The Forgotten Man

17

Golden called at five minutes after eight the next morning. He probably hadn't been awake that early in years, but he also probably hadn't slept.

"All right, you bastard, I set it up with the girls. They'll talk to you, but they're scared, like anyone needs this kind of shit in their lives."

"It's a high-risk profession."

He told me when and where to see them, and how to contact them if I needed to change the plan. I copied their addresses and phone numbers. I hadn't expected that all three would agree to see me; I guess Stephen had some sway.

"Okay, Stephen. As soon as I talk to them I'll return the computer."

"I think you're gonna fuck me up the ass is what I think. What kind of man walks into another man's house and steals his stuff? Like I should trust you?"

That's what you need at eight in the morning, a pimp assuming the moral high ground.

"You don't have a choice, Stephen, just like last night."

"Yeah, well, I got friends, too, you bastard. I want my-"

I hung up. Beckett would probably hear back from the Feds today, and Pardy would run Faustina's name, but I didn't trust that Pardy would get back to me. If a missing-persons report had been filed on Herbert Faustina, it would show when his name was run and save me a lot of time. I called Starkey.

"Hey, you wanna do me a favor?"

"We have a spare desk over here. Why don't you bring your stuff and move in?"

"Would you run the name Herbert Faustina through the MPRs?"

I spelled it for her.

"Faustina your John Doe?"

"Yeah. I'm not sure that's his real name, but it'll save me a lot of time if you get a hit."

"You want me to wax your car, too?"

Everyone is a comedian.

"Thanks, Carol. I appreciate it."

An uneasy silence developed before she cleared her throat.

"Listen-why'd you call me with this? You could've called your pal, Poitras-he's sitting on his fat ass right down the hall here- but you called me. Why is that?"

Next to Joe Pike, Lou Poitras was my closest friend. He ran the homicide bureau at Hollywood Station, and I was godfather to one of his three children. I didn't understand what she was getting at, but she seemed irritated.

"I didn't think of him-I thought of you. Look, it's not a big deal if you're too busy or can't or whatever. I'll call Poitras. That's a good idea."

"I'm not saying to call Poitras. Look, I'll run the goddamned name and call you later. Forget I said anything."

"What's wrong?"

"Forget it."

She hung up, and I thought maybe I should call her back, but I didn't. I locked the house and drove down the hill.

Victoria was the last.

Victoria had been the last of the three escorts to see Faustina, so I wanted to talk to her first. She was also the most reluctant to see me, Golden had said. She was married, and had children. She wouldn't agree to see me at her home, and didn't want me to call, but she agreed to meet me at Greenblatt's Delicatessen on Sunset after she dropped her kids at school. Great.

I eased into the morning chain of commuters creeping down Laurel to Sunset, then hooked a tight left, and parked behind Greenblatt's. Lucy and I had often gone there for bagels because it -was close to my house, but when the memories of her came I pushed them away. I told myself it was important to stay focused, but the truth was I was tired of hurting.

The deli was crowded with people buying bagels and coffee to go. I strolled to the front of the store, then along the wine aisles, but no one looked like a potential murderer or a soccer-mom escort with her eye out for a private detective.

I bought a cup of coffee, then carried it upstairs to a small dining area. It was crowded, too, but I knew Victoria as soon as I saw her. She didn't look away when our eyes met. She had black hair cut to frame her face, and pale skin, and was wearing an unzipped burgundy sweat jacket over a black tee and sweat pants. She watched with remote detachment as I approached.

I said, " Victoria?"

"Let's do this in my car. We'll have more privacy."

I followed her outside to a gleaming S-class Mercedes sedan. It was an eighty-thousand-dollar car. She pointed her key, and the Mercedes chirped. She hadn't bought the car by working as a prostitute; her money came from somewhere else. Probably her husband.

"Get in. We can talk in the car."

Her Mercedes was parked facing out so we would be in open view of everyone entering and leaving the deli. She had probably planned it that way. When we closed the doors, the sounds of the city vanished with the heavy thump of sealing gaskets. Victoria folded her hands in her lap, and twisted a platinum wedding band on her left hand.

I identified myself, then asked to see her driver's license. She shook her head.

"I didn't bring it. Stephen said you aren't a policeman-"

I didn't see a purse, so she was probably telling the truth about her license. I slipped a digital camera from my pocket, and snapped her picture before she realized what I was doing. She covered her face after the flash, when it was too late.

"You bastard. You sonofabitch-"

"That one is for the night clerk at the motel. I'll also run the license plate on your car. You want to stop fooling around?"

She glared at me, but she didn't try to run, and she didn't make a scene. I took out the morgue shot of Faustina.

"Do you recognize this man?"

"Yes. Stephen said he's dead."

"When and where did you last see him?"

"The night before last at the Home Away Suites. There wasn't any before or after-just the once. At about ten. Five minutes before ten."

"Did you leave the motel with him?"

"It was an outcall date. I went to his room, I left-that's how it works."

"So you didn't leave with him?"

"No. I don't know what he did after I left. I don't know anything about this. I don't want to be involved-"

She twisted the band harder, and shook her head, not as a negative, but to swing the hair from her eyes. Her calm expression and frantic fingers didn't go together, as if they belonged to different people.

" Victoria- "

"My name is Margaret Keyes."

"Margaret. If you had to prove you weren't with him later that night, could you?"

She studied me for another moment with the same detachment she had shown earlier, then glanced past me at something she wanted me to see.

"See over there-the other Mercedes."

A black Mercedes AMG sat at the far end of the parking lot. I couldn't see the driver clearly with the sun glaring off its windshield, but a man wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap sat behind the wheel.

She said, "You see the AMG?"

"I see it."

"That's my husband. When I left the motel, I got into his car and we found a quiet street. It was one of those little streets just above the freeway, I think by a school. We had sex. After we finished, we went for dinner in Studio City. That would have been around eleven-thirty. We eat there all the time, so the maitre d' will remember. We'll have the credit card receipt."

I watched the AMG as she said it, then looked back at her, feeling uncomfortable that she had to open herself to me and a guy like Pardy.

She shrugged.

"I don't trick for the money. He likes it when other men pay for me. He likes waiting while-"

"Is he armed? If he gets out with anything in his hands, it's going to be a problem."

"We didn't know what to expect. Stephen made threats. He said if I didn't talk to you, he would tell the police a lot more about me than the evening I spent with Faustina-"

She hesitated, to choose her words carefully.

"Stephen has pictures. We have children."

"I'll talk to Stephen. I don't care what you did with Faustina sex-wise-I want to know what he said. Did he mention what he was doing here in L.A. or what he was going to do later that night? Did he mention any names? I don't need a description of the sex."

The corner of her mouth curled again.

"Everything is sex."

"Just answer my questions."

"We prayed."

She stopped, waiting for my reaction.

"You prayed?"

"He paid me two hundred dollars to pray. So tell me, was that sex or not? We knelt and he read from the Bible. That's what he wanted."

"What did you pray about?"

"We asked God to forgive him, like, please forgive this man his sins, forgive this sinner, show him mercy, like that. I thought it would become sexual, but it didn't."

"You prayed for an hour?"

"He paid for an hour, but he got a phone call and asked me to leave. I was probably with him about forty minutes. I got there at ten, so that was about ten-forty."

The phone call could have been from the person he went to meet.

"Do you remember what he said to the phone?"

"No, I'm sorry. I wasn't paying attention, and then he let me out. I know he was still on the phone when I left."

I made a mental note to recheck the calls Faustina made that night. One of his outgoing calls might have led to his getting the call she remembered. I glanced at her husband, but he was still tucked in his car. The lot attendant was busy directing traffic. Something in what she said bothered me.

"He walked you to the door, but he was still on the phone? Did you mean he was holding the phone when he brought you to the door?"

"That's right. You know how you cup it so people can't hear?"

"His phone was on the nightstand on the opposite side of the bed. It wouldn't have reached the door."

"No, no, not that phone. His cell phone. It was one of those flip phones."

A cell phone meant he could have made calls other than the calls that showed on his motel bill. A cell phone opened an untraceable world of possibilities unless I could learn his number. I made a note to ask Diaz if a cell phone had been found with his body.

Margaret Keyes said, "Are we finished?"

"Yes. You've been a big help. I appreciate it."

I glanced at her husband. She saw me looking, and smiled.

"Go introduce yourself. It would scare the shit out of him."

I opened the door, then looked back at her.

"This thing you do, you do it for him?"

She laughed, and her eyes sparkled with cold fire.

"You can't even hope to understand."

I didn't ask what she meant. I walked back to my car, then went to find the others.

18

Hot Pursuit

After Frederick had taken care of Father Wills, he was scared to return to Payne's. He wanted to; he wanted to race back and search for anything that would tell him where Payne had gone and what he intended, but it was late when he finished with the priest. Even with Payne's house hidden the way it was, Frederick was frightened that filling his house with light in the middle of the night would draw unwanted attention.

Frederick went home and spent a fitful night, tossing and turning as he dreamed about killing Payne with the skewer from his Weber. The dream played out on the inside of his skull like one of those IMAX theaters, totally surrounding him as if it was real. In the fantasy, he saw himself drinking a Coors Light outside his mobile home while the Weber grew hot. The skewer glowed yellow over a huge mound of coals so hot the air rippled. Payne stepped out of the trailer, and said, "I confessed. I went to Los Angeles, and told them our nasty little secrets, and now I feel better. They know all about us, and now the dead will carry you down into Hell, but it's okay because I feel better, and isn't that what confession is all about, me feeling better while you pay the price?" Frederick was swept by a tsunami of fear, betrayal, and indignation. In his fantasy, he snatched up the skewer and drove it through Payne's belly into his lungs, screaming, "YOU TRAITOR!"

The next morning-before he opened the station-Frederick went back to Payne's when the sky was misty with light. He worried that Payne had written a confession or journal or diary, or had some sort of incriminating scrapbook hidden away. He searched every drawer, cabinet, box, closet, and hiding place he could think of, trying to find something that would explain why Payne had gone to Los Angeles, and whom he had gone to see.

Frederick searched high and low for the better part of three hours, growing more and more frantic at what Payne was saying, and where; finding nothing until he saw the Los Angeles Yellow Pages waiting on the kitchen counter. It was the San Fernando Valley East edition.

If Payne had gone to Los Angeles, he would need a place to stay.

Frederick opened the Yellow Pages to the section on hotels. Dozens of hotels were listed, but none of them stood out. Frederick flipped deeper into the book to find the listing for motels. A scrap of paper marked this page. A blue dot of ink indicated a motel in Toluca Lake.

Home Away Suites.

Frederick checked the time. Toluca Lake was less than thirty minutes away. If Payne was down there ratting him out, Frederick would make sure he paid.

19

Where Margaret Keyes had met me in an anonymous location, Janice lived near Dodger Stadium and had no problem with me coming to her home. Janice shared an exclusive condominium with her boyfriend, a wealthy Israeli named Sig who wanted to make a name for himself directing gonzo porn ("Sig's family has so much money they shit green."). Janice started talking the moment she opened her door, and talked so much I had to interrupt to keep her on point. Janice started tricking while a senior at an exclusive girls' prep school ("It was nasty, and I LOVED it!"), got implants on her eighteenth birthday ("They were a present from my mom."), and started stripping while a freshman at USC ("It's like getting paid to be me!"). Janice talked so much it was like drowning in a verbal Niagara Falls. She told pretty much the same story as Margaret Keyes, except in her version Faustina had received no phone call-she had stayed for an hour, and was paid two hundred dollars in cash. To pray.

Dana Mendelsohn was the last escort on my list, but the first to have visited Herbert Faustina. I didn't expect Dana to tell me anything new. I stopped for an outstanding turkey burger at Madame Matisse in Silver Lake, then sat in my car, searching for Dana's address in the Thomas Brothers Guide. I had just found her street when my cell phone rang. It was Starkey.

She said, "I left three friggin' messages. Didn't you get them?"

I looked at the little window on my cell phone. It showed no messages.

"I've had my phone with me all morning. It didn't ring and it doesn't show any messages."

"I know I got the right number. It's your stupid voice on the message."

My stupid voice.

I hated my cell phone. I was the last person in Los Angeles to enter the Jetsonian world of cellular communications, and I have regretted it ever since. Before I got the cell, everyone asked how I got by without one, and my clients complained. I weakened under the cultural weight of a city filled with satisfied cell users, ponied up, signed a service contract, and was doomed to crappy cell service. I rarely got a signal. When I got a signal, I couldn't keep the signal, or found myself in someone else's conversation. When someone called me, the phone rang sometimes, but not always. When someone left a message, the phone told me when it felt like it, or not at all. Everyone in my life was happy I got a cell phone except me. I wanted to throw it down a storm drain.

I said, "Okay, let's pretend I got your messages, and now I've called you. Why am I calling?"

"I ran Faustina through the system. Nothing came up, which means he doesn't have a criminal record, and he didn't toddle off from a booby hatch."

"Okay."

"I also ran his name through the Social Security roll. The name Herbert Faustina doesn't show. Whoever he is, he doesn't have a Social Security number, which means Herbert Faustina probably doesn't exist. It's an alias."

The Social Security system was off-limits to police without special court orders. Cops couldn't just ask for someone's Social Security information. Starkey had probably used a personal contact, and she would get burned if anyone found out.

"You didn't have to do that, Starkey. I wouldn't have asked you."

"Don't worry about it, but since you're so slow on the uptake let me point out the obvious: I am definitely a woman you want on your side."

"I guess you are."

"I gotta get back to work. Try not to get killed."

She hung up, but left me smiling.

Dana's address led me to a small red apartment building south of Melrose between La Brea and Fairfax on a street without character or charm. It was one of those older areas where single-family homes had been scraped away a house at a time, replaced by four-or six-unit apartment buildings built on the cheap by heirs, retirees, or doctors looking for a positive cash flow. Now the street was lined by small buildings that looked like they had been designed on paper napkins while everyone laughed about how much money they would make. Dana's building looked like a Big Mac carton.

I parked on the street, walked up along a short drive lined with garbage cans, and found her apartment under a set of floating stairs that led to the second floor. Two mountain bikes were chained to the stairs. I rang her bell, then knocked. Loud voices started up inside; a man and a woman arguing whether or not to open the door. Dana wasn't alone. I knocked again.

A tall good-looking man jerked open the door and gave me the dog eye. He was solidly built with a fine neck and thick shoulders, and he knew it; he stood tall in the open door, showing himself off. His hair was high and tight, and he was neatly dressed with two layers of Raiders apparel.

I said, "Dana?"

"I'll Dana you up the ass, you talk trash to me."

Behind him, Dana said, "Please, Thomas, Stephen said I hadda talk to him."

"Stephen don't live here."

"Thomas. Let him in."

A chunky young woman touched him out of the way. She was maybe five four, with peroxide-blond hair, a deep tan, and wide blue eyes that made her seem open and innocent. She was wearing a cropped T-shirt over shorts, with the T-shirt showing large breasts and a gold navel stud. She was about the same age as Janice, but she looked younger; she was a lifetime younger than Margaret.

She said, "This is Thomas. He's not my boyfriend or anything. He's my roommate."

I made him for her boyfriend, and probably her driver. Thomas didn't move far. His hands hung loose at his sides as he leaned toward me to let me know he was ready to unload.

"And what does Thomas do? He drive you to see Faustina?"

Thomas shook his finger at her before she could answer.

"It's not his damned business. You shouldn't talk to him or anyone else about this."

"Stephen said we gotta."

We.

"Fuck Stephen, gettin' us mixed up in this shit. They gonna put this on someone and it gonna be ME!"

Stephen told me he knew nothing about the drivers for his escorts, but apparently Thomas and Stephen knew each other. It made me wonder what else Stephen hadn't told me.

I moved past and looked at their apartment. It was simple and clean, with the living room breaking to the right, and a dining area and kitchen ahead. The dining table had been pushed into the far corner and set up as a desk with a desktop computer and a clutter of notes pushpinned to the wall. The chairs were hung with what looked like camera bags and backpacks. In the living room, a fluffy couch faced a cabinet that held a television, a CD player, and a row of color photographs of Dana spinning around a stripper's pole. She looked pretty good upside down.

I said, "Nice pictures. Is that you?"

"What the fuck you care, is that her in the nice pictures? You think those pictures NICE? You want us to have a little coffee, pass time like we FRIENDS?"

I looked at him. The day had been a slow grind from morning to midafternoon with not much to show for it. He didn't like me looking at him, and glowered even harder.

He said, "What?"

Dana came up beside me and pulled at my arm.

"He's scared of the three strikes. He has two convictions."

"Don't tell him nothin' about me, not a goddamned thing."

I understood his fear-if he caught another felony conviction he could go back to jail for the rest of his life.

I said, "No one cares about you unless you know something about Faustina. Do you?"

"No!"

"Then that's all you have to say. The police are going to talk to Stephen. If he tells them you drove and you say you didn't, what's that going to look like?"

"I ain't sayin' nothin' to nobody! I can NOT be part of this!"

Dana's eyes worked up to full-scale tears.

"Stephen said we gotta."

"Fuck Stephen! You leave me out of this and do NOT even mention my name! I don't want to hear my name, not ONE TIME!"

Thomas jabbed the air to show her what one time meant, then stalked around the corner into the dining room. Suddenly, after all the shouting, their apartment was silent. Dana wiped at her eyes and cleared her throat. She spoke softly so Thomas wouldn't hear.

"Stephen says it'll be all right. He said to cooperate."

"This is a homicide investigation, Dana. The police won't be here to bust you-or Thomas. They just want to know about Faustina. You see?"

She glanced to make sure Thomas wasn't listening, then lowered her voice still more.

"Thomas took those pictures. He's a really, really good photographer. We're doing a pay site and he's taking the pictures of me. He's even building the web site for me. He knows all about that stuff."

I nodded, and knew why she told me-all her dreams with Thomas were riding on the hope that Stephen had told her the truth-that everything would be all right.

"Dana, I want you to look at this."

