She yelped, a camera popping from her lap onto the carpet. "Damn it." She clutched at her chest. "You scared the shit out of me." Her bangs were cut high and ruler straight across her forehead. Her eyes, big and unreasonably pretty, were moist from the scare. She crawled over and checked the camera, twisting the zoom lens free and examining it with concern. "I'm not following you."

I walked over and crouched in front of her. The realization that she was scared made me uncomfortable, but I felt no urge to reassure her. Her nose was nicely sloped and she had pouty lips, but her face was lean, shadows touching her cheeks. She reached for one of the many pockets in her cammy pants, and I grabbed her wrist, my fingers nearly encircling it.

"Careful," I said. "Slowly."

I let go, and she withdrew a roll of film. I took it and slid it from the little black tube. Kodak MAX Versatility Plus, 35mm 800-speed. The kind used to snap me before was Ektachrome 100. "Let me see the rest of your film, please."

She pulled a handful of plastic canisters from her pockets. "Look, I'm sorry, okay? I'll just get out of here. You don't have to call the cops."

A pillow, blanket, and overnight bag had been shoved into the corner, along with some Styrofoam take-out boxes. Her nervousness seemed genuine, and it didn't quite add up.

I checked the other rolls of film and the one in the camera. They were all the same high-speed type, not the kind left for me at the photomat. Not that that meant anything. So I went through her bag, but it held only a change of clothes, some toiletries, and more camera gear. A lens case bore a printed label-PROPERTY OF KIM KENDALL.

"Who hired you to follow me?"

"I told you. This has got nothing to do with you."

"Don't bullshit me. I saw you taking pictures of me."

"I'm not taking pictures of you. I was taking pictures of him"

"Okay. Let's just call the cops and have them straighten this out for us."

Her mouth tensed. "No, seriously," she said. "I'll prove it." She stood and tugged at my arm. "Come here."

I followed her into the bathroom. A chemical reek hit my nostrils when she shoved aside the shower curtain. Photographs hung dripping from the retractable clothesline, which had been pulled out and notched at the far end of the tub. Homer slumbering outside the liquor store. Homer napping on the grassy stretch along Ocean Avenue. Homer passed out at a bus stop on Wilshire. Evidently Homer slept a lot.

I plucked a photo off the line and studied it. "Who is he?"

"Wendell Alton. He was a dentist. Couldn't control the drinking. Lost everything-his family, house, his practice. He hasn't paid child support in years. We just tracked him down."

"Homer was a dentist?"

"Homer? Right. Yeah, he was."

"And you are…?"

"Usually? An art photographer. But that pays about as well as you can imagine. So I do jobs now and then for a couple private investigators."

"And this job?"

"Just to figure out what Alton's up to. To capture his life, report back. I'd learned that you let him come over once a week to shower and whatever.

So I set up here to show him coming and going. And for a home base, you know? It's harder than you'd think to shadow a homeless guy. All they do is lie around in the open."

"So what's going to happen to him?"

"Not up to me. I just turn in the pictures. His wife wants to come after him, that's her business."

"Isn't there a statute of limitations?" I was more upset than I should have been. "The guy's suffered enough, hasn't he?"

"A statute of limitations on abandoning your family?" She looked at me like I was subhuman. "Try that on the mom who's been working three jobs for the past decade. Or the kid."

"So he'll pay now? From jail?"

She shrugged. "Probably not. But he can't just run away from his past and expect it'll never catch up with him."

I leaned against the sink, feeling a bit nauseous.

"Why were you looking at all my film out there?" she asked. "What were you expecting to find?"

"Nothing. I… Nothing."

"Are you gonna call the cops?"

"No. Just- Listen, go easy on Homer. Tell his wife and the PI or whoever. He's an okay guy. Just beaten down. Going after him isn't going to solve anything. Just… leave him be."

Her big light eyes were flared with what I imagined was uncharacteristic empathy. I felt more paranoid than usual as I walked out.

Chapter 19

Slotted in the driveway next to Induma's recreational Range Rover was her Jag, a nice old-school one from before all the luxury cars started looking like Camrys. Her house, a done-to-a-turn Craftsman backing on the murky Venice canals, lit up in greeting as I strolled between the waist-deep bamboo lining the walk. Less than a block from the beach, the air had a pleasing sea-dirty tint. I was a few minutes late, having driven freeway loops and parked three blocks away to make sure I wasn't being followed.