“Sure,” she said.

“She’s got a place in Venice. Rennie Avenue, north of Rose. It’s a side-by-side duplex, the studio’s in the southern unit.”

Petra copied the address and thanked him.

“I don’t think she’s in town, Petra. She spent a good part of last year touring with the Kill Famine Tour and has been moving around.” Pause. “She met a guy.”

“I’m sorry,” Petra blurted.

“It happens,” he said. “We’d agreed to… try out our independence. Anyway, this guy, he’s a vocal coach, and he travels quite a bit, too. They’re in Vancouver. I know because she called to let me know she’s taking Spike to a vet, there. Toothache.”

Petra remembered the pooch. Cute little French bulldog. A chance to change the subject. “Ouch. Hope he feels better.”

“Me, too… anyway, they’re due back tomorrow, I think.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“Sure. Good luck on the case. Say hi to Robin for me.”

“Will do,” said Petra, itching to break the connection. “You take care now.”

“You, too.”

He hung up. Petra shut out the call and went over the details of Baby Boy’s demise for the umpteenth time. Then she left the station and got herself some lunch. Greasy hamburger at a Vine Street joint she was certain would disappoint.

4

The first time I made love to Allison Gwynn, I felt like an adulterer.

Totally irrational. Robin and I had been living apart for months. And now she was with Tim Plachette.

But when the touch, the feel, the smell of someone is imbedded in your DNA…

If Allison sensed my unease, she never said a word.

***

I met her shortly before my years with Robin started to unravel. I’d been helping Milo on a twenty-year-old murder. Years before, at the age of seventeen, Allison had been sexually abused by a man who figured in the case. Her college mentor was an old friend of mine, and he asked her if she’d talk to me. She thought about it and agreed.