"About what, Professor?"

"You're actually wondering if I could've done it? Well, I'm flattered, gents. That you'd think me capable. But why would I bother? Nine men in five years have bedded my wife. What reason would I have to wreak vengeance on one particular h.o.r.n.y little twit?"

Holman's lips clamped tight. "No, I didn't care for Backer. He was fluff. But I don't care for most people. And whatever I felt about him did not rise to the level of violence."

Milo said, "Professor, we really do appreciate your coming forward, most people would have taken the easy way out. Is there anything else you'd like to tell us?"

"No, sir," said Holman. "Now you're going to leave and I'm going to stay here and watch the ocean."

Milo gunned the unmarked past the marsh, continued east on Culver. "What just happened? Helpful, self-demeaning citizen or smart guy playing with us?"

"Maybe neither," I said.

"Then what?"

"Professor Holman found a way to unload a whole lot of pent-up misery while feeling momentarily heroic."

"Free therapy? So who bills him, you or me?"

"You can have it," I said.

"Poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d. But he did just admit to being a chronic stalker, which fits our jealousy scenario. A bunch of middle-aged lotharios with his wife is one thing, Backer's youth and vitality pushed him over the edge, he kept churning it, over and over, the rage didn't fade so he hired a hit man. Who he was able to tip off about Borodi being a nookie-spot for Backer."

"Then why call for a meet where he gives himself a motive and admits he resented Backer?"

"He's an intellectual, Alex, thinks he's smarter than us. A linguist, to boot-what do those guys do? Manipulate language. But maybe he just screwed himself by giving me grounds for a warrant on his financials."

He phoned John Nguyen, asked the deputy D.A. what he thought. Nguyen said, "Iffy at best but you can try. Who do you have in mind?"

Milo said, "Judge Ferencz turned me down, any suggestions?"

"Not really."

"What about Judge Hawkins, John?"

"Hawkins died last month."

"d.a.m.n."

Nguyen said, "Your warmhearted sympathy toward his loved ones is overwhelming. If you want, I can ask around."

"Thanks, John."

"I'm talking a few calls, not worth a thanks."

At Lincoln, Milo switched the police radio to felony Muzak. Too early for waves of after-dark violence but plenty of minor-league infractions to keep uniforms busy.

I said, "If Holman's not the killer, he still gave you something useful: Backer and Brigid were at Borodi two months ago, lending support for a long-term relationship and suggesting it was a habitual spot for them. Maybe she's using a false ident.i.ty out of self-defense, not criminality. As in running from a rabidly jealous ex."

"Meaning don't lose sight of her as the prime victim, okay, time for Hal again."

"Who exactly is he?"

"Homeland Security, owes me more than one favor." Punch punch punch, voice mail. His second message was more detailed, click. "Holman doesn't shake out dirty, there's still the fact that Brigid was snooping in Masterson's files and scoping out Borodi by herself."

I said, "The elusive DSD Inc."

"Whom everyone seems to think are Arabs and that worries me. All I need is some jealous emir as a prime suspect."

Two traffic lights later: "Backing away from all that, I've got plenty of mundane local issues to deal with. Like finding out if any non-antique .22s are registered to Loony Charlie Rutger, scanning the moniker files for particularly nasty Montes, somehow getting lists of subs who worked Borodi, and checking for violent felony backgrounds."

"Abundance of riches," I said.

"I'd rather have cash."

CHAPTER.

15.

Reed and Binchy listened to their instructions out in the hall because four people can't fit in Milo's office.

"Sean, I need you to pay a personal visit to an outfit downtown called Beaudry Construction. The object is to get their employment list going five years back. I'm talking names of every single yahoo who worked for them, not just at the Borodi site. In a perfect world, you'll find our boy Monte. Beaudry's going to jerk you around because everyone connected to the job signed confidentiality forms, but Nguyen tells me that doesn't hold water in a criminal case."

"So we can subpoena them," said Binchy.

"Once we have a case, we can. Problem is, we need the list for that. But threaten them with whatever you think will work, they still don't budge, contact the state compensation board and back-reference the job for tax paper. You up for all that?"

Someone else might've taken offense.

Sean flexed a Doc Marten. "You bet, Loot."

"You can go now, Sean."

"On my way, Loot."

Reed had watched the exchange, expressionless. His blond crew cut was fresh, he had on the usual blue blazer, khakis, white shirt, and rep tie.

