CHAPTER ELEVENAnthony Roland came puffing up the hillside. Lindsey had spoken with him only a couple of times starting with that dreadful afternoon when he’d stood over the body of Annabella Buonaventura. Chins and rolls, the pale flesh of a man who spent his life in darkened rooms studying the images of long-ago worlds, that was Tony Roland.
Lindsey met him on the verandah of the Robeson Center.
Roland wore heavy, mirrored glasses in the sunlight. Inside, when he removed them, he blinked and squinted as he grew accustomed to even the mild daytime illumination of the building’s lobby. He was out of breath from the climb to Canyon Road. He mopped his forehead with a brightly-colored bandanna. Lindsey wondered what had become of his own handkerchief, the one that Roland had used to mop his
