of Ben Orton?”
    “If I do, will you forgive me?” She said it archly and dropped some of her script. The pages whispered across dusty black vinyl tile. He let them lie there.
    “You’d just do it again,” he said.
    “I’ll do it again”—she stooped for the papers—“in any case.” She rose. “Come with me.”
    The California Adult Authority had offices in a flat-roofed building that smelled new inside, GEORGE ANDERSON was the name cut into a wedge of polished wood on the desk in the office he was sent to. Anderson said, “Lester Green got out on the sixteenth and reported to me. Phoned in a week later. He’s living with his mother in La Caleta.”
    A wide window gave a view of the parking lot. “That’s nice,” Dave said. “Did you see how he got here?”
    “A blond girl brought him,” Anderson said. “A little bit fat. In a brand-new, bright green Gremlin.”

6
    S HOPFRONTS OF RAW PLANKS faced the bay. A crooked wooden deck followed the curve of the shore and hung over the water. Its railings were two-by-fours painted white. Sets of board steps painted white dropped maybe ten feet to moorings where sail and power pleasurecraft bumped clean gunwales. Farther out on the bright blue water, bigger boats rocked at anchor—slim ketches, scarred fishing boats, launches lofty with superstructure. Under slices of colored sail, skiffs tilted, filled with kids.
    Widows in sunhats and sleeveless dresses sipped chilled white wine and ate sole in cream sauce at shaded tables in front of a restaurant whose sign pictured a cartoon fish in a