"The killer's punishing sinners," I hissed.

There was a pause. "Are you high?"

"Each victim broke at least one commandment."

I heard his mattress creak. "Don't tell me. Harris was coveting the senator's a.s.s."

"Some people consider abortion murder." I felt breathless but strangely vindicated.

There was a moment's pause. "Explain or let me go to sleep."

"First and second commandments, thou shalt have no other G.o.ds, before me, and thou shalt not make false idols. Carma was a practicing Wiccan. Third, don't take G.o.d's name in vain. Emanuel. Fourth commandment, remember the Sabbath day. It was Baltimore's idea to campaign on Sunday. Fifth-"

His mattress squeaked abruptly. "Where's the one about adultery?"

I paused, barely breathing. "Seventh."

"And there have been six commandments broken."

"Yes."

There was a long pause during which I could hear myself sweat.

"I'll call the old man," he said.

"He didn't answer."

"You try his home phone?"

"Twice."

"Stay where you are. I'll check it out and call you back."

I stayed for about five seconds, after which I s.n.a.t.c.hed my keys from the counter, said good-bye to a droopy-eyed Harlequin, and raced out the door. Pacific Palisades was a forty-five-minute drive. The roads were curvy and crazy. The night was reminiscent of the first time I'd gone to the senator's house. Fog had hung over the roads then, too, a harbinger of horrors to come. Of dead, staring eyes and- My cell rang, yanking me back to the present with a gasp. I fished it out of my purse and snapped it open.

"Where the h.e.l.l are you?" Rivera asked. I could hear a motor charging to life in the background.

"Me?" I careened onto the 405, headed west.

"Are you in your car?"

I changed lanes, storming past a compact pickup truck. "Who knew about your father's indiscretions?"

"You get your a.s.s back home."

I was driving with my left hand, swerving rapidly around curves and up hills. "It must be someone from the past. Has to be."

"I kid you not, McMullen. If I see you at the senators, I'm handcuffing you to your steering wheel."

"Where do you think he is?"

"I'm warning you-"

"Have there been any threats to his life?"

"You're not a G.o.dd.a.m.n cop!"

"I realize that," I snapped. "I'm a shrink. You're a cop. Your father's in a s.h.i.tload of trouble. He's going to need all the help he can get to get him out."

He was silent for an instant. I could hear him shift gears. I slipped into the breach. "The senator must have suspected all along that his life was in danger."

"You think?"

I didn't bother to remind him that sarcasm is soph.o.m.oric and uncalled for.

"So why did he send the note?"

There was a moment of silence. "What note?"

I scowled a little, taking a curve too fast and gripping the wheel tighter. "He sent a note and a check, saying I shouldn't concern myself with the death. Apologized for getting me involved."

Another silence, then: "How much was the check for?"

"Ten thousand dollars." A sliver of guilt accompanied the admission. "I know I shouldn't have cashed it, but my septic system-"

"Conniving b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" Rivera growled.

A convertible zipped toward me around a hairpin turn, missing me by a prayer. I refrained from peeing in my pants and tried to keep my voice out of the upper octaves. "What's that?"

"If he had an ounce of integrity, he would have just put a gun to your head."

I thought about that for a moment while I tried to keep from careening into oblivion. "You think he knew I would take the money and feel obliged to keep investigating?"

Rivera snorted. "The old man's a scheming pile of s.h.i.t, but he knows how to pull peoples strings. I gotta give him that."

I took a deep breath and jumped into the truth with both feet. "He said he didn't want you to get involved because he worried about your safety."

"He didn't involve me because he knew I'd tell him to go to h.e.l.l."

And yet Rivera was currently speeding to his father's rescue. I scowled at the vagaries of life. "He said he'd had nightmares about seeing you dead on the sidewalk beside Kathy Baltimore."

"And you believed him?" His voice was incredulous.