Milo turned to him. "Moses, any theories about how we might break through that confidentiality bulls.h.i.t and find out who these DSD yokels are? The general feeling is they're Arabs but no one can say why. I've already tried the Internet. Zippo."

Reed said, "I could cold-call all the Middle East consulates, ask to speak to someone a.s.sociated with DSD, see if anyone reacts. If that doesn't work, I move on to the emba.s.sies in D.C."

"Why don't you start with D.C., in case some consulate type sets off an alarm. See if you can find some old directories for when DSD was there, maybe the number's listing's been forwarded."

"Will do, Loo. In terms of your Internet search, did you check oil-business sites?"

"No. Do it. Your time situation okay?"

"Got plenty of time," said Reed. "Only one case pending, that stupid-guy shooting on Pico."

"Two fools in a bar? Thought you closed it."

"So did I, Loo. Turns out, it's more complicated because they ran the thread and the bullet angles don't fit exactly. I'm not such a big thread fan, but if it looks like science, juries love it, right? I got my confession all nailed, there's no doubt whodunit, but the D.A. won't proceed until everything's b.u.t.toned down. I'm waiting for the autopsy to verify the flesh-troughs. My vic was supposed to be on the table last week but he's still in the fridge. I drive down there this morning, thinking I'm going to pick up the autopsy report, all I leave with is excuses."

"D.A.'s got you being an errand boy?"

Reed shrugged. "Whatever gets the case moving."

"Crypt must be crazy busy," said Milo. "I'm having trouble getting my female vic's autopsy done."

"They're busy and it just got worse, Loo. One of their C.I.'s was murdered last night, few blocks away, while I was there. Sheriff's Homicide was interviewing."

"I know some of those guys. Who was it?"

"Someone named Bobby," said Reed.

"Bob Norchow?"

"No, something Hispanic."

Milo shook his head. "What happened?"

"From what I picked up, attempted robbery gone bad. It's a tough neighborhood, guess no one's immune ... anyway, I've got time, Loo. Anything else?"

"Matter of fact, there is. I'm trying to trace a tip that came in from a pay phone on Venice Boulevard, your old turf. Who at Pacific should I call?"

"Sergeant Sunshine's okay."

"Sunshine," said Milo. "Hope he brings a glow to my d.a.m.n day."

Sergeant Patrick Sunshine recommended Milo talk to the car covering that sector of Venice.

A patrolman named Thorpe answered. "That's one of the last coiners still works, mostly transient dopers use it. Once in a while, street girls when they don't want to run up their hours."

Milo said, "My tipster was a male. Older, or trying to sound like it. Pointed me at someone named Monte."

"Monte," said Thorpe. "Nope, doesn't ring a bell. What time did the tip come in?"

Milo checked the still-thin murder book. "Just after six p.m."

"Could be anyone. Want me to ask around?"

"That would be great, thanks."

"Phone booth," said Thorpe. "Darn thing's on its last legs, bet the phone company kills it like all the others."

CHAPTER.

16.

I woke up at four a.m., inspired. Minutes later, I was at the computer.

Five hours later, I was headed toward Milo's office.

He was away from his desk. A report from the fingerprint lab sat next to the murder book. Desmond Backer's latents had been found on a wall of the turret, just to the right of the top step, and near the bottom frame of a window hole. Brigid Ochs, still listed as Jane Doe 014, had left palm prints on the floor.

Backer's could be explained as reaching for support while he climbed the rickety stairs, then sauntering over to enjoy the view.

The only explanation I could find for hers was a s.e.xual position.

Milo plodded in, drinking coffee.

"Morning."

"Zippity-do-nothing to you, as well." He sat, drank. "No one's budging on telling me who DSD is and I can't find a judge who disagrees. No call-back from Hal, which isn't his usual style, no weapons registered to Charles Rutger other than flintlocks and muskets cla.s.sified as antiques. He might be nuts but he's never been in criminal trouble. Lab sent over prints from the scene but they don't mean much."

"Just read the report." I offered my interpretation. "Sounds about right." His phone rang. He clicked to conference. "Sturgis."

A woman said, "This is Dr. Jernigan from the coroner's returning your call."

"Thanks for getting back, Doctor. I was wondering if you've had a chance to autopsy my victims."

"The Holmby double?" she said. "Gunshot for your male, strangulation for your female."

"That was quick, thanks."