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started laughing. Pick scowled but at least didn’t launch.
    Then my phone played “Potato Head Blues.” I answered.
    “Help.” The voice was barely a whisper.
    “Who is it?” I said.
    “Oh God, help.”
    “Kate?”
    “Carl’s dead. Oh, dear God, help me.”

28
    C ARL’S APARTMENT WAS on Havenhurst in West Hollywood. The building was Spanish revival style. A throwback to the 1920s, when movies couldn’t talk
     and the cops were as crooked as an English waiter’s teeth.
    The LAPD is a whole lot more professional now, so I was not surprised by the efficient police presence on the ground floor.
     I told a uniform I was the family lawyer and showed him my Bar card. He told me I could go in.
    Kate was sitting in a wingback chair in the foyer. Slumped. Eric was on his knees, his arm around her.
    “Oh Ty!” she said when she saw me. I went to her and took her hand.
    “They wanted to ask Mom questions,” Eric said, “but she said she wanted to talk to you first.”
    “Is there someone in charge here?” I asked.
    “A detective,” Eric said. “He’s in the apartment. 102.”
    Kate said, “I don’t know what to do, Ty.”
    “Give me a minute.” I walked down the hall and found 102, which was yellow-taped. Another uniformed officer met me there.
     I told him who I was. He went inside and a moment later a plainclothes came out to the hallway. He had dark curly hair and
     a Roman nose. About my height. Brown, intelligent eyes. Mid-fifties.
    He shook my hand. “My name’s Zebker. You’re the family lawyer?”
    “Yes,” I said.
    “How well do you know the mother?”
    “Not very. I was retained to help Carl in a DUI.”
    “Is she strong? Emotionally?”
    “Why?”
    “There are some details about the death that are not very pleasant. It might be better coming from you. I can give the generic.
     It’ll all come out in the news sooner or later.”
    “All right. What was it?”
    “A nine-millimeter in the mouth. Ugly.”
    “Suicide?”
    “Maybe.”
    “Was there a note or anything?”
    “I have to reserve that information for now.”
    “Come on, Detective.”
    “We’ll follow procedure here. Right now my concern is for the mother. She’s pretty upset.”
    “There will be an autopsy, right?”
    “Yes.”
    “All right,” I said. “Let me talk to her. And I might talk to a few of the residents.”
    “Now hold on,” Zebker said. “We’re conducting an investigation.”
    “So am I.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “I want to know what happened.”
    “You’ll find out when we tell you.”
    “Why don’t we just cooperate?”
    Zebker looked down the hallway, where a few people were milling around. “I don’t want you plodding through my crime scene.”
    “Detective,” I said. “I don’t plod. I used to plod. I gave it up.”
    He didn’t smile.
    “And as you know,” I said, “you cannot prevent me from questioning anybody I want to question, unless you’re holding them
     as a material witness.”
    “Where did you learn that?”
    “It’s the law.”
    “Listen to me carefully. You try to question anybody before I do, I’m going to arrest you. That clear?”
    “Detective Zebker—”
    “That’s it. Now please go talk to the mother and take her home. I’ll be in touch about the autopsy.”
    “How about I take a look inside?”
    For a moment I thought Zebker was going to yellow-tape my mouth.
    I left before he could.

29
    I HAD TO tell Kate. I was glad Eric was there, to hold her up.
    “There’s no other way to say this,” I said. “It looks like Carl killed himself.”
    A shudder ran down her body. Like electric ripples. Then she convulsed into tears.
    “Take her home,” I told Eric. “If you have a sedative, give it to her. I’ll come by later and tell you what I can find out.”
    “Why why why?” Kate said, through sobs.
    Good question. She deserved an answer.

30
    A FTER E RIC TOOK Kate home, I hung around outside the apartment building.
    Zebker did not want me