He took his Ford pickup out of the Marina, caught the San Diego for a couple of stops, exited on Wilshire, loafed down past UCLA.

The apartment complex was just past Westwood, one of the glittering glass towers on the south side of the street. The night crew knew most of the bigger complexesrich people died in them on a regular basis. But even if he hadn't known where it was through the night crew, he would have gone directly to it anyway: he'd cruise the place a dozen times in the past week, unable to make himself stop.

This time he did stop, walked across the parking structure in the crisp night air.

Apartment 976. The place had double doors, and just inside, a row of brass mailboxes. He found 976. Looked at it for a long ten seconds, shook his head, pressed the buzzer.

Five seconds later, a man's voice, baritone, not unlike Judge's voice.

'Who is it?'

'My name's Creek,' he said. 'Is this Clark?'

'Yes?'

'I've come to see you about a woman,' Creek said.