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seven. He was due at the office at eight-thirty. Erik pulled on his slippers and hurried down the hall past Jamie’s room. He was currently using the room for an at-home office, but it could be converted very quickly when his son got well enough to come home.
    The moment Erik opened the drapes in the living room, his cat appeared, a big, white angora he’d christened Al. Erik had found him on the doorstep last January and no one had responded to the lost cat notice he’d put in the paper. By then, Erik had grown to like Al.
    â€œWant some fresh air, Al?”
    Al streaked out the second Erik opened the sliding glass door. Erik’s tiny balcony overlooked the children’s pool, but it was deserted at seven in the morning. Erik had chosen this particular condo so that Jamie could be close to the pool. The staff doctor at Pine Ridge, an expensive, private institution for autistic children, had reported that Jamie seemed to show interest in his swimming classes.
    Erik left Al in the sun, washing his face, and went into the kitchen. He poured yesterday’s coffee in a Free Fire mug and set the timer on the microwave for thirty seconds, just long enough to warm it slightly.
    The timer on the microwave rang, and Erik drank his coffee down at a gulp. Then he took Al’s cat food out of the refrigerator and heated it in the microwave for forty-five seconds. When the timer rang, Al trotted into the kitchen right on cue. He knew Erik’s routine. The first ring of the timer was for Erik’s coffee, and he didn’t bother to come running for that. But the second ring was his, and he always appeared just as Erik set the plate of warm food on the floor.
    It was time to take his morning shower. Erik filled a bowl with fresh water, set it on the floor next to his purring cat, and headed for the master bathroom. The unlimited supply of hot water had seemed like heaven when he’d first moved in. To make things even more perfect, the cost of the hot water was covered by the monthly homeowner’s fee, and Erik treated himself to long, marvelously relaxing showers anytime he wanted. Perhaps his lengthy showers were a reaction to the miserable conditions in combat. Only a minimum of cleanliness had been possible, and relaxing showers were nonexistent. And before that, during Erik’s childhood in Minnesota, the old electric water heater in the farmhouse kitchen had been too small to provide more than a quick scrub before the spray turned cold. Whatever the reason, the master bathroom shower was one of Erik’s favorite places.
    It was seven forty-five by the time Erik drove out of the complex. He stopped to wait for a group of middle-aged women joggers to cross Overland Avenue, heading toward the running track at West Los Angeles College. One of them was his downstairs neighbor, Mavis Perkins. She was a Beverly Hills lawyer, the quintessential career woman, and she left for work each morning dressed in the height of fashion. Erik could have lived for several years on what she spent for her designer wardrobe, her hairdresser appointments, and her visits to the nail boutique. But this morning Mavis looked like a refugee from a thrift store in her baggy purple sweatpants and grubby orange T-shirt. She’d told Erik that she was jogging for her appearance, but she certainly didn’t care about her appearance while she was jogging. It didn’t make sense, but Erik had given up trying to figure out women.
    Erik turned the corner at Jefferson Boulevard and followed it past the new business parks that had sprung up almost overnight. As he drove east, the area grew more industrial, offices giving way to small factories and warehouses. He turned left on La Cienega and took the Fairfax cutoff. The traffic was a mess, as usual, and Erik was running late. He’d planned on eating breakfast out, but now there wasn’t time. He settled for a quick stop at a Winchell’s Donuts to pick up two maple