I showed her the morgue shot of Faustina and walked her through my questions exactly as I had with the others. Faustina paid Dana to pray for his forgiveness. He told her nothing about himself and his reasons for being in Los Angeles; they did not have sex; and, when they finished praying, he walked her to the door. During their hour together, he never mentioned where he was from, why he was in Los Angeles, how long he intended to stay, or any other person or place. The only difference with what I heard from the other escorts was that Dana had asked Faustina why he needed to be forgiven. I guess Dana wasn't yet so hardened that she no longer cared.

I said, "Did he tell you?"

"He said for loving too much."

"You asked him why he wanted God to forgive him, and he said for loving too much?"

"Isn't that sad?"

"What or who did he love too much?"

A woman he met once and never saw again? A son he never knew?

"I dunno. I said, how can you love too much? Loving someone is a good thing-you don't have to be forgiven for that. I wanted to make him feel better, you know, but he said love could be terrible, he said love could be the Fifth Horseman and could kill you as dead as the other four, and then he started crying and I felt so bad I started crying, and I put my arms around him because I wanted him to feel better, but he didn't want me touching him like that. He kinda unwrapped me and gave back my hands and said let's keep praying, okay?, asking me real nice, 'cause that's the only thing will make it better, so we kept praying, and I didn't even know what he meant until Thomas told me."

Thomas's voice came quietly from the dining room.

"The Horsemen. She didn't know about the Four Horsemen, so I had to tell her what he meant by the fifth."

He was watching us from the mouth of the dining room. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse were war, pestilence, disease, and famine-the four forces that could destroy the world. Herbert Faustina had added love to the list.

Thomas glanced at Dana, then me.

"We don't know nothin' about a murder. She didn't have sex with him or solicit anything, so this ain't prostitution. It ain't against the law to be paid for saying your prayers, am I right?"

"That's right. No harm, no foul."

"So what can they pop me for if I drove her to pray?"

"Nothing."

"All right, then-"

He nodded some more, still circling his commitment, then finally went for the meat.

"All right, he had a brown car."

Dana looked horrified.

"Thomas-"

He stopped her with the finger.

"That asshole Stephen hadda bring me into this, now I got to look out for me. All I did was drive you to pray, and now I'm gonna cooperate with the police and earn my love. You got to give to get, and I will NOT go to prison. This is me, being a good citizen. He had a brown Honda Accord. The left rear hubcap was missing and it had a big dent back there, right by the wheel."

I stared at him, then looked at Dana, but Dana had an empty expression like she didn't have any idea what he was talking about.

"Were you in his car? Did you go for a ride with him?"

"She didn't go anywhere with the man. She finished with the praying like she said, and came out and got in the car-my car- and told me about what they did, the prayin', and that's when I set her straight about the Horsemen. Then we talked about what we want to do, get something to eat or go have some drinks or come home, and she says, hey, look, that's him."

Dana suddenly nodded, as if she only now remembered and saw it clearly.

"That's right. He came outside."

Thomas silenced her with the finger again and kept going. He had made the commitment, he had the floor, and nothing would stop him now.

"So now I'm lookin' 'cause I want to see this stupid john with all his prayin', and there he is. He got into a car and drove away, the brown Honda."

"You see his license plate?"

"No, man, I was too busy lookin' at this goofy asshole, in there crying 'bout forgiveness."

"Was it a California plate?"

"Never even looked. He come backin' out and there's this big-ass dent and the car all dirty. I tol' her, look at that piece of shit he drivin'. He got two hundred to spend on pussy, he oughta wash his car."

I suddenly felt a pulse of my own hope. Brown Honda Accords were as common as sand fleas, but a brown Accord with a missing left rear hubcap and dented wheel well was a specific vehicle. The dent meant it wasn't a rental.

"Okay. Then what?"

"Nothing. What you think, what? He went off, and we went over to Stephen's, drop off his cut of the money. We shared a blunt, then came home. Stephen like to spark up, he get some money. He keep a lot of dope in that house."

Thomas made a nasty smile when he mentioned the pot, like he was paying Stephen back for putting him in this position. He would mention it to the police, too.

I wanted to tell Diaz about the car. If Faustina's car was still near the scene, an alerted patrol officer might find it. Then we could trace his name and address through the vehicle registration. If the shooter was currently joyriding in Faustina's car, we might even catch the killer.

I thanked them for their time, then started out when I saw the pictures again. I looked back at them. Dana had come up beside Thomas, and slipped her hand into his.

I said, "What Faustina said about love being the Fifth Horseman? He was wrong."

I pulled the door, then hurried back to my car, and called Diaz. If I couldn't reach her, I planned to call Starkey, but Diaz answered on the third ring.

She said, "Cole, is that you? I've been trying to get you the past hour."

I hate my cell phone.

"I have a possible car description, Diaz. It's-"

"We have his name. Beckett got the ID from those things in his legs. We know Herbert Faustina's real name."

John Doe #05-1642, also known as Herbert Faustina, had been identified through the appliances in his legs as George Llewelyn Reinnike, originally from Anson, California. I made her spell Reinnike. She told me to come to her office, and promised a full report. It was great news; so good that I did not feel the eyes, or notice that I was being followed.

20

The Central Community Police Station was headquartered on Sixth Street, a few blocks south of the Harbor Freeway in downtown Los Angeles, and not far from the murder site. It was a five-story modern brick building dwarfed by surrounding skyscrapers, and constantly patrolled by bomb-sniffing dogs. LAPD's SWAT is headquartered at Central, as is the elite uniformed Metro Division. Like the other police stations in Los Angeles, it was known as a Division until someone decided that Division made the police sound like an occupying army. Now we had Community Police Stations, which sounded user-friendly.

I put my car in a civilian parking lot, entered through the main entrance on Sixth, and waited for Diaz to come get me. When the elevator finally opened, Pardy was the only one aboard. He was standing straight and stiff as if his suit was tight, and he did not look at me. His jaw worked as if he had bitten into a sour candy.

He said, "Get on."

I got on. Pardy hit the button to close the doors before anyone could join us, then turned and squared his shoulders to face me.

"You could have filed a beef for what I did, but you didn't. For what it's worth, I appreciate that. I was out of line."

He hesitated like he wanted to say something more, but finally turned back to the door. Sometimes these guys will surprise you.

"That was classy, Detective. Thank you."

He nodded, still not looking at me, but now he seemed more relaxed.

"I spoke with Golden this morning. That was good work, you finding him so fast. I'm not going to ask why, but he's cooperating."

"I inspire good citizenship."

"Sure."

"The girls who saw Reinnike will cooperate, too. They expect you to give them a pass."

"They don't have anything to do with the shooting, they don't have to worry. All I'm about is the murder."

"Make that clear to them, and you'll be okay."

"After I saw Golden, I went by the Home Away Suites. I'm also not going to ask how you got Reinnike's bill, but don't do anything like that again. You understand what I'm saying?"

"I get you."

"Diaz wants me to let it go, and I owe you one, so this is the one."

"Did you go over the calls Reinnike made?"

Pardy took a moment to answer.

"He called damned near every police station in the city. I've been thinking about it."

"Yeah, me, too."

When the doors opened again, Pardy led me along a light beige hall that was lined with file cabinets, and into the Homicide Bureau. The homicide detectives were housed in a narrow room with too much furniture and not enough storage. Like the hall, the homicide room bristled with file cabinets.

Diaz was at the far end with two detectives who looked like middle-aged carpet salesmen. Pardy gestured toward her.

"Detective Diaz will show you where. I gotta get the file."

Diaz met me in the center of the room, then led me to her desk. It was wedged against the wall, and faced another desk. A black female detective as small and brittle as a hummingbird was at the adjoining desk, quietly asking someone on the phone to tell her what happened next. She scribbled notes as she spoke, ignoring us.

"Siddown here, Cole. So does the name Reinnike or Anson, California, mean anything to you?"

Like she expected a lightbulb to flash over my head and me to shout, DADDY!

"No. Do you have anything on him?"

"Beckett ran the name through NCIC and DMV. No one by this name shows on their rolls, either; which means he resided out of state or held a license under another name."

Like his alias, Herbert Faustina, George Llewelyn Reinnike was also a cipher.

Pardy returned with a black three-ring binder. It was his murder book. As the lead homicide detective, Pardy would file all the reports, witness statements, and relevant evidence he accumulated in this one binder. Since this was his first case as the lead, it was probably the first time he had been responsible for the book. He draped a leg over the edge of Diaz's desk, and carefully snapped open the rings. There weren't many pages yet in the book, but more would be added as the case developed. He handed me a thin stack of reports.

"Okay, Cole, this is the medical examiner's prelim, and the records from the company that manufactured the appliances. You can read it here in front of us, and make notes, but you can't make copies. That's the way it is."

I was anxious to read, but Diaz touched the reports before I could begin.

"Hang on. You said you had a vehicle description. Let's get started with that."

Pardy made notes on a yellow pad as I repeated Thomas's description.

"They get the plate?"

Diaz cut off his question as if he was stupid.

"He would have told you if he had the plate. Keep going, Cole-did you get anything else?"

"They prayed."

Diaz and Pardy waited the way I waited when Margaret Keyes first told me.

"Reinnike didn't have sex with them. He paid them to pray for him."

Partly laughed.

"That's bullshit. Are you making that up?"

"All three women told me the same thing. They prayed for his forgiveness."

Diaz's dark eyes colored like smoke on the horizon.

"Why did he need forgiveness?"

"He didn't tell them."

Pardy frowned at Diaz.

"I'm telling you, this sounds like bullshit. Golden probably tells all these whores to say that to beat the sex bust."

Diaz continued to stare at me with the cloudy eyes, then frowned at Pardy like he was spastic.

"You saw the crosses he had all over himself? It's not a stretch to imagine he's some kind of religious freak, is it?"

Pardy grunted, but still looked unconvinced.

"When we're done here, have Cole go over everything each girl told him. When you talk to them, see if you get the same answers. Maybe you'll catch one of them in a lie. Right now, you should put out a BOLO on the car. That's a good description. Some traffic cop might pick it up while we're here dicking around."

Pardy left to file the BOLO, and Diaz watched him go.

"You gotta tell him every goddamned thing, one slow-motion step at a time. And they say Mexicans work slow."

"That what they say about you, Diaz?"

Diaz laughed, then took the medical examiner's reports from me and flipped through the pages.

"You don't have to read all this, Cole. Here's what you need-"

The pages she handed back were the faxed correspondence from the Penzler Surgical Orthopaedics Company of East Lansing, Michigan, to Beckett.

Dear Mr. Beckett,

Per our conversation regarding #s HSO-5227/HSO-5228.

Units are matched (bilateral reversed) femoral support appliances manufct on 16 Oct 46 by this company. (See attch descript.) Our records indicate the following assignments:

Units assgnd: Andrew Watts Children's Hospital

1800 Mission Boulevard

San Diego, California

Surg assgnmt: Dr. Randy Sherman

Andrew Watts Children's Hospital

1 800 Mission Boulevard

San Diego, California

Pat assgnmt: George Llewelyn Reinnike

15612 L Street, NW

Anson, California

Pat cond: Legg-Calve-Perthes

minor m, func. +, adv.

surg. 6/20/47/AWCH/Sher

(see attch)

This is the extent of company records. Please do not hesitate to call if I can be of further assistance.

Sincerely,

Edith Stone, M.D.

V.P. Sales

I copied Reinnike's address, as well as the names of the doctor and hospital. A second page gave a brief explanation of Legg-Calve-Perthes Disease that read like a company brochure. LCP was a degenerative ball-joint disease that caused the femur to weaken in young children. Appliances were screwed into the femur to support the bone and maintain the integrity of the joint.

Diaz let me read the M.E.'s report while we waited for Pardy. The cause of death was a single gunshot wound to the left chest that resulted in two broken ribs, a cracked vertebra, and two ruptured arteries. George Llewelyn Reinnike had drowned in his own blood. The bullet was a copper-jacket.380, and had fragmented upon impact with the vertebra. The M.E. had found no traces of semen in the urethra, colon, or stomach, and no semen or vaginal residue present on the penis, indicating the victim had not had a recent sexual encounter. Blood-screen results were to follow, but the M.E. noted no overt evidence of drug use other than a moderate cirrhosis of the liver, indicating the victim had been a drinker. Reinnike hadn't gone into the alley to buy drugs or sex. He had gotten a phone call, cut short his prayers, and almost certainly gone downtown to meet someone. I felt certain whatever happened in the alley was not a chance encounter.

Pardy returned as I finished reading, and perched on the edge of the desk.

I said, "One other thing. The girl who was with Reinnike on the night he was murdered said he got a call when she was with him, and he cut short her visit. He got the call on a cell phone. Did you guys find a cell with the body?"

Pardy and Diaz looked at each other, and Diaz shook her head. Pardy shrugged.

"Maybe he left it in his car. We'll see when we find it."

Diaz leaned forward, then stood.

"Okay, I don't need to be here for the rest of this. I got my own cases to work. Pardy, you know what you have to do?"

"Sure. I'm going to bust a killer."

I said, "Just so everyone understands, what we now have is a two-way flow of information, right? No one has a problem?"

Pardy's jaw rippled again as it had in the elevator.

"Cole, I'm here for the murder. So long as you don't do anything that interferes with my case, help yourself. If you turn something that helps me out, so much the better."

Diaz arched her eyebrows at me.

"You happy?"

"Thrilled. And I appreciate it."

"I'm gone. Just remember, if you kick up anything, you keep us in the loop."

She left us sitting at her desk. Pardy slid off the edge, then stepped around me and sat in her chair.

"Okay, Cole, tell me what the whores said."

I gave him a detailed report. While we were talking, I thought about Diaz. I had wanted to ask if she found the witness she had been searching for, but I knew she probably hadn't. Sometimes you never find them. Sometimes, after you search long enough, you realize the person you've been chasing was nothing more than a dream.

21

Nightmare

Frederick fought down the shiver of rage that crept up on him. Payne betrayed us, and now he will have to deal with me. He picked up the pay phone outside a 24/7 minimart across the street from the Home Away Suites. A man answered with an irritated voice as if he resented answering the phone.

"Home Away, Toluca Lake."

It was difficult to hear with the passing traffic.

"Uh, I'd like to speak with, uh, a Mr. Payne Keller, please. He's staying with you, uh, but I don't know the room number."

"I'll see."

"I don't know which room-"

"We have no guest by that name."

"Uh, well-"

"Can I help with something else?"

Frederick read the man's impatience, but didn't know what to say.

"Uh, Payne-"

"Sorry, we have no guest by that name."

Frederick put down the phone, then bought a supersize Diet Rite and returned to his truck. Earlier, he had cruised the Home Away parking lot, but had not seen Payne's car. Frederick guessed that Payne had registered under another name, but he didn't know whom to ask for.

The Home Away Suites sat across from a Mobil station. Frederick pulled up to the pumps. He went into the service bay, and considered the service technician who was changing the oil filter on a Sentra.

"Hey, you got an old box? I need a little cardboard box about this big."

Frederick held his hands eight or ten inches apart.

The technician gave Frederick a discarded air-filter box, and didn't even charge him. Frederick dug around under his seat, fishing out a broken water pump and a work shirt he used to wear before he tore the pocket. The shirt didn't say Mobil or Payne's Car Care, but it was dark blue, grease-stained, and had a nice professional pinstripe. His name was stitched on the right breast: Frederick .

Frederick put the water pump in the box, changed shirts, then drove back to the motel. He carried the box into the lobby, and smiled at the desk clerk, a young guy with an inflamed rash of pimples on his chin. His name tag read James Kramer.

Frederick set the box onto the counter with a clump.

"I'm Frederick from over at the Mobil. I got a rebuilt pump here for the guy with the crosses, I don't remember his name. He said I should let him know."

Frederick made his eyes vague as he waited to find out whether or not Kramer would recognize the man with the crosses.

Kramer said, "Did he pay you?"

"Uh-uh. Not yet."

"You're screwed. That guy was killed. The cops been all over us."

Frederick stood motionless, smiling, giving the good ol' Frederick face with the simple, open eyes.

"What did you say?"

Kramer made his hand into a gun and clicked his thumb.

"That was Faustina with the crosses, but that wasn't his real name. He got dropped. It's a big deal, man; we've had cops, CSI, even private detectives."

A rush of overlapping voices filled Frederick 's head. They sounded like the sea at night. Kramer was saying something, but Frederick didn't hear. He didn't know how long Kramer had been talking before he focused again.

"-here all day yesterday and said they'd be back, but it didn't look anything like that TV show, CSI."

Frederick said, "Payne is dead?"

"Who's Payne?"

"What was the name you called him?"

"Herbert Faustina, with the crosses. Someone murdered him. The cops asked us to put together a list of everyone who spoke with Faustina or came to see him, so you should talk to them."

Frederick had trouble controlling his thoughts. He saw himself walking through the lobby with his shotgun. He pictured himself shooting Kramer in the head, then pointing the muzzle up under his chin and blowing his own face off; all of it seen from outside himself, watching it happen until something Kramer was saying brought him back.

"-the one guy, he was pretending to be a cop, but I recognized him right away. Remember that mercenary thing last fall with all the shootings in Santa Monica? It was him. He comes in here pretending to be a cop like no one would know."

"He was looking for Payne?"

"Faustina. He got here even before the cops, and they didn't like it. The one cop, I could tell he was pissed off. He asked as many questions about Cole as he asked about Faustina."

"What was his name?"

"Pardy, something like that."

"Not the policeman-the one he was asking about."

"That was Cole, as in Elvis. I bet he changed his name from something else. Remember the shootings? He hammered some guys before Halloween last year. Remember?"

Frederick left the box, and went out to his truck. A low sigh hissed between his teeth. It started deep inside him and made a noise like a soft whistle, but the pressure that drove it didn't lessen. It seemed to build-like he had swallowed the air hose at the station, the one he used to put air in tires, and he was being filled with cold gas. His eyes filled and his chin quivered, and he bawled, sobbing until he hiccuped. He felt alone and frightened, and he wanted Payne here RIGHT NOW so badly his stomach clenched like a fist. He slapped at the steering wheel and the seats, and blubbered and spit, blowing snot and tears; he kicked at the floorboards, and swung hard at the dash, and wrapped his arms over his head, and wailed. After a while, he felt better. He looked down at himself. His shirt was in shreds, and his chest and belly were bleeding. He realized he had torn at himself, but had no memory of it.