Despite my Ph.D., I felt a need to explain myself. "Well, to be honest, I had a similar dream, and I thought maybe-"

"About me?" he asked. His tone had changed a bit, still coa.r.s.e but roughly gentle now.

I felt my throat tighten up. "You're sort of an a.s.s, but I kinda don't want anything to happen to you."

"Go home, Chrissy" he said. His tone was gruff, but there was pleading in it, and worry, and a dozen emotions I had no time to a.n.a.lyze.

"Where do you think he might be?" I asked.

For a moment I thought I felt worry from the other end of the line, but then he laughed. "How the h.e.l.l would I know? He's probably out whoring."

"If you believe that, why are you breaking the speed limit at two fifty-three in the morning?"

"Go home," he said, and hung up.

I beat him to his father's house by about three minutes. I was cupping my hands against the senators window and peering into the darkened house when he screeched into the drive beside my cowering little Saturn.

"McMullen." Maybe his voice wasn't loud enough to wake the dead, but it sure as h.e.l.l would p.i.s.s them off.

I scurried through the underbrush toward him. "What'd you find out?"

For a second I thought he actually might handcuff me to something, but he just glared at the house instead. "Did you knock?"

"No answer."

"Any windows open?"

"Not that I found."

He nodded, rang the doorbell, and dialed his phone simultaneously. After the third ring, I heard the senators ba.s.s recording pick up. Rivera snapped off his phone and glanced back at his Jeep.

"Could he be with your mother?"

He looked at me. "What are you on?"

"Then where is he?"

"How the h.e.l.l would I know?"

"You're his son."

"Only by accident." Bending, he picked up a potted fern and slammed it through the window. I jumped as gla.s.s shattered in every direction, but Rivera was already tossing the plant aside and reaching between the broken shards.

"Stay behind me," he ordered, and pulled a gun from some unknown orifice.

I followed him, spooked and breathless.

He flipped on the foyer light. "LAPD," he yelled. No one yelled back.

"What about a house alarm?" I rasped.

He glanced toward the little box beside the door. Not a single light was blinking. I could only a.s.sume that meant his dad had neglected to set it.

"Maybe he knew he was in danger and left in a hurry" I said.

"Or maybe he's got a hot little piece waiting for him," Rivera said, but his expression was hard as he took a left into the living room.

"Senator?" I called, and, glancing about, took a shaky detour into the great room. The Los Angeles Times lay open on the coffee table. One glance revealed it was Fridays edition. He had been there recently. I headed for the curving stairs. But the upper floor was much the same, deserted and immaculate. The master bedchamber showed signs of recent life, and that only by the disturbed bedclothes.

If there were clues I didn't find them. The air seemed breathless as I rushed downstairs. I nearly collided with Rivera at the bottom.

"Christ, the dog takes orders better," he said.

I ignored him. "Is his car gone?"

"One of them."

The house felt still and empty. I skirted him, heading for the kitchen.

The counter was bare. Three half-melted ice cubes languished in the sink. "He hasn't been gone more than a couple hours," I said.

"What are you now, supersleuth?"

"c.o.c.ktail waitress," I said, and nodded toward the sink. "It takes three ice cubes six hours to melt at room temperature."

He turned, looking at me as though I'd lost my last marble. "Are you s.h.i.tting me?"

I opened the dishwasher. "Yes." There were three plates and five gla.s.ses. I had no idea what that meant. I moved on to the refrigerator. It was well stocked and neatly organized, hardly resembling a fridge at all.

"s.h.i.t." Frustration jerked in Riveras jaw.

"But he was obviously here tonight. He was reading the paper."

"Jesus," he said.

"Watch your mouth. People have been killed for less."

He swore again, worse this time, then crossed to the phone and checked caller ID.

I watched. "Anything?"

"He got a call at twelve-fifteen a.m."

"From?"

"Unavailable."

We stared at each other.

"Probably a booty call," he said, but his eyes looked as hard as cut amber.

"Whose booty?"

He shook his head and headed into the bathroom.