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“Have fun,” Dov told him.

Once inside, Daniel urinated, flushed, turned on the faucet, took the cell phone he'd lifted from Zev's desk out of his pocket, and dialed a familiar number. Time for only one call- he hoped the phone was a normal line, not one of Zev's preassigned coded things.

Ringing. Good.

Pick up, friend, pick up, pick up…

“Hello?”

“Gene? It's me. I can't talk long. I need your help.”

Knocking on the door. Dov's voice, “Hey, you drown or what? How long does it take to pee?”

“Wait til you reach my age,” Daniel called out.

“Ain't that the truth,” said Gene.

56

Zena was at the store when i made the confirmation call.

“How gallant of you to verify, A.”

“Just wanted to make sure you weren't too worn out from the party.”

“Me? Never. On the contrary, bursting with energy. I shall prepare comestibles- pasta with clams, Caesar salad, fruit of the vine.”

“The woman cooks, too.”

“Oh, do I.” She laughed. “I simmer and sometimes I boil over. I'll leave a key in the empty flowerpot near the door. I'll be ready.”

At 9:30 I put on an Andrew uniform: gray shirt, baggy gray pants, the same tweed sportcoat. The same cologne.

Starless night, a washed-slate sky, the air reeking of wet paper, damp around the edges.

I took La Brea to Sunset. The boulevard was rife with spandex and leather, delusions passing as hope. East of Western it changed: darkened buildings hemmed by shadow-strewn corners, everything murky, grubby, too quiet.

I drove automatically, slowly, as if riding a track, reached Lyric just after ten o'clock, and climbed the winding road, now stripped of cars.

Rondo Vista was mortuary silent. Zena's garage was closed and one car was parked in front of her house. Fifty-eight T-bird. Pink with a white top, faded and scarred.

Had to be hers.

The same faint light from her window. Setting the mood?

I parked and headed for the door. The covered pathway was dark, the dead spider plants shuddered in the night breeze. Feeling an inexplicable pang of first-date anxiety, I groped til I found the key in the pot, resting atop a mound of bone-dry planter's mix.

Music from inside.

Electric guitars played slowly.

Beautiful, dreamy music.

“Sleepwalk,” by Santo and Johnny.

Zena setting the mood. I remembered the song from my childhood. She hadn't been born when it hit the charts.

I unlocked the door, expecting to find her downstairs in the bedroom, maybe some kind of cute note directing me to the stuffed animals.

She was right there in the living room.

Lit by a single pole lamp with a weak blue bulb.

Theatrical.

Nude, on the sofa.

She reclined, one arm extended along the top of the couch, like Goya's “Naked Maja.” Wide-eyed with eagerness, her tiny white body perfectly formed, pearly in the steely light. Nipples pink and erect, oversized for the small, white breasts, black hair sprayed static. Her legs were spread just enough to offer a view of bleached-blond pubic patch. Her other arm rested on her flat, smooth belly.

I smelled clam sauce but the lights were out in the kitchen.

No preliminaries. How to get out of this-

“Hi,” I said.

She didn't speak. Or move.

I came closer, was inches away before I saw the ligature around her neck. Copper wire, biting into the slender stem, so tight it had been invisible.

Wide, wide blue eyes. Not seductiveness. Surprise, the final surprise.

I turned to run, was caught by the elbows from behind.

A knee in the small of my back sent a jolt of pain up my spine and made my legs give way.

Then hands around my neck, more pain, different- an entire new definition of pain, as the back of my head exploded.

57

Milo's driver was named Ernest Beaudry and he was coal-black, maybe thirty, handsome, impassive, a devout Baptist, with a bristly mustache that looked laser-trimmed and an eighteen-inch neck turned to asphalt by shaving bumps.

The car was a blue unmarked Ford, same model as Milo's but newer and much cleaner, parked in the West L.A. station lot. Beaudry stayed close to Milo as they approached it, held the door open for him.

“Some service, Officer.”

Beaudry didn't answer, just shut the door and got into the driver's seat.

He managed the car skillfully. Driving was one of his favorite things. As a kid he'd fantasized about becoming a professional race driver til someone told him there were no black ones.

The police radio was on, reciting that night's epic poem of coded violence, but Beaudry wasn't listening. Turning out of the lot, he headed for the 405.

“Downtown?” said Milo.

“Yup.”

As they got on the ramp, Milo said, “So what's this about?”

No answer, because Beaudry had none, and even if he had, he was smart enough to keep it zipped. The 405 was clogged with nighttime airport traffic and they barely moved for a while.

Milo repeated the question.

“No idea, sir.”

A few car lengths later: “You work for Chief Wicks?”

“Yup.”

“Assigned to the motor pool?”

“Yup.”

“Well,” said Milo, “all these years on the force and I never got driven before. So this is my lucky day, huh?”

“Looks like it.” Beaudry let his left hand sink to the driver's-door handrest as he one-fingered the wheel.

Traffic started moving.

“Okay, I'll just sit back and enjoy this,” said Milo.

“There you go.”

Sturgis stretched his legs and closed his eyes. They cruised slowly but steadily.

Nice and easy- then Beaudry heard, “Shit- Jesus.”

Rustling motion on the passenger side. Beaudry glanced to the right and saw that Sturgis was sitting up.

“Oh- Jeesus, I can't-” The last word was guillotined by a gasp and Beaudry saw Sturgis slump, one hand on his barrel chest, the other fighting to loosen his tie.

“What's the problem?”

“Stomach- chest- probably just gas… the shit I had for dinner- oh, man, here's another- Jesus, it hurts like a mother- oh, shit, this is not-”

Sturgis sat up again, suddenly, as if pierced by something. Gasping, rasping, yanking the tie loose but holding on to the limp fabric. Clutching the left side of his chest. Beaudry heard a button pop and plink against the dashboard.

“You all right-”

“Yeah, yeah- get the hell over to Parker, maybe they've got a- no… I dunno- oh shit!”

The long legs stiffened, knees knocking against vinyl. Sturgis's eyes were shut now, and his color looked bad- grayish, his face screwed up tight.

“Ever have this before?” said Beaudry, fighting to sound calm.

Milo's response was a deep, bearish moan.

“Sir, have you ever experie-”

“Ohh! Jeez- get me- oh- ah!” Sturgis arched his back, bit his lip, and Beaudry heard fast, rough breathing.

Beaudry said, “I'm getting you to a hospital-”

“No, just get me-”

“No choice, sir- where's the closest one- Cedars, okay, Robertson exit's just a ways up, hold on-”

“No, no, I'm oka- ahh!”

Left hand back on the wheel, Beaudry switched to the fast lane and floored the unmarked, using his right hand to snatch the handset and call in an emergency.

No one answered at Deputy Chief Wicks's office. Of course; they'd asked him to bring Sturgis straight to that conference room on the fifth floor, some kind of high-level detective stuff- what was the extension there? No idea. Should he go through the Parker switchboard? No, they'd made it clear this was confidential. Meaning they were trusting him with more than just chauffeuring, probably preparing him for something bigger and better-

Meanwhile, his charge was moaning and gasping like a fish out of water, sounding like he was gonna die right here in the car- look how heavy he was, probably didn't exercise, ate all kinds of garbage- just his luck, Ernest Beaudry's golden luck. All that clean living and raising his kids right, doing his job without a hitch, getting assigned to the motor pool and making Delores happy because he wouldn't get shot by some crackhead. Pushing for motor pool because his uncle had started that way and made sergeant even with all the departmental racism. Because his uncle and other relatives had told him a smart young guy like him, with presence, could do even better. Driving, the connections you made, maybe he'd get to drive for the chief.