Frederick was scared, but he was angry at the same time. He wondered if the private detective had killed Payne. Private detectives didn't work for free; they were bought and paid to do someone's dirty work. Somehow Cole had identified Payne (probably through that rotten priest) and baited him into Los Angeles.

Frederick suddenly burned with a panic that Payne had talked before Cole killed him, maybe spouting prayers to Jesus as he begged Cole for mercy, Frederick seeing it as vividly in his head as if it were happening in front of him, Payne finally after all these years popping under their secret weight like a blood orange crushed under a boot-spurt!-squirting seeds and pulp as-

Frederick 's head filled with the strange buzz that left his brain tight and cloudy, like he had swallowed the air hose again. He pressed his fingertips into his eyes as hard as he could. He rolled his knuckles across his temples, then grabbed his ears. He pulled his ears so hard that the pain was blinding, then released; pulled, then released.

The buzzing faded.

Cole had obviously been hunting them for years. Somehow he had identified Payne, and made contact, but Payne probably hadn't ratted him out, else Cole would have gone straight to Canyon Camino instead of dicking around here at Payne's motel. Cole had been hired to find them and kill them, and he had killed Payne. Now he was trying to kill Frederick.

Frederick Conrad couldn't imagine it any other way: They were being executed. They were paying the price Payne always said they would pay. He felt the sudden sharp panic of wanting to blast south out of town, burning rubber off all four tires all the way into Mexico, but-

Elvis Cole had killed Payne.

Frederick wondered if Cole had mutilated Payne's body. He imagined Payne screaming in pain as he prayed for forgiveness. Cole probably got paid extra for this kind of stuff. Frederick started crying, and he suddenly saw it happening right there in the truck through the blurry prisms of his tears-Payne was sprawled naked across the seat, his loose, old man's flesh ugly and bleeding as a towering gray shadow ripped away long strips of skin with a pair of pliers. Payne screamed horribly as Cole tore his skin.

Frederick covered his ears.

"Stop it. Stop screaming like that."

Payne and Cole went away, but it took a while for Frederick to calm. He was scared and sickened by what Cole had done to Payne. Frederick wanted to run, but he couldn't leave with an assassin like Cole on his trail. Cole wouldn't stop unless you stopped him. Frederick had to stop Cole right now, and he had to make him PAY FOR PAYNE.

Frederick didn't give it another thought. He considered going back into the Home Away Suites to punish that smart-mouth kid, but instead he changed shirts again, then drove back across the street to the 24/7. He used their pay phone to call information.

"What city?"

"Los Angeles."

"Listing?"

"Elvis Cole."

"I don't show an individual by that name, but we have the Elvis Cole Detective Agency."

"That will do."

Frederick 's heart calmed as he copied the information. Having a clear purpose made him happy. So did the thought of avenging Payne's murder.

22

The late-afternoon traffic inched out of downtown L.A. Poorly marked one-way streets fed-with all the organization of a nest of snakes-into infrequent (and poorly marked) on-ramps. The feeder streets were stop-motion parking lots, advancing one frame at a time. Pedestrians moved faster; cyclists blew by at warp speed. So much for life in the fast lane.

I felt an edgy, just-on-the-other-side-of-the-door hope in knowing Faustina's true name, and in having an original address. I was anxious to follow up, even though I knew the odds were slight that they would lead anywhere. But still I thought about it, and maybe that's why I did not see the man approaching. "Dude, hey, what's going on?"

He was buffed out with muscles, a shaved head, and hot-chrome wraparound sunglasses. He had approached from the rear on my blind side while I simmered in the motionless traffic, just another pedestrian going with the flow before he stepped off the curb. He was smiling, so the people in the surrounding cars would think we were friends. First glance, he appeared to be carrying a paper bag. Then I realized his hand was inside the bag.

He made sure I clocked the bag, then opened the door with his free hand, and slipped in beside me. The bag pointed at me, down low in his lap so the surrounding motorists couldn't see. He was still smiling.

"Keep both hands on the wheel, motherfucker."

They say "motherfucker" when they're tough.

"It's a four-speed. I gotta shift."

He glanced at my shifter. His smile wavered, like his whole line about me keeping my hands on the wheel was ruined.

"So one hand on the shifter, one on the wheel, smart man. You know what's in this motherfucking bag?"

"Your hand?"

"A fuckin' atom bomb. You do anything but what I say, it'll pop in your guts."

"One on the wheel, one on the shifter. I hear you."

"Look in your mirror. See the white Toyo two back?"

A young woman in a green Lexus was directly behind us, but I could make out a white Toyota behind her. Two men were in the Toyo.

"Are they with us?"

"Brother, they are so with us they got beachfront up your ass. If you even think about fucking with me, they will cook off their caps. You understand the word?"

I glanced over at him, and wasn't impressed. He acted tough with his shaved head and gym-rat muscles, and maybe he was, but he came across like an actor who won fights without sweating because he lived in a make-believe world where every woman was last year's Miss June.

I said, "How could I not understand, them having beachfront up my ass? Now that I'm scared, who are you and what do you want?"

"Golden's computer."

I glanced in the mirror again. Neither of the men in the Toyo appeared to be Golden, but I couldn't be sure.

"Do you think I have it with me here in the car? I don't have it."

"Where is it?"

"With a friend in Culver City. I gave it to him for safekeeping."

"Fine. We'll pick it up from your friend."

"Did Golden send you?"

"Don't worry about it."

"Is he in the Toyota?"

"Let's go see your friend."

He flicked the atom bomb to remind me it might go off, so I shrugged.

"Okay. If that's what you want."

We didn't bother with the freeway; we dropped south out of downtown, and used the surface streets. It was a lot faster. Only an hour and twenty minutes.

When we reached Culver City, I approached the back of the shop through a residential area and an alley with our escorts close behind. I didn't want them to see where we were going until it was too late.

"Where are we going?"

"He has a little business nearby. They're closed now, but he'll still be there with the computer."

"What's this asshole's name?"

"Joe."

"If he makes any trouble, we'll cook his ass."

"I understand. Hey, you're the man with the gun."

"Remember it."

I turned down the alley behind the row of stores where Joe Pike has his business and pulled into the delivery spot directly outside the back door. Joe's gleaming red Jeep was to my left and a highly polished Chevy truck was to the right. The white Toyota pulled up behind us, blocking me in. A small gray peephole stared out at us from the door.

"Okay," I said. "This is it."

He glanced at the door. A sign hung above it saying:

FIREARMS

ARMED RESPONSE UNNECESSARY

"What the fuck, a gun store?"

"Yeah, this is his. He has several businesses."

I tapped the horn twice, and the man with the bag lurched, jerking the bag up toward me.

"Fuckin' asshole! What the fuck?"

"Take it easy. He won't answer the door after business hours. I have to let him know to come to the back. C'mon, you want to get the computer or not?"

I waited with my hands in place until he waved with the bag for me to get out. I got out my side as he got out his, and then we went to the door. I stood at the door, but he stood to the side so if anyone looked out the peephole they couldn't see him. Pike had made the same positioning move when we went to see Golden.

I said, "Okay to knock?"

"Hurry up, fuckin' knock."

"You've done things like this before?"

"Knock, asshole."

He knocked for me. He pounded hard on the door three times with his free hand-BOOMBOOMBOOM-while he kept the bag trained on me with the other. On the third boom, Joe Pike raised up behind him as if he were rising from the earth. Pike pushed the bag straight up in the air while twisting the bag hand to the outside farther than it was ever meant to twist. Then Pike pushed him over and down face-first into the Chevy truck's fender. It sounded like a cantaloupe dropped from the roof. The two men who work at Pike's shop had the clowns from the Toyota proned out on the ground. Both men had black Sig.45s, and both men could clear the LAPD Combat Shooting Range in competition-level times. Both men had.

I picked up the bag, and showed Pike what I found. A nifty little.38 snub-nose.

I said, "Golden."

Pike said, "Uhn."

Pike peeled his boy off the truck, then turned him toward me. His face was a mess. He was trying to cradle his broken arm, but Pike still had it. I squatted so we could see eye to eye, and now his tough eyes looked scared.

"What's your name?"

"Rick."

"Okay, Rick. These men are professionals. You're just some asshole. You understand the word?"

He nodded. I think he was trying not to cry.

"What was supposed to happen after you had the computer? You supposed to call, just bring it over, what?"

"Call."

"He's waiting to hear from you?"

"Yeah."

"Let him call, Joe."

We found a silver Samsung in Rick's pocket and let him speed-dial Golden. He got a signal and a ring right away. Everyone gets a signal but me.

When Golden answered, I took the phone.

"You cover these guys' health insurance?"

"Who is this?"

"Two of these idiots are tied up on the ground, and Rick has a broken arm. I think his nose is broken, too. Do I need to come see you about this?"

He understood who I was. Silence filled the phone as he thought it through.

"You said you'd give back my computer."

"After the girls cooperate with the police and their stories check out. When I'm satisfied that everyone has been straight, you'll get it back."

"I'm out of business without the computer."

"Live with it. Stephen, you could be punished for this. Do you understand that?"

"I understand."

"What would Detective Pardy do if he knew you sent these turds to assault me?"

"They weren't supposed to assault you. They were supposed to get the computer."

"They didn't get it."

"I'm losing money without that computer. Look, you want a few bucks? I'll buy it back from you. How much you want?"

I shut the phone, and shook my head. Amazing.

Pike said, "What do you want to do?"

We took their guns, their photographs, and their driver's licenses, and then we let them go. When they were gone, Pike stood with me by my car. The sky was deepening, and I was anxious to go home.

Pike said, "Let me ask you something."

I waited.

"How'd a lightweight like Rick bring it this far?"

I filled him in on my meeting with Pardy and Diaz, and what I had learned about George Reinnike. Rick had brought it as far as he had because I hadn't been paying attention; I had been thinking about Reinnike.

Pike didn't say anything. He studied me, and some small part of me was left feeling ashamed.

23

Predator

The information operator gave Frederick the address and phone for the Elvis Cole Detective Agency on Santa Monica Boulevard. Frederick didn't call; he was worried that calling might somehow tip off Cole, so he just drove over. He found a spot on a side street two blocks away, then walked back with his shotgun. He carried the shotgun in its case, walking along with it tucked under his arm like a stubby package. No one seemed to notice. Frederick enjoyed believing that the people who noticed the case dismissed it as a musical instrument, a pool cue, or a fishing rod. People were so predictably stupid.

Cole's office was located in an older five-story building with Spanish styling. A narrow lobby opened off the street, having stairs and a rickety elevator as access to the upper floors. A directory hung across from the elevator. Cole's office was on the fourth floor. Frederick got into the elevator. When the door closed, he unzipped the end of his gun case. The door opened on the fourth floor. Frederick stepped off, then hesitated. His heart pounded, and his neck prickled. He took a fast step back onto the elevator, but held the door. He wondered whether or not Cole would recognize him. If Cole saw him first, Cole might be able to get the drop on him. Frederick thought it through; he would have to move fast and kill Cole before Cole realized what was happening, but there was a problem-

Frederick didn't know what Cole looked like.

Frederick stood frozen in place on the elevator, his heart hammering, seeing an entire room filled with men. How would he recognize Cole?

Frederick stepped off the elevator and moved down the hall. He didn't decide what to do so much as know it-he would kill everyone he found in Cole's office.

Frederick passed an open door, and heard a woman talking. The open door made him uncomfortable. He found Cole's office, and stood facing the closed door, breathing hard. He slid his right hand into the gun case and put his finger on the trigger. He made sure the safety was off. He gripped the knob with his left hand. It felt slick and wet.

The woman said, "He's not there."

Frederick clutched the knob and tried to turn it, but his wet palm slipped.

"He doesn't come in anymore, not since all that mess."

Frederick twisted and jerked the knob, pulling and pushing, but unable to open the door.

She said, "Excuse me."

Frederick realized someone was talking to him. A neatly dressed young woman with long fingernails stood in the open door across from Cole's. Frederick could see an older woman at a desk behind her. Frederick slipped his hand out of the case, and managed a smile.

"Oh, hi. I'm supposed to deliver this to Mr. Cole."

"He's hardly ever here anymore. You could leave it with us if you want."

"Oh, thanks, that's really nice, but I couldn't. Will he be here later?"

Frederick didn't like it that she glanced at the gun case, as if she was trying to figure out what was in the package.

She said, "I haven't seen him in weeks. I know he's been here, but he doesn't keep regular hours."

"Ah-huh, okay, well-he doesn't have a secretary or anything?"

"No, there's just him. You can leave it with us, though. We've done that before."

Frederick considered his options. He could probably find Cole's home address in Cole's office. He wanted to kick down the door, but couldn't very well do it with all these people across the hall. He would have shot Cole, but that would be that and he wouldn't mind if they saw; but if they saw him breaking into Cole's office, Cole would be tipped off.

Frederick said, "Where does he live?"

A frostiness rimed the woman's eyes.

"I wouldn't know."

Frederick said, "Well, I could just bring it up to his house. That would probably be okay."

"I'm sorry. I can't help you."

Frederick could see the stiffness as she turned away. Bitch. He tried Cole's door again, then returned to the elevator. He would come back later when everyone was gone. Then he would find out where Cole lived.

24

It was a quarter after seven by the time I got back to my house and searched the Triple-A map of California to find Anson. It was a tiny red dot on Highway 86, southeast of the Salton Sea. I called information, told the operator I wanted a listing in Anson, then asked if he had any Reinnikes. I spelled it for him.

"No, sir, I don't show any listings for that name."

The nearest two towns were Alamorio and Westmorland.

"How about in Alamorio and Westmorland?"

"Sorry, sir."

I went to the next town.

"Calipatria?"

"Here you go, Alex Reinnike in Calipatria."

He punched me off to the computer before I could ask for more, so I copied the number, then called information again. This time I told the operator I wanted to check several towns, and asked her not to hand me off to the machine.

Three minutes later, we had covered six more outlying towns, and I had one more name, Edelle Reinnike, who was listed in Imperial.

I looked at the two names and their numbers, then went into the kitchen for a glass of water. I drank it, then went back to the phone. At least it wasn't gin. My hands were shaking.

I dialed Alex Reinnike first because Calipatria was closest to Anson. Alex Reinnike sounded as if he was in his thirties. He listened patiently while I explained about George Reinnike from Anson, and asked if he was related.

When I finished, he said, "Dude, I wish I could help, but I only moved here last April when I got out of the navy. My people are from Baltimore. I never heard of this guy."

I thanked him, then called Edelle Reinnike.

Ms. Reinnike answered on the fourth ring with a phlegmy voice. Her television was so loud in the background that I could hear it clearly. Wheel of Fortune.

She said, "What is it? Yes, who is this? Is someone there?"

I shouted so she could hear me.

"Let me turn this down. It's here somewhere. Where is it?"

She made a little grunting sound like she was reaching for something or maybe getting up, and then the volume went down.

She said, "Who is this?"

"Edelle Reinnike?"

"Yes, who is this?"

"My name is Cole. I'm calling about George Reinnike from Anson."

"I don't live in Anson. That's up by the lake."

"Yes, ma'am, I know. I was wondering if you know George Reinnike."

"No."

"Are there other Reinnikes in the area?"

"They're dead. We had some Reinnikes, but they're dead. I got two sons and five grandchildren, but they might as well be dead for all I see them. They live in Egypt. I never knew an American who lived in Egypt, but that's where they live."

You hear amazing things when you talk with people.

"The dead Reinnikes, did any of them live in Anson?"

She didn't answer, so I figured she was thinking.

"This goes back a while, Ms. Reinnike. George lived in Anson about sixty years ago. He was a child then, probably younger than ten. He had surgery on his legs."

She didn't say anything for a while.

"Ms. Reinnike?"

"I had a cousin who had something with his legs. When we all got together, he had to sit with his parents and couldn't come play with the rest of us. That was my Aunt Lita's boy, George. I was older, but he had to sit."

"So you did know a George Reinnike?"

"Yes, the one with the legs. That was them up in Anson. I didn't remember before, but that was them."

"Does George still live there?"

"Lord, I haven't seen him since we were children. We weren't close, you know. We didn't get on with that side of the family."

"Would you have an address or phone number for him?"

"That was so long ago."

"Maybe in an old phone book or a family album. Maybe an old Christmas card list. You know how people keep things like that, then forget they have them?"

"I have some of Mother's old things, but I don't know what's there."

"Would you look?"

"I have some old pictures in one of those closets. There might be a picture of George, but I don't know."

She didn't sound thrilled, but you take what you can get.

"That would be great, Ms. Reinnike. Would it be all right if I come see you tomorrow?"

"I guess that would be fine, but don't you try to sell me something. I know better than that."

"No, ma'am, I'm not trying to sell anything. I'm just trying to find George."

"Well, all right, then. Let me tell you where I live."

I copied her address, then hung up. I was still standing by the table. My hands were still shaking, but not so badly.

I studied the map of Southern California. Anson was in the middle of nowhere. What would have been the odds? My mother had vanished for days and sometimes weeks when I was a child. I never knew where she went, but Southern California was so far from where we lived it was unlikely she had gone so far. Still, I didn't know. She had vanished again and again. More than once, my grandfather hired someone to find her.

Ken Wilson

Miami, Florida

Wilson sat in the dark on his porch, feeling old and disgusted as he listened to the frogs squirming along the banks of the Banana River. Moths the size of a child's hand scraped against the screen that was the only thing saving him from the clouds of mosquitoes and gnats that filled the night with a homicidal whine. Wilson figured all he had to do was punch one finger through the screen and so many goddamned monsters would swarm in they could suck him dry before sunrise. He thought about doing it. He thought it would be pretty damned nice to be done with the whole awful mess of his life.

He took a sip of watered Scotch instead, and spoke to his dead wife.

