On the morning of the third day, Peter Alan Nelsen took Ben to spend the day on the set of his new movie and Lucy was dressing for her second meeting when the phone rang and Elliot Truly said, 'We're meeting with Teddy Martin at ten this morning in the Men's Central Jail.

Teddy wants to meet you, and Jonathan would like you there. Can you make it?'

I said, 'What in hell is going on, Truly? How come no one returns my calls?'

'You're not the only investigator we have on this, Cole. We've been swamped. Jonathan's working sixteen hours a day.'

'I'm an investigator. I investigate. If you don't want me to investigate anymore, fine.' I was feeling sullen and petulant. Mr Maturity.

Truly said, 'Look, talk about it with Jonathan at the jail. One other thing. Jonathan's having a get-together at his home tonight, people who've been behind Teddy through this thing, some press people, like that. Jonathan personally asked me to invite you. You can bring a date if you want.'

I cupped the phone and looked at Lucy. She was standing in the kitchen, dressed and Guccied and ready for business, eating peach yogurt. 'Would you like to go to a party at Jonathan Green's house tonight?'

Lucy blinked at me and the spoon froze between cup and mouth. 'Are you serious?'

'Truly just asked.'

She shook her head, the spoon forgotten. 'I don't have anything to wear to meet Jonathan Green.'

I uncupped the phone. 'Forget it, Truly. We can't make it.'

The yogurt cup hit the floor and Lucy grabbed my arm. 'I didn't say that! I'll get something!'

'My mistake, Truly. We'll be there.'

Truly said, 'Great. I'll see you at the jail. Ten o'clock.'

I smiled at Lucy. 'How about that? You'll get to meet Jonathan.'

Her eyes were glazed and distant. 'Ohmigod, what am I going to wear?'

'Wear what you have on. You look great.'

She shook her head. 'You don't understand. I'm going to meet Jonathan Green.'

I said, 'You've got time. Go to your meeting, then go into Beverly Hills. You'll find something.'

Lucy looked miserable. 'I wouldn't know where to go. It could take days.'

'Call Jodi. Jodi can tell you.'

Lucy's eyes widened and she latched onto my arm again. 'That's right. Jodi can save me!' I guess these things are relative.

Lucy set about arranging her salvation, and I drove down to my office. I hadn't been there in three days and wanted to check my mail and return calls. There weren't any news vans parked at the curb. Maybe my fifteen minutes of fame was over. Live in hope.

I locked the door in the outer office, then answered mail. Most of the mail was bills, but even World Famous Private Eyes have to pay their Visa charges. When the bills were done I was getting ready to return calls when the phone rang and I answered, 'Elvis Cole Detective Agency. Please leave a message at the sound of the beep. Beep.' The detective as Natural Born Wit.

There was a pause, and then a muffled woman's voice said, 'You're not a machine.' The eat-me lady.

'Who is this?'

'That weevil-dicked fuck James Lester is fulla shit. You find out about Stuart Langolier in Santa Barbara.' She was speaking through cloth, but I'd heard the voice before.

'El-ay-gee-oh…' Spelling it. 'No, wait… Capital el-ay-en-gee-oh-el-eye-ee-are.'

I said, 'Jonna?'

There was another pause, and then Jonna Lester hung up. I listened to the dial tone for several seconds, then called an investigator friend of mine named Toni Abatemarco who works at a large agency in Santa Barbara. Toni had worked as an investigator since the day she was old enough to get the license, and had hammered out twelve-hour days for years, building her small agency into one of Santa Barbara 's finest. Then she met a guy, fell head over heels, and decided that she wanted a small herd of children. She sold the small agency to a larger outfit, had four little girls, and now worked three days a week for the organization that had bought her. She loved investigating, she loved being a mom, and the little girls often accompanied her to the office. They would probably grow up to be investigators, also.

I gave Toni the name, asked her to see what she could find, and then I went to jail.

The Men's Central Jail is an anonymous building behind Central Station, less than ten minutes from the Criminal Courts Building in downtown L.A. I parked in a neat, modern underground parking structure, then walked up steps to a very nice plaza. Nicely dressed people were sipping lattes and strolling about the plaza, and no one seemed to mind that the plaza adjoined a place housing felons and gangbangers and the wild men of an otherwise civil society. Perhaps because this is L.A. and the jail is so nice. There's a fountain in the plaza, and it's very nice, too.

Truly was waiting for me in the jail lobby. 'Jonathan and the others are in with Teddy. Come on. I've checked us in.'

'I'm carrying a gun.'

'Okay. Sure.' Like Terminal Island, you can't bring guns into the interview room or the holding areas.

We crossed the lobby past the deputies at the information desk to the gun locker, then went through the metal detector and flashed our IDs at the security gate. The guard there sits behind bulletproof glass and controls the metal doors that let you into or out of the interview area. He's the last guard that you'll see in the jail who has guns.

He has shotguns, pistols, tasers, and CS gas. Preparation is everything.

The guard threw switches and the metal door crawled to the side. We stepped through into a room like a gray airlock, and then the door closed. When the door behind us was closed, the door in front of us opened and we stepped through into a large room sporting two long tables lined by metal stools. The tables were narrow and dark, sort of like public-school cafeteria tables, only with low vertical partitions running lengthwise down their centers. Inmates in orange jumpsuits sat on stools along the inside of each table, staring across at the attorneys who sat opposite them. The vertical partition was supposed to make it hard for illegal contraband or weapons to be passed from one to another. Sometimes it worked. Another deputy sat behind glass in the far corner, keeping track of who came and who left and making sure that no one was stabbed to death. Sometimes that worked, too.

Everyday dirtbags had to sit in the big room at the long tables and talk about their cases with no privacy, but high-profile defendants like Teddy Martin rated a private interview room. I followed Truly along a short hall, then into a room that was not dissimilar to the one in which I had seen LeCedrick Earle at Terminal Island, only older and uglier and smelling of urine.

Jonathan Green said, 'Here he is now.'

The interview room was small and crowded. Stan Kerris, Green's chief of security, was leaning against the glass with his Fred Munster arms crossed. Jonathan Green was seated at a work table with one of the lesser attorneys and Teddy Martin. I had never met Teddy Martin before, but I knew him from his picture. Teddy Martin had a round, boyish face, a steeply receding hairline, and pale, soft skin. Theodore Martin looked like someone's younger brother grown older; a kind of nonguy who just happened to have built six family-owned hot dog stands into an empire. Truly said, 'Elvis Cole, this is Teddy Martin. Teddy, the man.'

Teddy Martin came around the table and offered his hand. He said, 'I don't know what to say except thank you.' His eyes were wide and kind of frantic. 'I did not kill my wife. I loved her, Cole. I tried to save her, do you see? They're blaming this thing on me, and it feels like you're the first one who's done anything to help me.'

'I'm glad we could finally meet.' He gripped my hand with both of his and pumped hard, as if hanging onto me was the most important thing in his life.