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Quantico. Seminars. Hobnobbing with the cloak-and-dagger freaks. Makes ’em insufferable. But them’s the rules—no sense bucking without any payoff. Besides, it shouldn’t take long for things to ease up. Only a matter of time before the whole case goes public.”
    “How long?”
    “Unless something interesting turns up about the late Ms. Burden in somebody’s files, Frisk plans on releasing her name to the press around noon tomorrow. Soon as that happens, you can tell your kids the bogeyman looks like their friendly neighborhood babysitter.”
    “How’s he going to stall the press in the meantime?”
    “The old fashioned way: lie. ‘Sorry, ladies and gentlemen, no definitive ID pending autopsy.’ Which is almost true—she did take a couple of bullets in the face. But you could still tell it was the same face as the one on the license.”
    I imagined the young, bland countenance swollen, perforated, bleeding; shook that picture out of my head and said, “Around noon should work out, anyway. I’m meeting with the kids at one.”
    “Great. But if, for some reason, Frisk hasn’t gone public, neither do you, okay? I’ve got enough troubles without leaks getting traced back to me this early in the game.”
    “What kind of troubles?”
    “The usual.” His expression said: Change the subject.
    We ate for a while. My mind kept drifting back to the license photo. “A girl sniper,” I said. “Hard to believe.”
    “Women’s lib, Alex,” he said with his mouth full. “They’re trying to catch up to us in the asshole division.”
    “Then they’ve got a long ways to go,” I said. “I remember County Jail—visiting Jamey Cadmus in the violent psych ward. One thing that impressed me was that they had twenty rooms for males, only two set aside for females, and those two were rarely
used
for females. What percentage of violent crime is committed by women?”
    “Less than ten,” he said. “But the stats get interesting when you look at the age pattern—violent offenders under eighteen. The rate for males is still much higher than it is for females, but the overall rate for males is dropping, while for females it’s going up. The gap is closing. And even without the numbers, I’d know there’s something happening, Alex. On the streets. I can sense it—rules of conduct breaking down. Maybe Manson’s girls broke the ice, I don’t know—Squeaky and the other one taking potshots at Ford, those assholettes in the SLA. Now the gangbangers have started using fems as trigger-men . . . trigger
persons.
They figure the courts will go easier on psychopaths in dresses, and they’re right. So far. Meanwhile, more and more Bonnies wanting to be Clydes.”
    He cut a large piece of T-bone free and stuffed it in his mouth. “Hell,” he said, still chewing, “nastiest thing I’ve seen this year was some stenographer over in Mar Vista doing in her boyfriend with a Chinese cleaver. Jilted-lover stir-fry. Call the Frugal Gourmet.”
    I looked at the sirloin on my fork and put it down.
    “
Bon
appétit
,” he said.
    “Thanks.”
    “Of course,” he said, “the distaff does have a long way to go. We’ve got thousands of years of experience behind us. Tankfuls of testosterone. But they’re working on it—the whole goddam culture’s changing. Female wrestlers, girls pumping iron, shooting steroids, talking dirty. Hell, you ever see women flipping off truckers on the freeway till recently? They’re feeling their oats, pal.”
    I made another go at my steak.
    “Prime, huh?” he said, taking another mouthful.
    “Prime.”
    “Private stock. Management knows me.” He patted his gut. “Which is to love me. Big tips and it’s cholesterol heaven.”
    He dipped a piece of meat in steak sauce. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I have a thing against the fairer sex. Just telling it the way I see it.”
    “I know that.”
    “Yeah, well, sometimes people assume, you know?”
    “I swore off assumptions for