"You should've never left me. That was damned lousy, leaving me like this, just damned awful of you. Look at me, sitting out here by myself, just look at me."

He had more of the Scotch, but didn't move, alone with himself on the porch of his little bungalow that felt so different now with her gone.

Wilson had buried his wife three weeks ago. Edie Wilson had been his third wife. It took three times for him to get it right, but once he found her they had stayed together for twenty-eight years and he had never once, not once, well, not in any meaningful way, regretted their marriage. They didn't have children because they were too old by the time they hooked up, which was a shame. Wilson 's first wife hadn't wanted children, and his second marriage hadn't lasted long enough, thank God. Such things hadn't seemed important back then, him having the concerns of a younger man, but a man's regrets changed as he grew older. Especially when he got into the Scotch.

Wilson drained his glass, spit back a couple of wilted ice cubes, then set the glass on the floor at his feet.

He said, "Come to Papa."

He took the.32-caliber Smith Wesson from the wicker table and held it in his lap. It had been his gun since just after Korea, purchased for five dollars at a pawnshop in Kansas City, Kansas; silver, with a shrouded hammer and white Bakelite grips that had always felt a little too small for his hand, though he hadn't minded.

He put the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger.

Snap.

Sixteen years ago, Wilson sold his investigation business and retired. He and Edie had packed up, moved to south Florida, and bought the little place on the river, her liking it more than him, but there you go. The day they packed, he unloaded the gun, and had never seen a need to reload it; those days being gone, him needing "a little something" on his hip in case events grew rowdy, long gone and done. The gun had been unloaded for sixteen years.

But that was then.

Wilson had a nice new box of bullets. He opened the box just enough, shook out some bullets, then put the box down by his glass. Those.32s were small, but they had gotten the job done. He pushed the cylinder out of the frame, carefully placed a bullet into each tube, then folded the cylinder home until the axle clicked into place. He grinned at the sound.

He said, "Well, that calls for a drink, don't you think?"

He put the gun down on the wicker table, went inside for another one-and-one Scotch, and was heading back outside when the phone rang. He thought about not answering, then figured what the hell, it was late and might be important, though later he would think it was Edie, taking care of him.

He answered as he always had even though Edie had hated how he answered, complaining, "Goddamnit, Kenny, this is our home, not an office, can't you say hello like a real person?"

But, no, Wilson answered like always.

"Ken Wilson."

"Mr. Wilson, this is Elvis Cole. You remember?"

Of course he remembered, though it had been a few years since they last spoke. The boy's voice cut clear and bright through the years, riding the backs of memories like a pack of greyhounds exploding after the rabbit.

"Why, hell, how are you doing, young man? Jesus, how long has it been, eight or nine years, something like that? We got a good connection. You sound like you're across the street."

"I'm in Los Angeles, Mr. Wilson. I know it's late there. I'm sorry."

"I wasn't sleeping. Hell, I was talking to myself and drinking Scotch. You get to be my age, you don't have a helluva lot else to do. How you doin', boy? How can I help you?"

Wilson decided he wasn't going to tell Cole about Edie, not unless the boy came right out and asked after her, and even then Wilson thought he might lie, might ladle out some bullshit like, oh, she's sleeping right now, something like that. If he explained about Edie, Wilson would start crying, and he didn't want to cry any more, not any more, not ever again.

Elvis said, "I want to ask something about my mother."

Well, there they were, right back where they started.

"Okay, sure, go ahead."

"You know where the Salton Sea is out here?"

"Out by San Diego, but inland, just up from Mexico, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir, pretty much dead center between the ocean and Arizona."

"All right. Sure."

"Does the name George Reinnike ring a bell, George Llewelyn Reinnike?"

Wilson mouthed the name to cast a bait for his memory, but it settled in the dark waters of his past without a stir. Many names swam in that dark pool, but most swam too deep to rise.

"Nope, nothing springs to mind. Who's that?"

"George Reinnike was from a small town near the lake called Anson. He came to L.A. a few days ago to find me. Two nights ago, he was shot to death, but before he died, he made a deathbed statement. He told a police officer he was my father."

Ken Wilson didn't answer right away. The boy's tone was as matter-of-fact as a cop reciting case notes, but a familiar hopeful energy pushed the boy's words out. Wilson hadn't heard the boy sound that way in years.

Wilson answered slowly.

"Why are you calling, son?"

"You knew my mother."

"Uh-huh."

Wilson didn't want to commit himself.

"You knew her better than I ever did."

"I wouldn't say that."

"I would, Mr. Wilson. I knew some of her, but you knew the parts I couldn't have known. So I want to know if it's possible. Could my mother have come to Southern California? Is it possible they met?"

Wilson thought how much he admired the boy. All these years later, and the boy was still chasing his father.

"Mr. Wilson?"

"Lemme think."

Wilson had been hired to find the boy on five occasions. Each time, the boy had chased after a carnival featuring a human cannonball because the boy's loony mother-that bitch was crazy as a bedbug on Friday night-filled his head with nonsense about Cole's father being a human cannonball. But on seven other occasions-four even before the boy was born-Elvis's grandfather had hired Wilson to find the boy's mother. Each time, she had run off without telling anyone where she was going or why, just up and disappeared, and they'd wake to find her gone without so much as a note. Most times, she'd return when she was ready, acting as if she had never been away, except for those times when Wilson found her. Then, per her father's instructions, Wilson would make sure she was safe, call the old man to report her whereabouts, then wait for the old man to come fetch her. There never seemed any plan or motive in her journeys; she'd feel the urge to go, so she'd go-like a dog that slips under a fence for a chance to run free. She'd hitchhike in whatever direction the cars were going, back and forth across her own path on misshapen loops that went nowhere, living with beatniks or hippies one night, or with coworkers another if she'd gotten herself a waitress job and promoted a place to stay. Her wanderings had always seemed aimless, but she had gone pretty far a couple of times, not so far as California, but close. Who was to say she hadn't been there and back before Wilson found her, or took a trip Wilson knew nothing about? Wilson had been involved only when the old man hired him.

He said, "I don't remember so good anymore, so you can take this for what it's worth-I don't have a recollection of that name or that little town. Your mother never mentioned them to me, and I never tracked her out that way, but all of that was a long time ago."

"I understand."

"She went pretty far a couple of times, so she could have gotten out there if she set her mind. I'm not saying she did. I don't know if she got out there, but you asked if it's possible, and I guess I have to tell you it is."

"I understand. I need to ask one more thing-"

"Ask as much as you like."

"I always thought she didn't know who he was, my father I mean. I guess I figured he didn't even know I existed-"

Wilson knew where the boy was going, but let him get there in his own way.

"I guess what I'm wondering is, could they have been in touch with each other after I was born? That's the only way Reinnike could have known my name."

Wilson thought about it, and thought it through hard because he was wondering the same. He answered slowly.

"Your grandfather, he used to go through your mother's things all the time. He had to, you know-don't think poorly of him for that-he was always scared she'd up and disappear one day and get herself murdered, so he used to look-"

"You don't have to apologize for him, Mr. Wilson. I know what he went through. I went through it, too."

"He would have told me if he found letters from anyone. Your aunt, too-she always had an eye out-but they never told me about finding anything like that. I think they would have told, especially when you started running off, but-"

Cole interrupted.

"It's possible."

"When two people want to get hold of each other, I guess they can do damn near anything. I don't think it's likely, her being the way she was, but-"

Wilson wanted to say more, but anything else would be a lie. God knows, the boy had enough of those.

"-I don't know."

A silence filled the empty space as the boy mulled that over.

"Okay, Mr. Wilson, I understand. I just needed your opinion. Like always."

Wilson felt warm, hearing the boy say that.

"I wish I could be more help."

"You help. You always have."

"This guy, Reinnike, he have any proof, anything that links him to your mother or you?"

"No."

"Was he a human cannonball?"

Elvis Cole laughed, but it was strained at the edges.

"I don't know. I'll find out."

"Well, I guess you could have one of those tests, the DNA."

"I've been thinking about it. They have to locate the next of kin first. You have to get permission."

"Well, we both know there are ways around that. Old as I am, I could get around that one."

"I'd better get going here, Mr. Wilson. Give Mrs. Wilson my love."

Ken Wilson's heart squeezed tight in his chest. He felt the tears come and looked at the little.32.

He said, "Call more often, goddamnit. I miss talking with you."

"I will."

Wilson fell silent; here he was, on the Banana River, talking to a man he had known from a boy, and this man was as close to a son as Wilson would ever have.

"I've always been proud of you, the way you turned yourself around-you rose above yourself, son. Every man should, but most folks don't even try. You did, and I'm proud of you. Whatever that's worth."

"I'd better go."

"It's time for me to go, too. You take care."

He was putting down the phone when he remembered one last thing.

"Elvis?"

"Sir?"

He'd caught the boy just in time.

"It doesn't matter who your father was. You're still you. You hear what I'm saying? There's no such thing as a dead end-not in this game. You keep looking. You'll find what you need to find."

"Thanks, Mr. Wilson."

"Goodnight."

"Night."

The line clicked, then Wilson put down his phone. The frogs and moths were suddenly loud again, and his screened porch was once more a dark cage. His little shack on the Banana River had seemed brighter while he spoke with the boy, but now the brightness was gone.

"Why in hell did you have to go?"

He had a last sip of the Scotch, then picked up his pistol, pushed open the cylinder, and shook out the bullets. He left all of it on the little wicker table, and went inside to his bed. He fell asleep thinking of Edie, and of the ways he had failed her, and of all the ways he had failed himself, but with a final dim hope that he had done right by the boy.

25

Invasion

Frederick loitered outside Cole's building until cars bled from the parking garage, then hustled up to the fifth floor, where he hid in the men's bathroom until almost eight o'clock. When Frederick sensed everyone was likely gone, he crept down to the fourth floor and back to Cole's office. He worried that a security guard or cleaning crew might find him, so he used the direct approach-he pried open Cole's door with a jack handle. Cole would immediately know that someone had broken into his office (as would a passing security guard), but Frederick moved quickly. He scooped up Cole's Rolodex and blew through the desk for bills, letters, and other correspondence. He grabbed anything that could even possibly contain Cole's home address, then ran back down the stairs, and out to his car. He had worn gloves. He didn't take the time to go through the things he stole until he was safely at home. It had been a helluva bad day, so he was relieved to be home. He enjoyed sleeping in his own bed. He felt safe. Best of all, the third bill he inspected was addressed to Cole's home. He dreamed about Cole that night. He dreamed about what he would do. He dreamed about Cole's screams.

26

At three-thirty that morning the traffic moved with professional grace. That time of day, big-rig truckers who knew the rules of freeway driving moved cleanly, content to let me drift among them. The city thinned and the eastern sky lightened as I reached the Coachella Valley and curved south between the jagged shoulders of the mountains.

The Salton Sea was the largest, lowest lake in California, filling the broad, flat basin of the Salton Sink like a mirror laid on the desert floor. It was shallow because the land was flat, and surrounded by barren desert and scorched rocks like some forgotten puddle in Hell. When the periodic algal blooms died, it smelled like Hell, too. During the worst of summer, the temperature could reach one-thirty on the lake's shore, but now the air rushing over me felt cool and good, and the smell was clean.

I dropped down the west side of the lake past pelicans and fishermen lining the rocks for tilapia and corvina. The valley floor rose quickly when I passed the lake, cut by irrigation canals and small farming roads without many signs, and dotted with small towns that all looked the same. At six-fifty that morning I entered Anson. Imperial was another twenty miles south, but I wanted to find George Reinnike's original homo first. A neighbor might have maintained contact with his family.

Anson was a sleepy collection of hardware stores, video rental shops, and small businesses. Eighteen-wheelers laden with tomatoes and artichokes lumbered through town, kicking up enormous clouds of dust that covered buildings and cars with a fine white powder. No one seemed to mind.

I stopped at a gas station where an overweight man behind the counter nodded past a burrito bulging with beans and eggs and cheese.

I said, "'Morning. I need a local map. You have something like that?"

He shoved the burrito toward a tattered map taped to the glass. He didn't put down the burrito. Once you get a grip on something like that, you can't set it down.

"Right up there. Help yourself."

The map was from the Bureau of Land Management, and had been taped to the glass so long its colors were bleached.

"Do you have one I can take with me?"

"Nope. You can try the Chamber of Commerce. They might have something."

"Okay. Where's that?"

"Second light down next to the State Farm office, but they don't open for another two hours. I could probably tell you how to get wherever it is you want to go."

I gave him Reinnike's address. He studied the map, then tapped L Street with his knuckle.

"Well, this here's northwest L Street, but there ain't nothing out there but fields. No one lives out there."

"Is there another L Street?"

"Not that I know of, and I've lived here all my life. You passed it on the way in."

I used his rest room, bought a cup of coffee, then followed his directions back out of town. L Street was at the three-mile marker, just as he told me. I turned left onto the northwest side and drove until I reached a county sign that said END. Two silver tanks stood quietly near the horizon, but they were the only structures I saw. Fields planted with brussels sprouts extended to the horizon in every direction. Mechanical irrigators rolled along on spindly wheels, mindlessly squirting water and chemicals on individual plants so as not to waste money on unused soil. No one lived there, and no one had likely been there for a very long time. The Burrito Man was right-the houses that once stood on L Street had long since been razed for agribusiness.

I worked my way back to the highway, and headed south to Imperial.

Edelle Reinnike lived in a simple stucco house just off the main highway at the southern edge of Imperial. The houses were white or beige, with white-rock roofs to reflect the heat. Most had trailers or trucks parked in their yards. Mrs. Reinnike opened her door as I got out of my car. It was eight-thirty that morning; still early, but hot.

"Mrs. Reinnike, I'm Elvis Cole. Thanks for seeing me."

"I know who you are. Don't mind this dog. She won't bite unless you get fancy."

Edelle Reinnike was eighty-six years old, with the dry desert skin of a golden raisin. Her dog was a fireplug-shaped pug with enormous eyes bulging on either side of its head. It looked like a goldfish. I couldn't tell what the dog was looking at, but it growled when I approached. Maybe it had radar.

Mrs. Reinnike said, "Margo, shush! You don't fool anyone."

She invited me in, showed me to her couch, then went into her kitchen for coffee. I didn't want more coffee, but it always pays to be friendly. Margo planted herself in front of me. Mrs. Reinnike called from the kitchen.

"She likes you."

"Did you have a chance to look through your mother's things?"

"I did. I found an old picture of George, but only the one. Mama couldn't stand Aunt Lita, and they had an awful falling-out. Lita was George's mother. She said Lita was loud. If Mama thought you were loud, well, that meant you were trash."

Mrs. Reinnike came back with two cups of coffee, and sat in a recliner at the end of the couch. She put on a pair of reading glasses, picked up a crumbling photo album from beside the chair, and opened the album to a page marked with a strip of tissue. She turned it so I could see.

"Here, this is Lita and Ray-Ray was Daddy's younger brother-and this is George. Look at the way Lita was carrying on even when her picture was being taken. They were nasty people."

Great. Just what you want to hear about people who might be your family.

The picture showed a man, a woman, and a boy with a triangular head in front of a Christmas tree. It was George. He was propped on crutches, and looking past the camera as if he was not expecting the picture to be taken. His father was a soft man with uncertain eyes, and his mother had close-set features that made her look irritated. I could see George's features in Ray. Like father, like son.

"This was before George had the operation. Lita wouldn't have sent a picture after. Ray asked Daddy for money to help with the operation, but Mama said we had our own family to feed. Well, Lita wrote the most awful letter you can imagine, and that was the last we saw of them."

I gave back the album.

"So you didn't stay in touch after that?"

"Lord, no. Mama would have had a fit. I haven't seen nor heard from George since, oh I had a family, so he would've been in high school. You never told me why you're looking for George."

"George is dead. He was murdered four days ago."

She stared at me with no expression for a moment, then dropped a hand down alongside the chair. Margo hobbled over and snuffled her fingers.

"Well, that's just terrible. What a terrible thing."

"How about your brothers and sisters? You think they stayed in touch with George?"

"Well, I can't know, but I doubt it. Both my sisters and my brother are gone. I was the youngest on my side."

"How about your children?"

She made a little snort, and Margo stopped snuffling.

"They don't even come to see me-they wouldn't bother with George. George had run off by the time they were old enough to give a damn."

"What do you mean, run oft?"

"George got some gal pregnant, and dropped out of school. Mama said the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, Lita being loud the way she was and Ray a drinker. Mama said that boy would come to no good, gettin' some girl pregnant, and now here he is murdered. I guess Mama was right."

I sipped the coffee and made a tiny scratch on my pad. A tiny black line that disrupted the perfect order of the blank yellow page.

"Pregnant."

"Low-class people will do that."

She arched her eyebrows and made a nasty smile. I made another mark on the pad.

"This girl, do you know who she was?"

My hands were damp when I asked. I rubbed them on my thighs, and tried not to be obvious.

"No. That all might have been just talk, anyway. If George had a girl, I sure never saw her and don't know anyone who did."

"That year when George ran off, did any of the local girls move away?"

Mrs. Reinnike laughed.

"Not for anything like that. That was 1953, son. When a girl had a problem like that, she bee-lined it down to Mexicali and was back the next day. We called it the one-night-stand shuttle."

She cackled again, as if she had known more than one or two who had taken the shuttle.

"Do you recall what people were saying about her? If she wasn't a local, was she a stranger? Maybe from out of town?"

"You sound like you know who she was."

"Just trying to help you remember."

She made a shrug like she couldn't be sure either way.

"What's all this have to do with finding his next of kin?"

So much for not being obvious.

"The child would be his next of kin, and the child's mother might know where George was living."

"Well, that's true. I wish I could help you with that, but I don't know, and I can't imagine anyone still living who might. George wasn't a likable boy. He took after Lita that way. I guess it might have been his legs, leaving him bitter and angry, but I don't remember anyone having anything good to say about him. He got in fights and was always in trouble and lorded his money. No one wanted to be around someone like that."

Lording money didn't jibe with the cheap furnishings in the Christmas picture, and Ray and Lita asking Edelle's parents for help to pay for George's operation. I asked her about it.

