"We think Bobby may have been suffering from a complication of the original head injury. Sometimes, a blockage develops in the normal flow of cerebrospinal fluid. Intra-cranial pressure builds up and part of the brain starts to atrophy, resulting in posttraumatic epilepsy."

"And that's why he ran off the road?"

"In my opinion, yes," Fraker said. "I can't state this categorically, but he'd probably been experiencing headaches, anxiety, irritability perhaps."

Kleinert cut in again. "I saw him at seven, seven fifteen, something like that. He was terribly depressed."

"Maybe he suspected what was going on," Fraker was saying.

"Too bad he didn't speak up then, if that's the case."

The murmuring between them continued while I tried to take in the implications.

"Is there any way a seizure like that could have been drug-induced?" I asked.

"Sure, it's possible. Toxicology reports aren't comprehensive and the analyses' results depend on what's asked for. There are several hundred drugs which could affect a person with a predisposition to seizures. Realistically, it isn't possible to screen for all of them," Fraker said.

Kleinert shifted restlessly. "Actually, after what he went through, it's a wonder he survived as long as he did. We tried to spare Glen, but I think we've all been worried that something like this might occur."

There didn't seem to be anything left to say on the subject.

Kleinert finally turned to Fraker. "Have you eaten yet? Ann and I are going out for supper if you and Nola want to join us."

Fraker declined the invitation, but he did need his wineglass filled and I could see him eyeing the crowd for some sign of his wife. Both doctors excused themselves.

I stood there, unsettled, reviewing the facts. Theoretically, Bobby Callahan had died of natural causes, but in fact, he'd died as a consequence of injuries received in the accident nine months ago, which he, at least, believed was a murder attempt. As nearly as I could remember, California law provides that "a killing is murder or manslaughter if the party dies within three years and a day after the stroke is received or the cause of death is administered." So the truth was, he was murdered and it didn't make any difference at all if he died that night or last week. At the moment, of course, I didn't have any proof. I did still have the bulk of the money Bobby had paid me and a clear set of instructions from him, so I was still in business if I wanted to be.

Mentally, I got up and dusted myself off. It was time to put grief aside and get back to work. I set my wineglass down and had a brief word with Glen to let her know where I'd be and then I went upstairs and systematically searched Bobbys room. I wanted that little red book.

Chapter 13

I was operating, of course, on the hope that Bobby had hidden the address book somewhere on the premises. He said he remembered giving the book to someone, but that might not be true. There was no way I could search the entire house, but I could certainly comb a couple of places. Glen's study, maybe Kittys room. It was quiet upstairs and I was glad to be alone for a while. I searched for an hour and a half and came up with nothing. I wasn't discouraged. In some odd way, I was heartened. Maybe Bobby's memory had served him correctly.

At six, I wandered out into the corridor. I leaned my elbows on the balustrade that circled the landing and listened for sounds filtering up from below. Apparently, the crowd had diminished considerably. I heard smatterings of laughter, an occasional light conversational swell, but it sounded like most of the guests had departed. I retraced my steps and tapped on Kittys door.

Muffled response. "Who is it?"

"It's me. Kinsey," I said to the blank door. After a moment, I heard the lock retracted, but she didn't actually let me in.

Instead, she hollered, "Enter!"

Lord, she was tedious. I entered.

The room had been tidied and the bed was made, I'm sure through no effort of hers. She looked as if she'd been crying. Her nose was reddened, her makeup smeared. She was, of course, doing drugs. She had gotten out a mirror and a razor blade and was laying out a couple of lines of coke. There was a half-filled wineglass on the bed table.

"I feel like shit," she said. She had exchanged her gypsy outfit for a raw silk kimono in a lush shade of green with butterflies embroidered on the back and sleeves. Her arms were so thin she looked like a praying mantis, her green eyes aglitter.

"When are you due back at St. Terry's?" I asked.

She paused to blow her nose, not wanting to screw up her high. "Who knows?" she said, glumly. "Tonight, I guess. At least 1*11 have a chance to pack some of my own clothes to take with me. Shit, I ended up on the psycho ward with nothing."