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gone. That’s why, to this day, I sleep with my watch on.
    After staring at the building for a while, it occurred to me I hadn’t seen her go in carrying anything but her purse. Maybe she wasn’t there to hock stuff, maybe she was there to buy things. Could be I’d totally misjudged her. Could be she was actually being a crafty shopper. The goods here had to be better than the stuff at your average pawn shop.
    That thought made me feel a lot better, until she walked out ten minutes later, empty-handed. Lauren stood outside the door for a minute, looking kind of dazed. I took a couple pictures. I didn’t want to hug her any more. I wanted to slap her. But I didn’t have to call Dr. Laura to know I really wanted to slap my father.
    I could slap him any time I wanted. He’s in his sixties now, living in Palm Springs, near the Indian casinos. I actually visit him sometimes, in his crummy little bachelor unit at the Tropic Palms apartments. He likes to call me Prince.
    I’ve never slapped him, but my sister Becky once slapped me when she found out I went down there. I don’t think she was slapping me, really, but maybe I’m over-analyzing things. People who know my father and me, and there aren’t many, say I look just like him.
    But none of this has anything to do with Lauren Parkus, or the terrible things that happened later, and that’s what I’m supposed to be talking about.
    Lauren walked slowly back to her car. Whatever was pushing her along before was gone. I think she didn’t want to go back. I took more pictures. It was really just an excuse to look at her some more, like I’d be able to understand her better through the lens than with the naked eye. Which was stupid. It was a disposable camera, not a fucking microscope.
    She paid the valet, got in her car, and drove off. I did the same.
    Lauren Parkus got back to Bel Vista Estates before lunchtime. I parked in my usual spot alongside the embankment, where I was out of sight of the guard shack but could still see if anyone left or entered the community.
    After about two hours, I slid over to the passenger seat, opened the door a crack, and pissed onto the street from a sitting position. I didn’t want some homeowner driving by and seeing me taking a leak; that would get me fired for sure. So there I was, in my Sephia, sitting there pissing out the door, which isn’t as easy as you might think if you don’t want to wet yourself or the car.
    Being in that vulnerable position, I was certain that’s when Lauren would decide to leave again, but she didn’t. I didn’t know it then, but I was in for a long, boring afternoon.
    I listened to Dr. Laura, reread my two-line report a few times, ate a box of Ritz Crackers, a bag of beef jerky, and a package of Ding Dongs, and tried hard not to fall asleep.
    I’d been up over twelve hours already and hadn’t had much sleep the day before, which was when I really could have used it, after that accident and all.
    At five o’clock, I decided to leave.
    Now that might not sound very professional to you, but here was my thinking: Her husband usually came home between six and eight, and occasionally later, so she wasn’t likely to run off during that period. The only risk was that she would sneak out in the hour between five and six.
    But I needed to get my film developed, and most of those one-hour photo places closed by six or seven. I also needed to get my uniform cleaned and pressed and go home for a nap, a shower, and fresh clothes.
    And I was exhausted and felt like shit.
    All things considered, I was willing to take the risk.
    Maybe Spenser wouldn’t do it, but he has Hawk to help him out. It’s easy to be a complete professional when you’ve got some big, black muscle to back you up with the unpleasant and tedious aspects of the job.
    I dropped off my film at the Thrifty near my house, and my uniform at the dry cleaner next door, then went into Ralph’s and browsed through the magazines while I waited for