"Oh, George had plenty of money. That hospital botched up his operation, and had to do it again. Ray and Lita got some kind of fancy settlement. Well, they didn't get the money, but George did. He got a check every month, right on the dot."

"He got monthly payments?"

Mrs. Reinnike looked smug.

"That was the judge. The judge took one look at Ray and Lita, and gave the money straight to George. I guess he figured if George got the money little by little, Ray and Lita wouldn't be able to spend it."

"This was the hospital in San Diego?"

"Well, I guess. I don't really remember, but I guess it had to be."

If George had been getting a monthly payout, the hospital or their insurance company would have a record of his addresses. I checked the time. It was still before noon, and I could probably make it to San Diego in less than two hours.

I thanked Edelle Reinnike, and the two of us walked to the door. I wanted to ask another question, but had to work up my nerve. I stepped out into the heat, then turned back to face her.

"Mrs. Reinnike, do I look familiar to you?"

"Nope. Should you?"

The sun burned bright in the clean desert sky, and bounced off the white dust as if it were snow.

27

The Andrew Watts Children's Hospital looked like a grim Iberian citadel perched in the El Cajon foothills, one of those imposing stone and cast-cement fortresses that architects built when they hoped their buildings would last forever. I paid five dollars for visitor parking, then entered the main lobby and wandered around for ten minutes trying to find the reception desk. If the outside looked like a citadel, the inside looked like Grand Central Station.

A nursing aide gave me directions, but I got lost and had to ask someone else. On my third try, I found the right hall, and stepped through double glass doors to another receptionist.

I said, "Hi. Elvis Cole to see Mr. Brasher. He's expecting me."

"You can have a seat if you like. I'll let him know."

After two hours in the car I didn't want to sit. I drifted back to the glass doors and stared out into the hall. Chairs and padded benches lined the wall, but no one was sitting in them. Two women walked by, laughing. One of them glanced at me, and I smiled, but she went about her business without smiling back. I imagined a little boy on crutches hobbling into the building. The boy's father smelled of whiskey and his mother was loud. I wondered if he had been scared. I would have been scared.

Behind me, a man said, "Mr. Cole, I'm Ken Brasher. C'mon back to my office and I'll show you what we have."

Ken Brasher was a neat, balding man in his midthirties with dark-framed glasses and a businesslike handshake. I had phoned ahead from the car, figuring it would be a smart use of the two-hour drive. I had been in the middle of nowhere just a few miles north of the Mexican border, but my cell reception was flawless. Maybe I should move to the desert.

After we shook hands, Brasher glanced at the receptionist.

"Would you tell Marjorie he's here and ask her to come down, please."

The receptionist touched her phone as I followed Brasher into another hall.

"Our legal-affairs people want to be in on this. I hope you don't mind."

"Not a problem. Were you able to reach the medical examiner?"

"Yes. He faxed down the death certificate."

"Is there going to be a problem with me getting the addresses?"

"I don't think so, no, but I'll let Marjorie handle that. Marjorie is our legal-affairs officer."

When we spoke on the phone, Brasher confirmed that the hospital had a legal agreement with Reinnike, but wouldn't divulge the details until he had confirmation of Reinnike's death and discussed it with their attorneys. I gave him Beckett's number at the coroner's office, and asked that he call. Apparently, he called. Apparently, Beckett told him that I was for real.

Brasher made an abrupt right turn into a small, windowless office and went behind the desk. A small square of construction paper was pushpinned to the wall facing me. The paper was filled with yellow and blue lines that might have been a cat or a tree, and a red message written in a child's hand: I LUV U DADY.

He smiled at me nicely.

"Do you mind if I make a copy of your identification? Marjorie will want it for our records."

I gave him my DL and investigator's license. He placed them on a copy machine behind his desk, and pushed a button. He smiled at me some more as the machine made its copies. The smile made him look like a guy who wanted to sell me aluminum siding. I didn't like all the smiling.

I said, "Is everything all right, Mr. Brasher?"

"Marjorie will be right down."

That wasn't the answer I wanted to hear, and I suddenly had the feeling Marjorie wasn't anxious to share her information.

"You spoke with Beckett. I'm sure he told you he's trying to locate the next of kin."

"Oh, yes. Marjorie spoke with him, too."

"The man was murdered. He was living in a motel under an assumed name with no way to trace him until now. You guys were sending him checks. If the police can find out why he was using an assumed name and why he came to Los Angeles, it might give them a line back to who murdered him. Someone at the receiving end of his checks might know those things."

Brasher glanced at the door, but Marjorie still hadn't arrived. The smile faltered as if he wouldn't be able to hold out much longer without her.

"We intend to cooperate to the full extent of our legal responsibility, but there are issues to be resolved."

"What issues?"

He glanced at the door again, and suddenly looked relieved. The aluminum-siding smile returned.

"C'mon in, Marjorie. This is Mr. Cole. Mr. Cole, this is Marjorie Lawrence from our legal department."

Marjorie Lawrence was a short, humorless woman in a blue business suit. She nodded politely, shook my hand, then pulled a chair as far from me as possible before she sat. She was carrying a thick file that looked dingy and old.

She said, "We were told Mr. Reinnike made a dying declaration that you were his son. Are you?"

She stared into my eyes, and I let her. I felt awkward and surprised, but I didn't want her to know it. I hadn't mentioned that part of the business to Brasher because I didn't know and it didn't seem relevant. Beckett must have told them.

He did, but I have no reason to believe I am. I never mot the man."

She nodded, and everything in her body language said that all the power in the room was hers.

"Regardless. I'm sure you can understand our position, you possibly being an heir."

They thought I had come to chisel. I looked from her to Brasher, then shook my head. An heir.

"All I want is to know where the checks were going. I'd like to get that information from you now because that will speed things up, but if you don't share it with me, you know you'll have to give it to the police, and I'll see it then. If you'd like me to sign something releasing you from any claim by me, I'll sign it."

She glanced at Brasher, and Brasher shrugged.

Marjorie had already prepared the paper. She slipped it out of the file, and I signed it on Brasher's desk. While I was signing, he gave back my licenses. When I finished, we went back to our seats. Easy come, easy go.

She opened the file again, studied the top page, then looked up at me.

"In 1948, this hospital-through our insurance supplier at that time-entered into a settlement agreement with Ray and Lita Reinnike-George Reinnike's parents-in their son's name. Rather than a lump-sum payment, we agreed upon a monthly payment in the patient's name that would span thirty years. The payments would have ended in nineteen seventy-eight."

"Seventy-eight."

"Yes."

I felt a dull sense of defeat. If the payments had ended in nineteen seventy-eight, then the most recent address they had would be almost thirty years old.

"Just because I'm curious-why did I have to sign a release? Any money would have been long gone."

"Mr. Cole, it's a bit more complicated than that."

She opened the file again, fingered out another sheet, and handed it to me. It was a payment record for George L. Reinnike showing addresses, check numbers, and dates of payment. It was cut-and-dried bean-counting except for a stamp affixed at the bottom that didn't seem part of an accountancy record: EXHIBIT 54.

"You can see for yourself that checks were sent to Mr. Reinnike at three addresses, the first being the original home address with his parents in Anson, California- "

She leaned closer to point out the Anson address at the top of the sheet. I was still thinking about the exhibit number.

"Why is there an exhibit number here?"

"Checks were sent to Mr. Reinnike at the Anson address until 1953 when he filed a change of address to Calexico, California, where he received checks for five years and seven months before moving to-"

Her finger traced down the page.

"- Temecula, California. He filed an appropriate change of address, and his checks were redirected to Temecula, where the checks continued until 1975, at which time we discovered that a theft was taking place and terminated the payments."

I looked up, and discovered Marjorie and Brasher watching me.

"What theft?"

Brasher said, "Reinnike moved in 1969, but failed to file a change of address. A man named Todd Edward Jordan moved in, and banked Reinnike's checks-"

Marjorie interrupted. She was guarding the hospital's liability base like a Gold Glove third baseman.

"If Mr. Reinnike had filed a change of address as was required, or contacted us to inquire about his payments, we would have acted immediately to resolve the problem. We were as much the victims here as Mr. Reinnike."

Brasher went on.

"Right, so we continued sending the checks to Temecula, only Reinnike wasn't getting them. Jordan got them. Jordan forged Reinnike's name, and deposited the money into his own account. People do this kind of forgery with Social Security checks all the time. We discovered the theft in 1975, and that's when we terminated the payments, and contacted the police."

"Reinnike just moved away?"

"So far as was known, yes. All we know is what we've read in the file, Mr. Cole. None of us were here at that time."

Marjorie said, "I was in junior high."

I stared at the page as if I were studying it, but mostly I was giving myself time to think. George Reinnike would have gotten a check every month for another nine years, but he had walked away.

Marjorie Lawrence opened the file again, and this time she took out a bound collection of newspaper clippings.

"These were in our files. They're news clippings of Jordan 's arrest and prosecution. Maybe they will help you, Mr. Cole."

Marjorie Lawrence brought me to an empty conference room, and left me with the file.

28

The file contained eleven yellowed newspaper articles, all clipped from the San Diego Union -Tribune and filed by date. The first piece reported that an unemployed electrician named Todd Edward Jordan had been charged with theft, forgery, and mail fraud for cashing insurance-settlement checks intended for a former tenant of the house Jordan rented. The facts were light, indicating that the reporter had filed his piece before he knew of Reinnike's disappearance. The next story was more interesting. Investigators had been unable to locate George Reinnike, and sources within the Sheriffs Department suggested that Reinnike was a possible homicide victim. Some of the speculations read like lurid noir potboilers.

The next story stopped me cold-

Forgery Victim Still Missing

by Eric Weiss

San Diego Union-Tribune

Six years ago, George Reinnike disappeared from the modest home he rented on 1612 Adams Drive in Temecula. According to his former landlord, Reinnike told no one he was moving. Reinnike not only abandoned a house-he left behind a small fortune in monthly disability payments. Foul play is suspected.

Todd Edward Jordan, 38, has been charged with forging Reinnike's name to cash the monthly checks. Jordan, an unemployed electrician, moved into the house several weeks after Reinnike disappeared in May of 1969. When Jordan discovered Reinnike's mail included a monthly disability payment from the Claremont Insurance Group, Jordan cashed the check. He continued to cash the monthly checks for the next six years.

Sheriffs investigators do not believe Jordan had anything to do with Reinnike's disappearance.

"Mr. Jordan responded to an ad in a local paper, and rented the house. We don't believe he ever met Mr. Reinnike," said Detective Martin Poole of the San Diego County Sheriffs Department.

Reinnike's landlord at the time, Charles Izzatola, knew nothing of the forgery.

"Todd was a good tenant. He was polite, and his rent was on time."

According to Izzatola, Reinnike moved out without informing him.

"The rent was late, so I went to ask about it. The house was empty. They left without saying a word."

Reinnike, who was a single parent with a teenage son, was not well liked by neighbors.

"The neighbors complained about George and his kid. They even called the cops a couple of times. Maybe one of the neighbors got fed up and ran them off."

According to Poole, Sheriffs investigators tried to locate Reinnike when Jordan was arrested, but by then Reinnike had been missing for six years.

Poole said, "A man doesn't walk away from free money like this. Reinnike could have filed a change of address or notified the insurance company. He did neither, and he never came back for his money. I'd like to know what happened."

Anyone with knowledge of George Reinnike or his son, David, 16 at the time of their disappearance, should contact Det. Martin Poole of the San Diego County Sheriffs Department.

I walked the length of the conference room, and listened to the silence. It was a lovely conference room with lush carpet and richly upholstered chairs. The kind of conference room where important decisions were made.

Anyone with knowledge of George Reinnike, his son, David, 16…

I went back to my chair.

Reinnike had lived as a single parent with a teenage son, and that son was not me. I turned to the next article.

The next three stories recounted more or less the same details as Jordan 's prosecution proceeded. Jordan initially denied forging the checks; bank records indicated a steady deposit history of like amounts into Jordan's account; Jordan's handwriting matched the endorsements on the checks; Jordan claimed no knowledge of Reinnike and had never met the man; local homicide detectives failed to establish a connection between the two men. Jordan was convicted. A final sidebar piece appeared with the crime reports, accompanying the story that reported Jordan 's conviction-

No One Waved Good-bye

by Eric Weiss

San Diego Union-Tribune

George Reinnike and his son, David, 16, lived on a quiet street on the outskirts of Temecula for almost ten years. Reinnike, a single parent, kept to himself, paid his rent on time, and often argued with neighbors about his unruly son. Then, one spring night six years ago, the Reinnikes packed their car, drove away without a word, and have neither been seen nor heard from since.

"People move all the time," said Detective Martin Poole of the San Diego County Sheriffs Department. "But this one has us baffled."

The police might be baffled, but when George Reinnike and his son moved away, most of their neighbors breathed a sigh of relief.

After ten years in the small rented house on Adams Drive in Temecula, the Reinnikes had made no friends, and seemed not to care. Many of the problems seemed to stem from Reinnike's son, David.

"George was sullen and unfriendly, and I tried to avoid David," said Mrs. Alma Sims, 48, the Reinnike's next-door neighbor. "I wouldn't let my children play with him."

She recalls the time David Reinnike, then twelve, was walking in the street as she was bringing her own children home from soccer practice.

"David was walking in the middle of the street and he wouldn't move to the side. When I beeped my horn, he started making faces at me, but he still didn't get out of the way. I tried to go around him, but he stayed in front of the car, calling me the most terrible names. He was out of control."

That night, when Mrs. Sims' husband, Warren, went next door to discuss the matter with Mr. Reinnike, Reinnike allegedly threatened him.

Mrs. Sims said, "George was defensive and belligerent when it came to David. No matter what David had done, if you tried to say something, George would act threatening."

According to neighbors, the younger Reinnike was in trouble often. Stories of vandalism, fights with other children, and bizarre behavior were common.

"Someone broke windows in every house on this block one night," said Pam Wally, 39. "Everyone knew it was David, but no one could prove it."

Neighbors believe David broke the windows, because only the Reinnikes' house was spared.

Karen Reese, 47, described a similiar incident. Her two sons had gotten into an argument with David. The following day, when Mrs. Reese was driving her sons home from school, they passed the Reinnike home where David waited at the curb.

Said Mrs. Reese, "As we passed, he threw a hammer at us. It was the strangest thing, because he didn't care if we saw him or not. The back window shattered and glass was everywhere. Thank God no one was hurt."

Mrs. Reese summoned the police, but no charges were filed. Mr. Reinnike agreed to pay for repairs.

"I'm not sure the boy even went to school," said Chester Kerr, 52, who lived across the street. "It would be midday during the school year, and you'd see him running around."

Tabitha Williams, 44, the mother of two small children, tells a slightly different story.

"David had a learning disability and was being home-schooled. I never had any problems with David or George. It was hard for both of them without David's mother."

The absence of David Reinnike's mother was a mystery, too, because George Reinnike gave differing explanations. At different times, Reinnike told neighbors his wife was deceased, had abandoned them when David was an infant, or had remarried and lived in Europe with her new family.

Now, the whereabouts of George Reinnike and his son, David, are as mysterious as that of David's mother. Though police are suspicious of the circumstances surrounding the Reinnikes' disappearance, they have no evidence of foul play, and have cleared Jordan of any involvement.

"It could be the guy just wanted to live somewhere else and didn't think enough of his neighbors to tell them," said Det. Poole. "There's no law against moving, but we'd still like to know."

If you have any information about George or David Reinnike, please contact Detective Martin Poole of the San Diego County Sheriffs Department.

After the cold facts of the crime reports, the sidebar article made the Reinnikes real.

I compared what I knew with what was reported. Neither the Sheriffs nor the neighbors mentioned George Reinnike's tattoos or any sort of religious zeal. The tattoos were of such a dramatic nature that this omission indicated Reinnike had not been tattooed when he lived in Temecula. The tattoos coming later suggested a significant change in Reinnike's emotional state. The police had suspected foul play in Reinnike's disappearance, but thirty years later I knew that Reinnike had not been murdered at that time; it took another thirty-five years for someone to kill him. A rational person might not walk away from the insurance payments, but an emotionally troubled man might, and so might a desperate man. It had been the sixties. A lot of people dropped out, and plenty of them had good reasons. Maybe Reinnike felt a radical change would help his son. Maybe he walked away from the checks because they were a monthly reminder of everything he had hated about his earlier life. Maybe he needed to escape himself to heal, and the tattoos and prayers were part of the process. And thirty-five years later, he had come to Los Angeles with the belief he had fathered a child named Elvis Cole. Maybe he was crazy.

After a while I grew tired of thinking about it. I gathered together the clippings, found Marjorie Lawrence, and asked for copies of the articles. I also asked if I could use her phone. She was happy to let me do so.

I called Starkey. I could have called Diaz and Pardy, but Starkey worked the Juvenile desk. If David showed only a Juvie file, his record would be more difficult to find. Juvenile records are often sealed or expunged.

Starkey said, "Hey, dude, where are you?"

" San Diego. I found something down here maybe you can help me with."

"Oh, I live for that. You've made my day, adding more work to my load."

I gave her the headline version of Reinnike's disappearance, and told her about David Reinnike.

She said, "The guy had another son?"

"That's not funny, Starkey."

"Oh, hey."

"Will you check it out for me or not?"

"Yes, Cole, I will check it out for you. Don't be so snippy. Listen, those newspaper articles, do they name the investigating officers?"

"Yeah. The lead was a guy named Poole. San Diego County Sheriffs Department."

"Are you coming back tonight?"

"Yeah, I'm going to leave in a few minutes."

"I'd like to see the articles. With all this happening thirty years ago, having the names might help me out."

"Okay, sure."

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"Seeing as how I'm going to so much trouble, maybe I should come up to your house tonight and you should feed me dinner. An invitation would be nice."

Starkey made me smile.

"How about eight o'clock. I should be back by then."

"Eight o'clock. Don't get killed driving home."

Starkey always knew what to say.

I found my way back to the freeway. It had been a long, difficult day, and I had logged a lot of miles. I had more miles ahead of me, and all of it would be grudging.

