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the head. “We haven’t been talkin’ about it.”
    Milo pulled out his notepad and flipped through a few pages.
    “What I have on record is that Melody couldn’t sleep and was sitting in the living room—in this room at around one in the morning.”
    “Must’ve been. I go in by eleven-thirty and I got up once for a cigarette at twenty after twelve. She was asleep then and I didn’t hear her for the while it took me to fall off. I’d ’a’ heard her. We share the room.”
    “Uh-huh. And she saw two men—here it says ‘I saw big men.’ The officer’s question was ’How many, Melody?’ And she answered, ’Two, maybe three.’ When he asked her what did they look like, all she could say was that they were dark.” He was talking to me now. “We asked her black, Latino. Nothing. Only dark .”
    “That could mean shadows. Could mean anything to a seven-year-old,” I said.
    “I know.”
    “Which could mean two men, or one guy with a shadow, or—”
    “Don’t say it.”
    Or nothing at all.
    “She don’t always tell the truth about everything.”
    We both turned to look at Bonita Quinn who had used the few seconds we had ignored her to put out her cigarette and light a new one.
    “I’m not sayin’ she’s a bad kid. But she don’t always tell the truth. I don’t know why you want to depend on her.”
    I asked, “Do you have problems with her chronically lying—about things that don’t make much sense—or does she do it to avoid getting in trouble?”
    “The second. When she don’t want me to paddle her and I know somethin’s broken, it’s got to be her. She tells me no, mama, not me. And I paddle her double.” She looked to me for disapproval. “For not tellin’ the truth.”
    “Do you have other problems with her?” I asked gently.
    “She’s a good girl, Doctor. Only the daydreams, and the concentration problems.”
    “Oh?” I needed to understand this child if I was going to be able to do hypnosis with her.
    “The concentratin’—it’s hard for her.”
    No wonder, in this tiny, television-saturated cell. No doubt the apartments were Adults Only and Melody Quinn was required to keep a low profile. There’s a large segment of the population of Southern California that views the sight of anyone too young or too old as offensive. It’s as if nobody wants to be reminded from whence they came or to where they will certainly go. That kind of denial, coupled with face lifts and hair transplants and makeup, creates a comfortable little delusion of immortality. For a short while.
    I was willing to bet that Melody Quinn spent most of her time indoors despite the fact that the complex boasted three swimming pools and a totally equipped gym. Not to mention the ocean a half-mile away. Those playthings were meant for the grownups.
    “I took her to the doctor when the teachers kept sendin’ home these notes sayin’ she can’t sit still, her mind wanders. He said she was overactive. Somethin’ in the brain.”
    “Hyperactive?”
    “That’s right. Wouldn’t surprise me. Her dad wasn’t altogether right up there.” She tapped her forehead. “Used the illegal drugs and the wine until he—” she stopped cold, looking at Milo with sudden fear.
    “Don’t worry, Mrs. Quinn, we’re not interested in that kind of thing. We only want to find out who killed Dr. Handler and Ms. Gutierrez.”
    “Yeah, the headshrinker—” she stopped again, this time staring at me. “Can’t seem to say anythin’ right, today.” She forced a weak smile.
    I nodded reassurance, smiled understandingly.
    “He was a nice guy, that doctor.” Some of my best friends are psychotherapists. “Used to joke with me a lot and I’d kid him, ask him if he had any shrunken heads in there.” She laughed, a strange giggle, and showed a mouthful of teeth badly in need of repair. By now I had narrowed her age to middle thirties. In ten years she’d look truly elderly. “Terrible about what happened to