The second bedroom, the space where Heidi and Derrick Crimmins had slept, was narrow, also devoid of personal touches, with barely enough space for the queen-size mattress and two cheap nightstands. In the top drawer of the stand on the right were a half-empty box of tampons, three gold-wrapped Godiva chocolates, two energy bars, a baggie of marijuana. The bottom compartment held woman's underwear, an empty Evian bottle, some white powder in a glassine envelope.

"The 11351.5 didn't make much of an impression," I said.

"First offense-she probably got probation. If that."

"More fuel for her confidence. Coke and poppers would've helped, too."

He checked under the mattress, in the pillowcases, moved around to Crimmins's nightstand. Pack of Kools, two foil-wrapped condoms, two matchbooks, and a thin red paperback book entitled Finding Fame and Fortune in Hollywood: Writing Your Screenplay, "by the editors of the Fame and Fortune Series."

The publisher was an outfit called Hero Press, FOB address in Lancaster, California. The flyleaf said others in the series included Buying Real Estate with Nothing Down, Options and Commodities Trading with Nothing Down, Start Your Own Business with Nothing Down, and Live to 120: The Herbal Way to Longevity.

"The scammer finally gets scammed," said Milo, kneeling in front of the lower compartment.

Inside was a black vinyl looseleaf. He pulled it out, turned to the title page.

Typed at the top was

BLOOD WALK

A TREATMENT FOR A MAJOR MOTION PICTURE

By D. Griffith Crimmins***

***PRESIDENT AND CEO, DGC PRODUCTIONS, THIN LINE PRODUCTIONS, ENTERPENEUR, DIRECTOR, PRODUCER, AND CINEMATOGRAPHER

The next page, soiled and smudged, bore several up-slanting lines written in ballpoint. Curious, sharp-edged penmanship, full of angles and peaks that reminded me of hieroglyphics.

Equip: Noprob. Obviosly.

Casting: wrd ofmth?Ad? Pickups?

Special effects: fakeout, double-bluff, Figure out the cameras or use video? Worth the hassle? Viedo can work good enough

Titles: Blood Walk. Bloodwalkers. Walk of Blood. Blood-bath. The Big Walk

Alternetive titles: 1. The Monster Returns 2. Bagging the Monster 3. Daredevil Avenger-justice for all. 4. Saturday The 14th 5. Return of the Master 6. Horror On Palm Street 7. Maniac 8. Psycho-Drama 9. The Ultamite Crime 10. Genius and Insanity 11. The Thin Line-whos to say whos crazy and whos not.

"Another plot outline, just like in Florida," I said. "Reads like a twelve-year-old's diary-look at the third alternative title. 'Daredevil Avenger-justice for all.' Superman fantasies. He sees himself as a risk taker, is thinking of himself as the hero who saves the world from Peake."

Milo shook his head. "Number eleven's the one he actually used for the name of his company-who's to say who's nuts asshole? I say. And you are." He turned to the next page. Blank.

"Guess he ran out of ideas," he said. "This kind of brilliance, he definitely could've gotten a legit job at the studios."

The light changed in the room. Something yellowing the window shades.

Headlights. A car idling next to the house. In the driveway.

I thought of Marie Sinclair, cranky and paranoid. Pays to listen to everyone.

Milo moved quickly, killing the room lights, replacing the looseleaf, pulling out his gun.

The headlights dimmed; the engine dieseled for several seconds before quieting. The whoosh-and-click of the car door closing. Footsteps scraping the driveway.

Diminishing footsteps.

Milo raced through the house, made it to the front door, said something to me.

Stay put, he explained later, but I never processed it and I stayed on his heels.

He cracked the door, looked outside, flung it open, ran.

In the driveway sat a lemon-yellow Corvette.

We ran past the ficus hedge. A man was fifty feet up the street, to the north. Walking casually, arms swinging.

Tall man. Thin. A too-big head-much too big. Some kind ofhat.

Milo set out after him. Closed the gap, bellowed.

"Policefreezedon 'tmovepolicefreezefreeze!"

The man stopped.

"Stay right there hands behind your head."

The man obeyed.

"Lie down slowly face to the sidewalk-get your hands back there again-up up behind your head."

Total compliance. As the man lay down, his hat fell off.

In a flash, Milo had his cuffs out, was bending the man's arm behind his back.

That easy.

Time for someone else to have some luck.

"Where's Peake?" Milo demanded.

"Who?" High, tight voice.

"Peake. Don't fuck with me, Crimmins-"

"Who-"

Keeping his gun trained on the back of the man's head, Milo fished out the penlight and tossed it to me. "Shine it on his face-lift up your face!"

Before the man could respond, Milo grabbed a handful of hair and helped him along. The man gasped in pain. I moved around in front and aimed the beam at his face.

Thin face. Framed by long blond hair. He had hat head from the watch cap that lay a few feet away on the pavement.

A few lights went on in neighboring houses, but the street remained quiet.

Milo held the man's chin as I illuminated scared pale eyes. Weak chin, cottony with fledgling beard growth.

Pimples.

Adolescent acne.

A kid.

Chapter 37

His name was Christopher Paul Soames and he had I.D. to prove it.

An obviously phony California Identification Card and a student card from Bellflower High, dated three years ago. He'd been a sophomore then, with shorter hair and clearer skin. Had dropped out the following summer, because "it sucked and I had a job."

"Where?" said Milo. He'd dragged Soames onto the lawn behind the ficus hedge, emptied the boy's pockets.

"Lucky's."

"Doing what?"

"Box boy."

"How long did you work there?"

"Two months."

"After that?"

Soames's shrug was inhibited by the cuffs.

He had a twenty-dollar bill in his pocket, a marijuana roach, a partially crushed bag of Peanut M &M's, no driver's license. "But I know how to, my brother taught me before he went into the Marines."

Milo pointed to the Corvette. "Nice wheels."

"Yeah-can you take these off me, man?"

"Run your story by me one more time, Chris."

"Can I at least get off the grass? It's wet, I'm getting my ass wet."

Milo lifted him by a belt loop and hauled him over to the bungalow's front porch. The interrogation had been going on for nearly ten minutes. No sign of any sheriff's cars yet.

Soames shifted his shoulders. "These hurt, man. Lemme loose, I din't do nothin'."

"Didn't steal the car?"

"No way, I tole you."

"You didn't find an address in the car and drive over to rob the house?"

"Noway."

"How'd you get the keys?"

"Dude gave 'em to me, I tole you."

"But you don't know the dude's name."

"Right."

"Dude just hands you the keys to his 'Vette, just like that."

"Yeah." Soames sniffed. A bony knee started shaking.

"Where'd this fairy tale take place?" said Milo.

"Ivar and Lexington, like I tole you."

Hollywood back streets. The boy had a hollow-cheeked look that screamed too much Hollywood.

Milo said, "He just came up to you on the corner and gave you his keys."

"Right."

"What were you doing on Ivar and Lexington?"

"Nothin'. Hangin'."

"And he drove up in the 'Vette and-"

"No, he walked up. The 'Vette was parked somewhere else."

"Where?"

"Coupla blocks away."

"So you figured him for a John."

"No-I don' do that shit. That's all that happened, man."