My head buzzed with a remote ache from all the thinking about George Reinnike, and what he might mean to me, or not. If Reinnike believed he had a child named Elvis Cole, why did he wait so many years to get in touch? I tried to make sense of what I knew, and nothing good came to mind. Anything was possible. Reinnike might have lost both his son and his mind, then convinced himself I was a long-lost replacement. Dial-a-Child, at your service. My picture had been in the newspapers, magazines, and on television. Maybe David Reinnike looked like me; the two of us interchangeable American males, brown, brown, medium, average. George Reinnike might have seen me in the news, convinced himself I was the long-lost "other," and swept me up in his madness. Here I was, driving in traffic, thinking about a total stranger named George Reinnike, and Reinnike had become real to me. He had flesh and weakness, and his tortured path had somehow crossed mine. Even if he was not part of my past, he had begun to feel like my past. When I remembered my mother, he was now in the memory like a transparent haunt. All through my life those memories had been a puzzle with a missing piece, but now George Reinnike filled the hole. The picture was complete. Daddy was home whether he was real or not.

Three hours later I slipped between the trees along Mulholland Drive, heading for home. It had been a long day. The sky had grown smoky, and the dimming light purpled the trees.

I turned onto my street and saw a tan car parked outside my house. The last time I came home to a car, it was Pardy. I decided that if Pardy was waiting in my house again, I would scare the hell out of him.

I pulled into my carport, took out my gun, then let myself in through the kitchen. I didn't try to be quiet. I pushed open the door.

29

Starkey

Starkey put down the phone after Cole hung up, and kicked back in her chair with a wide nasty grin. She was pleased with herself for jamming Cole into dinner. It would have been nicer if the idiot had thought up the idea himself, but beggars couldn't be choosers.

"That must've been your boyfriend Cole on the phone."

Starkey's grin floundered. Ronnie Metcalf was watching her from his adjoining desk. Metcalf was a D-2 with Hollywood Robbery, which had to share office space with the Juvenile Division. Metcalf tapped his mouth.

"I can tell by the grin."

He pursed his lips and made puckered kissing sounds.

Starkey didn't flinch, flush, or turn away.

"You're an asshole."

Metcalf laughed, then got up and sauntered over to the coffee machine. Starkey turned back to her desk, but now her mood was soured. She didn't like Metcalf eavesdropping on her calls. She could get in trouble for using LAPD resources for an outside party, and a dickhead like Metcalf might use it against her. Starkey considered the repercussions, then realized her irritation had nothing to do with getting in trouble. She resented that her feelings were obvious. What she felt about Cole-or anything else-wasn't anyone else's business. She would have to remember not to smile so much when she thought about Cole.

Starkey swiveled around to her computer and entered David Reinnike's name into the State of California Criminal Information Center's search engine. If David Reinnike had been arrested as an adult, his listing would appear. A case number was required, so Starkey used a number from one of the sixteen cases she currently worked, and punched in her badge. Fuck Metcalf.

Starkey watched the little wheel spin for a few seconds, then the search was complete. David Reinnike had no adult criminal record.

Like it should be easy.

Starkey considered what Cole had told her. San Diego P.D. had responded at least once to a complaint about the boy, but that didn't mean he would have an accessible juvenile record. Cops and courts were usually lenient with minor offenders, and their records were often expunged or sealed. But juveniles with chronic behavior problems were sometimes assessed by officers with special training, especially if the child manifested bizarre or unusual behaviors, and those records were usually maintained in the files of the local police.

Starkey went to the large map of California that hung on the wall. She searched for Temecula, and found it on I-15, just north of Fallbrook.

"Hey, Starkey."

Metcalf was still by the coffee. He opened his mouth in an O, and pushed out his cheek with his tongue.

Starkey turned back to the map.

Temecula patrol officers had probably responded to the call, but Temecula would have been too small for its own Juvenile Division. They had probably laid off the case on the San Diego County Sheriffs, so the Sheriffs station would have the records, if they existed. Starkey had been on Juvie for only a few months, and had no clue in hell how she could get someone down there to look for thirty-year-old juvenile records. But Gittamon probably knew.

Starkey walked over to Gittamon's cubicle and rapped on his wall. Dave Gittamon, who was Starkey's sergeant-supervisor, had been on the Hollywood Station Juvenile desk for thirty-two years and had solid relationships with pretty much every senior juvenile officer throughout the southwest.

Gittamon glanced up at her over his reading glasses. He was a kindly man with a preacher's smile.

She said, "Dave? Do you have juice with anyone down in San Diego County?"

Gittamon answered in his calm, reassuring voice. He was the most understated man Starkey had ever met.

"Oh. I know a few folks."

Starkey described the situation with David Reinnike and told Gittamon she wanted to find out if a record existed. She did not mention Cole.

Gittamon cleared his throat.

"Well, you're talking about a minor child, Carol. You might need a court order. What are you going to do with this?"

Starkey noted his choice of the word: Might.

"If this kid was arrested, his file could show a person or persons who can give me a line on finding him. That's all I'm looking for here. They disappeared, Dave. They changed their names and vanished."

"But you don't know that he was arrested?"

"No."

"So you don't know that a file exists."

"No."

"In Temecula."

"That's right."

Gittamon grunted, thinking about it, so Starkey pressed on.

"I guess what I'm looking for here is a personal favor, Dave. Like if I had a file, and someone with a legitimate reason wanted to see it, I'd let them take a look, no harm, no foul, no paperwork. Cop to cop. You see? No court orders, nothing like that."

"How do you spell his name?"

Starkey knew she was in.

"The sooner the better, Dave."

Gittamon picked up his phone like it was the easiest thing in the world.

"Oh, I know a few people down there. Give Mr. Cole my best." Starkey felt herself flush as she walked away.

30

The kitchen was dim and silent, but a single lamp burned in the living room. The glass doors to the deck were open. I crept forward, feeling the muscles in my shoulders tighten, but then I smelled her scent, and knew who was waiting. The long day and hard miles were gone.

She must have heard me. She stepped in from the deck, and I felt my heart swell.

"I let myself in. I hope it's all right."

"Of course it is, Lucy."

George Reinnike vanished, and the world was at peace.

Lucy Chenier saw the gun, and looked away. When we were first together, she would have made a joke, but now the gun represented the violence that drove her away. I hadn't spoken to Lucy in weeks. I hadn't seen her in almost two months.

I unclipped the holster from beneath my shirt, seated the gun, then put it out of sight above the refrigerator.

"I've had a problem with mice."

Her lip curled in a forgiving smile. She wore a fall-orange turtle-neck sweater over jeans, the sweater perfect for her golden skin and auburn hair. The best color money could buy, she liked to joke.

She said, "Here, I brought you a Care package."

Two bricks of Community Coffee Dark Roast, two bags of Camellia red beans, and a six-pack of Abita beer were on the dining table. Baton Rouge staples. It couldn't have been easy, bringing all that from Louisiana. I took her effort as a good sign.

"CC Dark-this is great, Lucy. Thanks."

"I hope you don't mind my being here like this. Joe said you were on your way home, so I let myself in."

"C'mon, you know better than that. This is a great surprise. What are you doing in L.A.? How's Ben?"

Nothing in her body language warned me away, so I gave her a polite kiss, then stepped back to let her know I respected the boundaries she had imposed. Her lips smelled of raspberries.

"Ben's doing really really well. You're the class hero, you know-everyone at school has to hear about Elvis Cole."

I laughed, but only because she expected me to be pleased. Picturing Ben Chenier telling his ten-year-old buddies about me caused an ache in my chest. I wanted to tell her how much I missed them, but I didn't want to make either of us feel guilty. I changed the subject instead.

"Hey, would you like a drink? You want something to eat?"

"Yes to both, but let me see your hand. How is it healing?"

She turned my right hand palm up to inspect the puckered scar that sliced across three fingers and part of the palm. I had been cut when it went down with Ben. Forty-two stitches and two surgeries, but they said I would be ninety-five percent, no problem. So long as I didn't mind chronic pain.

"It's fine. They put in bionic motors and steel cables-I'm like the Terminator now, me and the governor."

She studied the scar, then folded my fingers, and gave back my hand. She pushed out a smile we both knew was fake.

"How about that drink?"

"Coming up."

She had flown out to meet with the prosecutors about Ben's part in his father's trial. Though I had been cut, Richard had been shot, and almost died. He probably would have been happier if he had. Richard Chenier had hired three mercenaries to kidnap his son, and five people had died before it was over. Richard had not personally pulled a trigger, but because he had set the kidnapping in motion, he was an accessory before the fact and a de facto accomplice. Under California law, Richard could be and was charged with the murders. He currently resided at the County-USC Medical Center, where he awaited more surgeries and, eventually, the trial. Lucy told me as she sipped her drink.

"The judge agreed to hear Ben's testimony on videotape, but I wanted to be sure they understand that's as far as I'll go. I will not bring him to court, and I will not allow him to take the stand."

"Why doesn't Richard save everyone the trouble and plead out? That would be easier for Ben."

She had more of her drink.

"This is part of the process. He's facing two first-degree counts and three in the second, but his lawyers want a reduction to negligent homicide on the firsts and a pass on the rest."

Lucy stared at nothing for a moment, then sipped again and shrugged.

"They'll probably end up at two counts of manslaughter if they can agree on the sentence. Richard has to do time. I'm sorry he was hurt, but he has to pay for this."

She finished her drink with a tinkle of ice, then looked at the glass as if its being empty was just another of life's inevitable disappointments.

She said, "You know what? I'm tired of being nice. I'm only sorry for Ben and what this is doing to him. Richard deserved everything that happened to him."

I reached for the glass.

"Here. I'll make another."

She held out her glass, and our fingertips laced. Neither of us moved. We were locked together like two grappling wrestlers frozen by tensions neither could overcome or escape-

– then Lucy dropped her hand, and pretended nothing had happened. I should have pretended that, too.

"When are you going back?"

"Tomorrow afternoon. I have to see the D.A. again in the morning, then I'm flying out of LAX."

Tomorrow afternoon. I turned away to make the drink. I filled her glass with fresh ice, then cut a wedge of lime and sprayed it over the ice. I tried to pretend I was calm, but my hope was probably obvious. I stopped messing with the drink, and looked at her. Tomorrow left the night to be filled.

"Would you stay with me tonight?"

She shook her head without even considering it, but her voice was kind.

"Just make the drink, World's Greatest. And tell me what I can help cook."

We were both on uneasy ground. You take great care on the thin ice. Go slow, and you just might make it across. I smiled, sending word that we were okay again and I would not pressure her. I freshened her drink instead.

"How about spaghetti with a putanesca sauce?"

She waved her hand, looking pleased with my choice.

"Bring it."

"I've got Italian sausage in the freezer. We could grill it, chop it in the sauce."

Waved the fingers again.

"Bring it all."

31

The Watcher

Frederick worked his regular shift, opening the station as usual until he handed the pumps off to Elroy that afternoon. Elroy bitched about not having heard from Payne, and it was all Frederick could do not to string up the skinny bastard on the hydraulic lift and stab him in the eyes, but Frederick was too practiced for that-he pretended to be exactly the same Frederick that Elroy expected-unaware of Payne's fate, and unaware of the terrible vengeance that had been visited upon Payne by Elvis Cole, and the even more terrible vengeance that would soon be visited upon Cole in return. If Elroy suspected anything else, he gave no indication. Nor did Elroy see the pair of vise-grip pliers that Frederick lifted from the service bay as he was leaving. Frederick planned to torture Cole just as Cole had tortured Payne-by tearing away his skin with the pliers.

Frederick returned to Los Angeles that afternoon. Cole's house was a vicious crouched spider clinging to the edge of a cliff, all mean angles and shadows. The carport was empty, and two women were walking a dog past Cole's house, so Frederick continued on. He parked at a nearby construction site, then hunkered down behind an olive tree to keep an eye on Cole's house.

A few minutes before six that evening, a car parked outside Cole's front door, and a woman got out. She didn't knock or ring the bell; she let herself into Cole's house with her own key, which gave Frederick pause. A woman might be named Elvis as easily as a man. Maybe Elvis Cole was a woman. Then he remembered that James Kramer had spoken of Cole as a man, so Frederick decided she was probably Cole's wife. He was deciding whether or not to murder her, too, when a dirty yellow Corvette came around the curve and turned into Cole's carport. It was one of the old Corvettes from the sixties, what they called a Sting Ray. Frederick sensed this was Elvis Cole; more than sensed it, he knew it, and knew that Cole was wearing a disguise as perfect as Frederick 's own; the dirty car, the jeans and knockaround running shoes, and the stupid Hawaiian shirt with its tail hanging out were a pretense. Cole was pretending to be a regular man to hide his true self-a relentless killer-for-hire with a heart of hot ice.

Frederick 's suspicions were confirmed in the next moment when Cole reached under his shirt, pulled out a pistol, and let himself into the house. Frederick tipped forward, expecting gunfire, but no shots rang out.

Now Frederick didn't know what to do. He had planned on killing Cole as soon as Cole arrived, but Cole was armed and expecting trouble. If Frederick went to the door, Cole might shoot him on sight.

A little while later, a third car appeared, this one also driven by a woman. She parked across Cole's driveway. When she got out of her car, Frederick saw a badge clipped to her waist. Frederick wondered if she had come to arrest Cole, but when Cole answered the door, he let her in with a beaming smile.

32

I was searching the freezer for sausage when I remembered about Starkey. Starkey was coming over. She was probably on her way.

"Hey, you remember Carol Starkey? I forgot. She's coming over tonight."

Something like interest flickered in Lucy's eyes, but then she smiled.

"I guess you forgot, all right."

"It's nothing like that, Lucille. Starkey's tracking a juvie file on someone I'm trying to find. I have to get these articles to her, so I invited her for dinner. No big deal."

The articles were still on the counter.

"I'm serious. Is it better if I leave?"

"Absolutely not. If I'd known you were going to be here, I wouldn't have asked Starkey. She'll understand."

Lucy and I were thawing the sausage when Starkey knocked.

I said, "That's Starkey."

"Ask her to stay. I mean it."

I called out that I was coming and went to the door. When I opened it, Starkey flipped away a cigarette, blew a geyser of smoke toward the trees, and came in with a square pink bakery box.

She said, "Whose car is that?"

Lucy stepped out of the kitchen as Starkey came inside. Lucy was holding the package of sausage and a knife. She smiled nicely.

"Hello, Detective. It's good to see you again."

Starkey stared at Lucy as if she couldn't put a name to her face.

I said, "Ben's mom."

"I know who she is, Cole. Ms. Chenier. How's your little boy?"

"He's well, thank you. He's doing very well."

Lucy gestured with the sausage, and went back to the kitchen.

"I have to get back. I'm dripping."

When Lucy was gone, I lowered my voice.

"Lucy was here when I got back. I didn't know she was in town."

Lucy called from the kitchen.

"Ask her to stay."

I lowered my voice even more.

"Starkey, look, you mind taking a rain check? She's only here for-"

Starkey pushed the box into my hands.

"Fruit tarts. Don't worry about it, Cole. Give me the stuff and I'm gone."

I brought the dessert box into the kitchen, and told Lucy that Starkey was leaving. When I scooped up the articles, Lucy followed me back to the living room. Starkey was still fidgeting by the door. She hadn't come three steps into my house.

Lucy said, "Please, Detective, have dinner with us. At least have a drink."

"I don't drink-I smoke."

Starkey snatched the articles from me, folded them, then tried to slip them into her outer pocket.

"I ran Reinnike's name, Cole. He doesn't have an adult record, so you're shit out of luck with that. I'll let you know if I find something in Juvenile."

Lucy said, "Please-stay for a while. We can visit."

"I gotta get going."

Starkey kept pushing the articles at her pocket, but they wouldn't go in. The paper had folded outside her pocket.

I said, "The paper's bent."

Starkey pushed harder.

"Jesus fucking Christ."

I said, "You're making it worse."

Starkey gave up on the pocket and turned for the door.

Lucy said, "It was good seeing you, Detective."

"Tell the little boy I asked after him."

Lucy smiled nicely, clearly touched.

"I will. Thank you."

Starkey stopped at the door, looked at me as if she was going to say something, but glanced back at Lucy.

"He misses you."

Lucy's jaw tightened, but she made no other response as Starkey went out. I stood in the door until Starkey was in her car, then returned to the kitchen. Lucy was searching through my cupboards. She saw I was back, and smiled brightly.

"Okay, boss, let's get this going. I'm starving to death."

"I'm sorry she said that about me missing you. It's none of her business."

Lucy put two large cans of chopped tomatoes on the counter, and set about opening them as if nothing was wrong. Her eyebrows arched.

"She likes you, Mr. Cole."

"Not the way you mean."

Lucy considered me, then shook her head, and went back to opening the cans.

"You can tell me what she's helping you with while we cook."

I watched her for a moment, wondering what to say and how to say it. Lucy softened me. Maybe it was the warmth of her hair (the best color money can buy) or the curve of her cheek or the determined intelligence in her eyes; maybe it was her scent or the way one front tooth overlapped the other or the faint lines gathered at the corners of her eyes. The whole of her gave me a peace I had not known without her. The knots in my neck and upper back loosened; the strained buzzing in my chest calmed. I did not tell her about Reinnike. I told her I was working a missing-persons case, and let it go at that. A man and his son had disappeared, and I was trying to find them. I didn't lie to her; I just didn't tell her everything. I didn't tell her the important things. Maybe I was tired of the drama, or maybe I didn't want to spoil our evening.

We cooked together as if she had never been away, and I only remembered we were no longer a couple when I wanted to touch her, but couldn't. I wanted everything to be as it had once been, but I respected her choices, and knew her choices weren't easy for her, either. She was doing what she felt she had to do. She was doing what she thought was right for her child. Maybe I could appreciate those choices more than other people, or maybe I was just drunk. In my fantasies, my own mother loved me as much; my own father cared. That Lucy gave up so much for her child left me loving her more and wanting her more and willing to sacrifice anything to nurture her love. What she gave Ben was everything I had wanted for myself; what she was to him was everything I had been denied by my own parents.

We cooked, and ate, and after a while we sat together in the silence of my house, the two of us on the couch, sitting close, her hand in mine. My home felt warm and alive; not just wood and glass and tile, but something more. I knew she would leave soon. She knew it, too. Maybe that's why we were silent.

After a time, Lucy whispered, softly.

"I have to go."

I whispered back.

"I know."

Neither of us moved. I believed she still loved me, else she would not have come to my house. I had asked her once to stay, and thought that if I pressed her again, she might. I could have brushed her ear with my lips, and whispered the gentle words. Maybe some part of her wanted me to convince her, but I knew if I did the difficult choices she had made would be even more difficult to bear. I didn't want to force her. I didn't want to make it harder for her.

She whispered, "I'm going."

She still did not move.

It was up to me.

I kissed the back of her hand, then smiled, trying to tell her I begrudged her nothing.

"I'll walk you out."

If something I hoped was disappointment flickered in her eyes, I ignored it.

She found her wallet, then walked with me out to her car. The sharp night chill hooked at the skin around my eyes and made me blink. That's right-the chill. She kissed my cheek, then slipped behind the wheel.

She said, "I'm glad you came home."

I wanted to say the same, but couldn't.

Her taillights disappeared around the curve. They flickered in the trees, then disappeared again. I stood in the street, watching, hoping for one more glimpse, but after a while I knew she was gone. Ken Wilson told me there was no such thing as a dead end, but I feared he was wrong.

33

Archangel Love

When the female police officer drove away, Frederick decided to kill Cole and the other woman. It was full-on dark by then, and no neighbor would be able to see Frederick approach the house. Cole might have a gun, but Frederick was even more concerned by the presence of the police. The policewoman-obviously Cole's minion-might have helped murder Payne, and she might even be helping Cole identify Frederick. So ten minutes after she drove away, Frederick slipped the shotgun from its case and readied himself for the killing.

Lights swung around the curve, and a car appeared. It slowed, and Frederick recognized the female police officer. She slowed, but she did not stop, and continued past Cole's house. Frederick didn't like it that she had returned, but didn't know what to make of it.

Frederick decided to wait. Maybe Cole would come outside to put out his trash and Frederick could shoot him from the trees. Maybe Cole and the first woman would go for a walk.

Twenty minutes later, the same female police officer cruised past again. She was patrolling Cole's house!

Frederick grew worried she might become suspicious of his truck. He pictured her calling in his license plate and alerting Cole he was in the area. She might be calling for more of Cole's minions at that very moment!

Do it, Frederick! Do it RIGHT NOW!

Frederick felt trapped between his need to avenge Payne and his fear of the police-

Do it, Frederick!

All he had to do was run to the door, kick it in, and crash into Cole's house. If he took them by surprise, he could shoot down Cole and his wife where they stood.

The police officer drove past again, and in that moment everything changed. Frederick grew convinced she knew he was in the area. That's why she was patrolling Cole's neighborhood-they knew he was here! They were looking for him. Even as he had been stupidly hiding in the trees, Cole's masked minions were probably closing in, surrounding him as silently as smoke; they would surround him, trap him, then hold him down so Cole could use a long thin knife to slit his throat just as he had killed Payne.

That monster, Cole.

Frederick lurched up from behind the trees and hurried back to his truck, desperate to get away before the officer reappeared, and before her assassins trapped him.

34

I turned on the television to put noise in the house, then returned to the deck, wondering why I hadn't been able to tell Lucy about George Reinnike. The hillsides were sprinkled with their inevitable lights, following the canyon like a twinkling river to the city. High over the lights, a flashing red crucifix climbed toward the east; a jet out of LAX with red strobes on its wingtips and tail. They take off toward the sea, but turn across the city for a final good-bye. Lucy would fly that route tomorrow.

I went inside, made a cup of instant coffee, and stood in the living room. The television showed a news promo during a commercial. The Red Light Assassin had added another victim to the traffic signal body count. As part of the promo they showed a traffic camera's view of cars blowing through an intersection. I wondered if the Home Away Suites had a security camera in the parking lot. Gas stations, convenience stores, and supermarkets had cameras watching their parking lots, so maybe the Home Away Suites did, too, and Reinnike's car had been captured on tape. If their tape showed Reinnike's car, it might show his license plate.

I brushed my tooth to cover the gin, locked the house, and drove back to the Home Away Suites. It was better than brooding about Lucy.

Traffic was light, and Toluca Lake was quiet when I reached the motel. The parking lot was well lit, but not so bright that it would disturb the residents in the surrounding apartments. I got out of my car, but didn't go inside right away. I walked between the cars, looking for surveillance cameras on light poles and outside the motel, but I didn't find anything. Maybe they were hidden.

I went inside to the front desk and identified myself. The night clerk was a middle-aged woman who grew irritated when she learned what I wanted, and why.

She said, "I don't know anything about that business. They brought me down from Bakersfield because of all this."

The regular night manager had been relieved when the corporate office learned that prostitutes had visited the motel. She resented coming down from Bakersfield, and didn't think it fair that the regular manager had been fired.

"I want to ask about the parking lot. Do security cameras cover the parking?"

She pointed to the corner of the ceiling where a small camera hung from a metal bracket.

"We only have the camera inside. The police already asked for the tape, but it wasn't working. Now the home office is flying in and more people are going to lose their jobs. All for nothing, if you ask me. They buy these cheap things, then blame the managers when nothing works."

"The police were here about the cameras? Do you remember which officer?"

"I wasn't here. That was the day manager."

"All right. I'm going to walk around the building and the parking lot for a few minutes. I just wanted you to know what I'm doing."

"We'll have to put armed guards in our motels now, everyone's making such a big deal. You would think that poor man was murdered right here in the lobby. It's absurd."

I left before she could go on.

The Home Away Suites did not have outside security cameras, but the surrounding apartment houses and businesses might. Thomas said Reinnike had been parked in a spot directly across from the motel entrance, which was on the north side of the motel. I walked to the street, then looked back at the parking lot. A Mobil station was directly across the street to the south on the southeast corner, and a strip mall featuring a liquor store sat kitty-cornered across the intersection on the southwest corner. Both the Mobil station and the liquor store would have security cameras, but the angles wouldn't show the Home Away parking lot.

A 24/7 convenience store sat directly across Cahuenga Boulevard from the motel. The 24/7 would have cameras, too, and the angle might be better.

I trotted across Cahuenga. Two cars were tanking up at the pump island out front, with a heavy bass line booming from a little Toyota.

Inside, I joined three people in line at the counter. The clerk was a young guy with a neatly trimmed beard wearing a faded Mall Rats T-shirt. He checked out each customer mechanically and without interest. How are you today?… That will be six dollars and forty-two cents… Have a good evening. He had an unobstructed view of the Home Away parking lot. A security camera hung from the ceiling behind the counter, with a second camera at the back of the store. They almost certainly had cameras outside the store.

When it was my turn, the clerk said, "How are you today?"

"I'm investigating the murder of a man who was staying across the street. I have a couple questions for you."

"Wow. That's not something I hear every day."

I asked if their exterior security cameras showed the Home Away's parking lot.

"Sorry, dude, the cameras don't point that way. If you lean over here you can see what I mean."

He realized I wouldn't be able to see much by leaning, so he told me to come around behind the counter. A security monitor was set up on a shelf beneath the cash register. It showed grainy black-and-white views of us, the aisles, and the outside area between the gas pumps and the front door. The clerk pointed at the monitor.

"You see? The outside camera doesn't show the street. You can't see the motel."

We couldn't see the motel, but we clearly saw the cars at the pumps. Reinnike might have bought gas here, and his tag number might show on their tape.

"How long do you hold the recordings?"

"Twenty-four hours. It's not tape anymore-it's digital. The pictures stream to a hard drive, but the memory buffers out at twenty-four hours unless we put in a save."

"And you only put in a save if something happens?"

"Yeah, like if the store is robbed or an alarm goes off or whatever."

Reinnike had been murdered more than seventy-two hours ago. Twenty-four hours wasn't enough.

He folded his arms and looked at me curiously.

"I saw police cars over there last night. Was that what it was about?"

"One of their guests was murdered three nights ago."

"Right in the motel?"

"He was murdered downtown, but he was staying there."

I showed him the morgue shot. He studied the picture, then shook his head.

"They all kinda blend together. I couldn't tell you what my last three customers looked like."

"He was driving a brown Honda Accord with a bad dent at the left rear wheel. Maybe he bought gas."

"Sorry, dude. If their credit card clears, I don't even bother to look."

"He would have paid cash."

"A lot of people pay cash. I don't remember."

A construction worker grimed with white dust came in. He ordered two hot dogs, plain with nothing on them, and a large coffee with four sugars. I stood out of the way while the clerk took two hot dogs off the rotisserie and filled a large Styrofoam cup with coffee and sugar. The wall behind the counter was lined with a soft-drink dispenser, a coffee machine, a frozen-yogurt dispenser, and the rotisserie, but I didn't see an espresso machine. Nothing said "mocha."

When the construction guy left, I said, "Is there a coffee shop in walking distance?"

"Starbucks, up Riverside. It's ten or twelve blocks, though. We got coffee. What do you need?"

"It's not for me. A witness at the motel told me he crossed the street for a mocha. I was wondering where he got it."

"I get you. He could have come here. We got mocha, vanilla, and hazelnut-they're bullshit instant mixes, but we sell it. You know that stuff is mostly sand? You mix it with hot water."

The clerk's eyebrows suddenly arched with interest.

"Hey, was that the black dude?"

Just like that. You interview people, you never know what they're going to say, or why; sometimes, you kick over a stone like the thousand other stones you've kicked, and something glitters in the soil.

I said, "I don't know. Describe him."

"It was-"

His lips moved soundlessly as he counted on his fingers.

"-five nights ago. Big guy, buffed out and kinda fierce, with his hair high and tight?"

Five nights ago was the night Dana had prayed with Herbert Faustina.

"You remember every mocha you sell?"

He made a self-conscious smile.

"Not hardly. I remember this guy because of his chick. Dude, she was hot-"

He cupped his fingers to indicate the size of her breasts. Thomas hadn't said anything about Dana having a mocha.

"Did she have a mocha, too?"

"He came in alone. The Lakers were playing, and he's killing time, but he keeps looking outside. I'm thinking, what's this dude looking for, is he going to rob me? But then he says, shit, there's my chick, and turned so fast his drink splashed all over his hand. Ouch."

"Ouch."

"Right. This thick was smoking. I would've spilled my coffee, too."

"Un-huh."

"Anyway, he beat it back across the street. I just stared at the chick. She had a serious case of the floppies when she ran. It made my night."

He cupped his hands over his chest again, and bounced them up and down.

"Why was she running?"

"They got into his car, but then she got out again. She ran over to see some guy-"

Thomas hadn't said anything about Dana getting out of the car. No flopping had been described.

The door chimed as an Armenian couple with a small baby came in. The woman was sultry, and beautiful. The clerk stared at her and lost his train of thought. I touched his arm.

"Describe the man she ran to see."

"I wasn't looking at the dude, bro-I was watching her bags; they were hopping."

"An older man? Thin, with badly dyed hair?"

"You mean the guy in the picture?"

"You tell me."

The clerk glanced at the woman again, watching her walk, then sighed when he turned back to me. Fantasy interruptus.

"I didn't see the dude's face. I guess he was kinda old, but I couldn't swear to any of this. She almost knocked him over when she hugged him."

It had to be Reinnike. Reinnike had come outside, and Dana had gone to see him. Thomas hadn't mentioned that part, and now I wondered why.

"What about the black guy? Did he go see the guy, too?"

"He kinda ducked down like he was hiding. I thought that was weird. I think he took a picture."

"Why do you think he took a picture?"

"I saw his camera-"

He lifted his hands to either side of his face as if he was aiming a camera. As he demonstrated, the Armenian man asked if they had concentrated milk. The clerk told him to check the last aisle.

I said, "You sure it was a camera? Maybe it was a cell phone."

"Dude, I know a camera. Not one of those dinky little things,. either; a real camera with a long lens."

He pointed out a white car on the street-side row of cars in the Home Away parking lot.

"See the white sedan… four, five, six spots from the entrance, right here by the street? They were parked where that white sedan is. I saw the camera."

"How long was she with the other man?"

"Coupla minutes. Maybe not that long."

"Then what happened?"

"They left."

"Did they follow the other man?"

The clerk was beginning to look annoyed.

"Dude, I don't know if they followed him. They just left."

The Armenian family brought two cans of condensed milk and a jar of applesauce to the counter.

The clerk said, "I gotta get back to work."

"Me, too."

I thanked him for his help, then ducked under the counter and went out to my car. The air was cold, but I didn't feel it. It was ten fifty-three when I called Joe Pike.

I said, "I need you to meet me."

Pike didn't ask why; he only asked where. I gave him Dana's address.

Ken Wilson was right. Dead ends don't exist. Lucy had gone, but she would return.

35

People lie. Half the people in jail were arrested because they lied even though they hadn't done anything wrong. A cop asked where they were Tuesday night, and they didn't say they were having a beer at the Starlite Lounge; they said they were in Bakersfield. Next thing they knew, they were popped for a Bakersfield stickup because they matched a description. They suddenly remembered they were at the Starlite, but then it was too late. They had lied, been arrested and booked, and by the time the detectives figured out they were telling the truth about the Starlite, the detectives had also found an outstanding warrant for failure to pay child support or skipping a court appearance. All because they lied about having a beer. Many people are like that. Lying is their automatic reaction.

Thomas and Dana probably lied because they had something to hide. I didn't see how their lies had anything to do with Reinnike's murder, but I wanted to see their pictures.

Dana's street was well lit in a small-town way, with gold light softening the cheap stucco buildings to make everything seem nicer than it was. Cars lined both curbs like too many puppies crowding their mother. It was after eleven as I crept past Dana's building; the neighborhood had settled for the night.

Pike's Jeep was blocking a drive two buildings beyond Dana's. Pike was a motionless black smudge masked by black shadows. His window was down.

Pike's low voice came quietly from the darkness.

"I couldn't tell if they're home. The drapes are pulled and everything's quiet."

"You could've kicked in the door."

"Waiting for you."

"Okay. Let's see."

I told Pike how I wanted to play it, then walked down the drive to Dana's apartment. Behind me, Pike slipped from the Jeep. The interior light did not come on when his door opened.

I went to Dana's door, listened, then rang the bell. Her apartment was dark. The windows were cheap aluminum sliders with spring-loaded handles serving as clip locks. I tried to slide the glass, but the latches held firm. I padded the muzzle of my gun with my handkerchief, pressed the muzzle to the glass alongside the handle, then smacked the butt hard with the heel of my hand. The muzzle popped through the glass, leaving a jagged hole the size of a tennis ball. I opened the window, hoisted myself inside, then closed the drapes.

"Hello?"

I flipped on the lights, then checked the bedroom and bath to be sure no one was hidden. Like lying, people often hide, and then you don't see them coming. It can ruin your whole day.

When I visited their apartment two days ago, a camera with a big lens was on the dining room table beside the computer. Now, the camera was gone. The desk was cluttered with papers, a cordless phone, and dust bunnies, but a clean new LAPD business card stood out. Detective Jeff Pardy. I smiled when I saw the card. Pardy might be a flathead, but he was doing his job. It made me feel better about him.

I went back to the living room, sat on the couch, and waited. It was eleven twenty-six when I started waiting. At twelve-seventeen, voices approached. I went back to the dining room, turned the chair to face the front door, and made myself comfortable.

A key ground into the deadbolt lock.

Outside, Dana said, "But I turned off the lights."

Thomas stepped inside, not seeing me because he was looking at Dana. He was carrying the camera. He didn't see me until Dana stepped inside past him, but by then it was too late.

Thomas said, "You-"

Pike came in behind Thomas fast, and hooked his left arm tight around Thomas's neck. He turned Thomas's right hand high behind his back and lifted him inside. Thomas made a gurgling sound, and the camera hit the floor with a clunk.

Dana said, "Hey! What are you doing? Stop it!"

Pike let Thomas's weight ride the bent arm. Thomas tried to reach Pike with his free hand, but Pike was out of reach. Thomas kicked and twisted, but Pike lifted higher and cut off Thomas's air. You can't get much leverage when you're hanging by your neck with your tongue turning purple.

I closed the door behind them, then brought Dana to the couch.

"He's okay. You sit here and don't get up."

I picked up the camera and sat beside Dana. It was a professional-grade Sony digital with ports for extra memory chips and buttons I didn't understand. I gave the card and phone to Dana.

"Here, hold these, okay?"

"What do you want? Why do I have to hold this?"

"Pike, you good?"

"Perfect."

"Okay."

The camera had a view screen for reviewing shots. I turned it on, then pressed a button labeled REVIEW. The screen filled with the picture of an ordinary street. It was the picture Thomas had most recently taken. A bright yellow bar across the top of the picture showed the number 18. Eighteen pictures were stored in the memory. I pressed the review button again to see the seventeenth picture, and clicked back through the remaining pictures one by one. The first four pictures were ordinary shots of ordinary things, but the fourteenth picture showed a dimly lit room through what might have been partially closed curtains. The image was small and orange, but I made out what seemed to be a woman's back and a man's legs. They were stretched out on a bed, and the woman was hunched over the legs. The only clear shot of Dana was when she first entered the room and was still on her feet. The angle showed a clear view of her face. None of the shots showed the Home Away Suites or George Reinnike, aka Herbert Faustina, but as soon as I saw them I knew what Thomas and Dana were hiding.

I said, "This is sweet. Thomas here takes pictures of Dana with her johns. Why do you suppose he does that?"

Pike said, "Blackmail?"

Thomas thrashed as he kicked at Pike's legs, but Pike did something to the bent arm, and the thrashing stopped. Dana didn't try to get up. She seemed embarrassed.

I said, "You and Mr. Three Strikes left something out of your story the other day. Herbert Faustina's real name is Reinnike. An eyewitness saw Thomas take a picture of you and Reinnike outside the Home Away Suites. I want to see it."

Dana said, "We didn't take any pictures. Whoever said that was lying."

"Tell you what, I want you to call Detective Pardy for me. You have his card and the phone. Let's see how it works for Thomas when he's booked for blackmail, extortion, and suspicion of murder."

Thomas stiffened again, and his eyes widened. Dana held the phone.

"Dana isn't helping, Thomas, so I'll have to dial. We'll tell Pardy you don't just pimp tricks for your girlfriend, you take pictures to blackmail her johns. Then we'll see if Stephen rats you out to save himself."

Pike said, "Oops. Strike three."

Dana suddenly pushed up from the couch, and dropped the phone.

"It's Stephen. It isn't us. We don't blackmail anyone-it's Stephen!"

Thomas made a grunting sound to warn her to shut up, but she shouted at him.

"I'm not the one who told him about the car! I wasn't gonna say anything, but you had to say about the car!"

I waited for Thomas, and watched the resignation settle into his eyes.

"You going to talk to me if he lets go?"

Thomas croaked a sound like a yes. Pike released the pressure, and Thomas staggered sideways, coughing, with his right arm hanging limp. Dana kept shouting.

"You hadda say! You hadda tell him about the car!"

Thomas glared at Dana, but there was more hurt in his eyes than anger.

"It was my ass with the three strikes! Stephen already told him we were there. That bastard gave'm our names. I hadda give the man somethin', else they'd think we were holdin' out!"

I said, "Show me Reinnike's picture."

"I can't. I sent those pictures to Stephen."

Those pictures. More than one picture of George Reinnike. More than one chance to see his license number.

I picked up the phone and punched in Pardy's number.

"Listen, I'm telling you the truth. I sent'm to Stephen. After I sent them, I deleted them. He has them. I don't keep incriminating shit like that on my computer."

I lowered the phone. I studied him, then glanced at his computer. Thomas was probably telling the truth, but I couldn't be sure.

"What does Stephen do with the pictures?"

"A lot of johns use credit cards, and expense the charge to their companies. Stephen's girlfriend has a brother works at a credit bureau, something like that, so he can get contact information. These guys go home, a few weeks later they get a copy of the picture. A lot of them, they cough up an extra grand to make Stephen go away. Stephen doesn't push it; he don't ask for too much or keep after them. Stephen ain't no hard-core badass; he's just looking for an easy dollar."

"Reinnike paid with cash."

"Here's this dude with all this cash, hiring all these girls- Stephen said it was worth a shot. I didn't get any sex stuff. Just them out in the parking lot. That was all I got, and I ain't even got that anymore. I sent'm to Stephen."

I walked over to his computer. A screen-saver pattern had appeared. A ball slowly bounced between the four sides of the screen, the ball trailing an expanding wake that overlapped and consumed itself. Thomas might be lying, but I believed he was telling the truth.

"Here's my problem, Thomas. Those pictures could be sitting right here, and I couldn't find them. The experts at LAPD can turn this thing inside out."

"I'm telling you they won't find nothing. I pick out the best shots, send them to Stephen, then get rid of the evidence. I don't keep that shit on my computer."

"You e-mailed the pictures to Stephen?"

"I sent the best three. The rest weren't so good. He got them. I know he got them-he wrote back and said."

Pike said, "When?"

"Five days ago, I guess. It hadda be five."

Dana said, "The day after I saw him."

I glanced at Pike, and Pike nodded. We were both thinking the same thing.

I said, "Have you gotten an e-mail from Stephen in the past three days?"

"No."

Pike's mouth twitched. Stephen had been working at a laptop when we saw him three days ago. It was the only computer we saw, and we took it. George Reinnike's picture was in my car.

I pushed Thomas's computer out of the way, put Stephen's laptop on the table, and turned it on. Thomas came over to see.

"If you had Stephen's computer, why didn't you just ask him for the goddamned pictures?"

Pike said, "Shut up."

The screen filled with a dark blue desktop. The DESKTOP FILES icon opened the hard drive, but revealed nothing more than a long list of files with meaningless names. I knew the list of call girls and business records were somewhere in the files, but nothing was labeled BLACKMAIL or JOHNS. We would have to make Stephen show us, but Stephen had already told his lawyer that we had taken his computer. If Stephen turned up beaten to death, the lawyer would probably suspect.

Pike said, "Anything?"

"Nothing obvious. We'll have to go back to Stephen."

Thomas said, "Let me ask you something. What's so important about me taking his picture? What you expect to see?"

"Reinnike's license plate."

Thomas seemed vague for a moment, but then his right eye flickered. Thomas was working on something.

"I think I got that. You can see the back end of his car pretty good in one of the shots I sent."

I said, "Do you know his password?"

"You think he wants me checkin' his mail? Would you?"

I waited. I didn't have to wait long. Thomas saw a way out and he was spooling up to make his offer.

"I send him these pictures, he's gotta download them, right? He's gotta save'm, print'm, make copies, whatever, so he can use'm to shake down the johns. If he downloads them into a file, then we don't need his password to get into his e-mail; all we gotta do is find the picture files, right?"

"Get to it."

"I figure you got three ways to get'm. You take that thing to the police like you was gonna do with mine, and maybe they find'm and maybe they don't. The other way is you pack it back to Stephen like you said, hope he's home, there aren't any witnesses, nothing like that, then put a gun in his mouth and hope he don't delete'm while you're looking the other way."

"What's the third way?"

He stared at me without expression in a way that made me feel obvious. I felt myself flush.

"What?"

"Whatever you're after is important to you. You've been here twice now, and you're in a hurry. You don't want to wait for the police and you don't want to mess around with Stephen. I'm not saying I can find those pictures, but I got an idea how, so maybe I can save you some time."

He let it hang. I knew what he wanted.

"When I send Stephen the pictures I give each of them its own name. If Stephen didn't change the names, I might be able to find them. Save you all that time. But I gotta get a pass on the crimes. I got the three strikes."

Pardy might go for it. He told me he wasn't interested in sex crimes, but this was a slam-dunk blackmail and extortion conviction, and it was a major case. If he wouldn't go for it, Diaz would go for it. I thought I could deliver the deal.

"Show me the pictures."

"You gotta get me a deal."

"I'll get you the deal."

Thomas sat at the laptop. He opened and closed several scrolls until a window appeared, asking which file he wanted to find. He typed DANA1.JPEG, then clicked a button to initiate the search. A tree chart showing files within files appeared with the DANA1.JPEG at the bottom.

Thomas suddenly laughed as the tension blew out of him.

"Be damned."

The tree chart showed that DANA1.JPEG was in a file called DUMMIES, which was in a file labeled ASSOCIATES, which was tucked within another file called ED'S VACATION, which had been stored in yet another file with the innocent name COVER LETTERS, which was located on the hard drive. Thomas copied the names, then closed the finder window to open the hard drive. He opened each file in reverse order, beginning with COVER LETTERS, then ED'S VACATION, then ASSOCIATES. Each time he opened a file, Dana and I leaned over his shoulders, trying to pick out the next name in a jumble of other files. When Thomas finally opened DUMMIES, the screen filled with a list of tiny file names in alphabetical order-

ALLIE1.JPEG

ALLIE2.JPEG

ALLIE3.JPEG

ANGELA1.JPEG

ANGELA2.JPEG

There were hundreds of JPEGs. Maybe a thousand. Many of the names showed more than one series-

BARB1.JPEG

BARB2.JPEG

BARB3.JPEG

BARB2/1.JPEG

BARB2/2.JPEG

I said, "Why the different series with some of the names?"

"Different johns."

"You took all these?"

"Uh-huh."

Pike said, "You're a piece of shit."

Thomas knew better than to glance up. He knew better than to crack wise or give with an attitude.

I pulled Thomas out of the chair and scrolled down the list-Dana had been photographed with seven different men. When I opened the first series, it showed a milky night shot of Dana outside a bar with an overweight man in a business suit. The angle of the picture suggested it had been taken from the opposite side of the street, and the pale colors indicated some sort of electronic light enhancement had been used instead of a flash. It was obvious by the man's expression he didn't know he was being photographed.

The next series showed Dana, a second young woman, and two older men on a sleek white boat in Marina del Rey. Dana and the other woman were wearing thong bikinis and nose zinc. The angle and graininess indicated the picture had been taken with a long lens, probably from one of the restaurants or apartments that lined the marina.

I opened the first picture in the last series, and saw George Reinnike. The photograph had the same milky quality as the other night shots-the colors bleached with a too-bright wash from the optical enhancer. Reinnike was wearing a plaid, long-sleeved shirt with the cuffs buttoned, but no jacket, and a set of car keys was clearly visible in his right hand. Dana was kissing his cheek, but he looked surprised and embarrassed, as if he didn't want this kind of attention in a public place. They were standing by the tail end of a brown Honda Accord, though the way they were standing I couldn't see the dent or the license plate.

Thomas said, "Go on to the next one. I know you can see the plate in one of'm."

The next picture was wider, revealing more of the surroundings. Dana was approaching Reinnike, but had not yet reached him. He was leaning toward the motel, as if caught in the awkward moment when he was deciding how to respond. His dubious expression suggested he was worried she was going to make a scene or ask for more money. I could see the top edge of the license plate, but it was blurry and unreadable.

Thomas said, "Goddamnit, I know I had it. I got one more here. Open it."

The third angle was the widest. Dana was on her toes, with her arms around Reinnike's neck. The dented left rear wheel well and the missing hubcap were obvious. Thomas hadn't remembered the car from a fast glance; he had studied the pictures to choose the best shots for Stephen. The entire license plate was visible, but blurry and unreadable, like a face in the fog.

Thomas leaned closer.

"Shit. I can't read it."

It appeared to be a California plate, but I couldn't be sure.

"Can you bring this into focus?"

"Dude, that's science. I found the pictures. We got the deal, or what? You said we had a deal."

I concentrated on the blurred license plate. It did not clear. A computer-graphics technician might be able to tighten the image. They can work miracles with this stuff. But not always. I closed the file. George Reinnike vanished.

I tucked the laptop under my arm, then nodded at Pike. He went to the door and waited. I turned back to Thomas.

"I'll set it up with Pardy. You'll have to testify against Stephen, but I'll make sure they cut you a deal. If you try to weasel or get funny, our deal is off and I'll let them have you. We clear on that?"

"We're clear."

"They get your testimony about the prostitution, the blackmail, all of it. We clear?"

Dana said, "Yes."

They looked like rabbits caught in the headlights when Pike and I left.

We walked back to Pike's Jeep, both of us silent until we reached the street.

He said, "Close."

"I'll find someone to sharpen the image. There has to be a way to do that. Maybe Chen."

I left Pike at his Jeep and continued toward my car, thinking about it. Close, but still out of reach, like an imagined image of my father.

When I got home that night, I put Stephen's laptop in my front closet, covered it with a raincoat, then drank a glass of milk. I ate a banana, took a shower, then tried to go to sleep, but I kept seeing the long line of names on the list. I was worried that Pardy wouldn't go along and I wouldn't be able to leverage the deal for Thomas and Dana even though I had given my word. I was worried that I would not be able to read Reinnike's license plate and would never know the truth. I stared into the darkness gathered at my ceiling thinking these things until I grew angry with myself, and got out of bed.

I turned on all the lights in my house, then brought Stephen's laptop to my dining room table. The cat came in as I worked, and sat silently, watching me.

I opened the files one by one as Thomas had done, until I found the long list of JPEGs. I scrolled down to the three pictures that were named VICTORIA, whose real name was Margaret Keyes. I deleted them.

I still had Margaret's cell phone number. I called her, even though it was two in the morning. I did not expect her to answer, but she answered on the fifth ring. From the background, she was at a club or restaurant with other people. Or maybe it was just the TV.

"Hello?"

"This is Elvis Cole. You don't have to say anything. Just listen."

She hesitated, and I wondered if she, too, was awake at this hour because of the anger and pictures in her head. She answered guardedly. Because of the other voices.

"Yes. Oh, sure. I understand."

She tried to make her voice light and conversational, as if she had gotten a call from a friend.

"You told me Stephen had something on you. Were you talking about the pictures?"

She didn't answer.

"Yes or no, Margaret. You don't have to say anything more than that."

"That's right."

"He had pictures of you having sex that he used in a blackmail scam, and he threatened to implicate you unless you continued to work for him. Yes or no."

"Yes."

"Those pictures no longer exist. You're free."

I hung up without waiting for her to respond. I put down the phone, then went back upstairs to bed.

After a while, the darkness was not so foreboding. I slept.

36

Starkey

Starkey suffered a miserable night after she woke from the dream; she sucked down a cigarette, then tried to go back to sleep, but every time the shadows took shape, she startled awake. Once, she glimpsed Sugar; another time, Jack Pell; but mostly it was Cole, the same terrible dream again and again. When Pell came to her, he smiled with bright bulging eyes and pointed at something behind her, but Starkey didn't turn fast enough and woke in the darkness before she could see. Finally, Starkey told herself to stop being stupid. She got out of bed.

Starkey glugged down a hit of antacid that tasted like mint-flavored snot, then made a cup of hot chocolate. She hadn't been able to drink coffee since the bomb. She missed it, but coffee fired the scars in her stomach like alcohol poured on a fresh cut. Her stomach was a mess.

Starkey sat at her kitchen table, smoking as she thought about Cole, up there right now with Little Miss Honey-dipped Southern Comfort. Starkey was in love with the goofy doofus, that's all there was to it, and hadn't been able to shake it off. It was so bad she thought up reasons to call him, cruised his house in the middle of the night, and even called Pike, thinking maybe she could get to Cole through Man's Best Friend. The whole damn mess left her feeling like a degenerate.

Starkey made up her mind. She had to sit down with Cole, and lay it out: Look, Cole, I'm in love with you, okay? I want to be with you. What do you think?

Starkey saw the scene in her head, playing it through, then jabbed her cigarette into the chocolate. She didn't have the guts. Here she was, the same woman who used to de-arm bombs, and she knew she wouldn't have the courage to risk his answer. What a frigging mess.

Starkey lit a fresh smoke, pulled the heat deep, and coughed. Thank God she had cigarettes.

Carol Starkey sat at the table, smoking, and did not sleep again that night. Here she was, scared to death by a dream.

The Fencing Master

In Starkey's dream, she hides in darkness beneath the stairs in a great stone tower that belongs to a beautiful princess. Starkey has never described the dream to her shrink because the players are embarrassingly obvious. The first time she woke from the dream, she thought, jesus, you don't have to be Sigmund to understand that. Starkey is ashamed by what she believes the dream reveals.

In her dream, he is the fencing master. He never arrives nor leaves nor has a story to tell, but is forever trapped in the moment of her dream. She has never seen his face, but he has the build and grace of a dancer, clad in leather tunic and tights. He carries himself with the pride of his past as he was once the King's Hero, known for his bravery and valor. Now, he visits the tower each day to teach the fencer's art to a beautiful princess. The princess deserves no less than the King's Hero. He deserves no less than a princess.

Starkey hates this fucking princess.

The princess, too, has no face, but Starkey-glumly-knows the fucking bitch is hot. Honey-colored hair cascades over flawless golden shoulders, and a rich velvet gown drapes a body that is strong, athletic, and perfect.

Starkey, meanwhile, wears burlap rags, has dirty feet, and has smudges on her checks. She has somehow made her way into the tower, somehow hidden herself beneath the stair, somehow watched their endless lessons from her secret place, and through it all has fallen hopelessly in love with him.

Every time, the dream begins the same:

Starkey, hidden, watches as:

Great stone walls rise high around them, lit by the copper flickers of torches and candles. Tapestries hang on the walls; a fine rug muffles the stone floor. To one side, a heavy oaken door leads to the princess's chambers; to the other, a similar door leads to the outside. The room is empty, like a ballroom; its details missing, like a dream. The fencing master and the princess thrust and parry in perfect unison, back and forth, eyes locked in total concentration on the other. Their foils gleam with bursts of light, the steel tinkling like chimes. He thrusts, she parries, she counters, he denies, back and forth until sweat runs from their brows and their breath is quick-

Starkey, after she wakes, will roll her eyes and think, "I get it! They're FUCKING!"

But not now-

Now, in the dream, her breath quickens with his. She wants to be the one on the floor with him; she wants his eyes on her, seeing only her. She wants to rush from the shadows to take her rightful place-

– but she does not.

She wears burlap, not velvet.

She is flawed, not a princess.

Then the moment shifts as moments will in a dream:

Darkness presses down on her. Starkey is suddenly aware that all has changed beyond the tower walls. An invading army swarms the city. The cry of cleaved men rides the clang of battle-axes and the scream of dying horses. Demons are coming. Starkey can't see any of this, but, hell, it's a dream-she knows it's happening just out of view.

The fencing master stands alone in the round fortress room. The princess peers from her door, frightened. He tells her to escape down the back stairs. She flees-

Starkey, trapped in her hiding place, silently screams, "CHICKEN-SHIT BITCH!"

Something heavy booms at the far door. The fencing master turns.

Starkey screams silently-

"FUCK THE STUPID BITCH! SAVE YOURSELF! RUN!"

But, like Starkey, he is trapped in the dream, too.

The heavy door shatters. Monstrous warriors spill forward, giants with heavy muscles and broadswords, each bigger than the last.

"RUN, YOU STUPID NOBLE MORON!! RUN!!!!"

Starkey cannot know that he wants to run. She cannot know that he is scared. But he is all that stands between them and the princess, so he calmly raises his foil. Like Starkey, he has no choice. It is his place in the dream, to give his life for the princess.

"RUN!"

He glances in slow motion over his shoulder at the empty doorway where once the princess stood. A tear fills his eye. His lips move. Starkey sees the words.

I love you.

He once more faces the enemy, and his blade flicks like lightning. He dodges, weaves, and darts among them. Their bodies mount before his skill and rage. He is the fencing master, the King's Hero, known for his bravery and valor.

But finally they are too many.

Their steel finds him.

His body parts.

Starkey is his witness.

His tear-filled eyes.

His glance toward the princess.

His undying love.

His inevitable death.