He peeled off his greasy T-shirt, revealed slab pecs, a hard, protruding belly, bulky hirsute shoulders, arms, and neck, a thick waist softened by love handles. Some definition, but mostly size. Prisons had free weights for bulking up, no fancy toning machines.

Crumpling the shirt, he returned inside the bike shop, came out wearing a short-sleeved black silk shirt that hung loose over the same jeans and boots.

“Untucked,” I said. “Wonder if he’s armed.”

“Wouldn’t shock me.”

I reloaded the camera and photographed Degussa and Hacker as they got in the Explorer. The SUV hooked an illegal U, returned to Washington, turned south on Inglewood and pulled to the curb just shy of Culver Boulevard, in front of a bar called Winners.

One of those clay-colored, cinder-block masterpieces with a Bud sign in the single fly-specked window and a HAPPY HOUR WELL-DRINKS discount banner above the door.

Milo spotted a space across the street, ten yards north. He hung his own illegal U and parked.

I click-clicked the front of the bar.

Milo said, “Too small for us to go in without being noticed, so we just wait.”

An hour later, Hacker and Degussa still hadn’t emerged. Half an hour in, Milo had chanced a walk down the block and a look-see around the back of the bar.

“The rear exit’s bolted. Eventually, they’ll have to show at the front.”

As we sat there, he checked with Sean Binchy a couple more times. No record, so far, of Jerome Quick or Angela Paul flying anywhere.

Jerry and Angie.

Gavin and Christi.

Like-father-like-son had spawned a nightmare, and I found myself feeling sympathy for Quick, no matter what else he’d done.

Milo groused, “No record at the Mexican border, but what the hell does that mean? After 9-11, you’d think they’d register every damn car, but they don’t, it’s still that stupid random crap. Leaving a big fat hole for Quick to walk through.”

I was about to commiserate when movement in front of Winners caught my eye.

“The party begins,” I said.

Hacker and Degussa and two women stood on the sidewalk as their pupils adjusted to the light.

A blonde, a brunette, both in their late thirties. Big hair, heavy in the hips and bust. The blonde wore a black tank top over epidermal jeans. The brunette’s tank was red. Backless high-heeled sandals gave them both a mincing, butt-jiggling walk. Alcohol added some wobble.

Faces that had once been pretty had been paved over by bad decisions.

Hacker stopped to light up, and Degussa stretched his arms around both the women. Cupped their breasts. The blonde threw her head back and laughed. The brunette made a playful grab for his groin.

Milo said, “Classy.”

The four of them got in the Explorer and returned to Hacker’s apartment, entering the subterranean garage through an electric gate.

“Party time,” said Milo, “and yet again, I’m not invited.”

CHAPTER 43

The building’s manager was a man in his sixties named Stan Parks. He wore a short-sleeved white shirt and gray slacks, had thinning hair and a disapproving mouth. A thirty-year-old Caltech engineering diploma hung behind his desk. His office was on the ground floor, next to the elevator, and the rumble of the lift shook the room at random intervals.

He said, “Hacker has no lease, just a month-to-month. He and his roommate.”

“Raymond Degussa?”

“Raymond something. Let me check.” Parks tapped the keys of a laptop. “Yup, Degussa.”

“Did he move in the same time as Hacker?”

“Two months later. Hacker cleared it with me. I told him no subleases, the check had to come from him, no split obligations.”

“How are they as tenants?”

“They’re okay. Your month-to-months, they’re the ones who give you troubles. I prefer leases, but it’s not one of the best units, stayed vacant a long time.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“There’s nothing wrong with it, it’s just not one of our best. Not the harbor side, and the way the trees grow at that particular height you can’t see much of anything on the other side.”

“What trouble has he given you?”

Parks frowned and played with a pencil, stippling three fingertips, then passing the shaft between his fingers. “Look, I’m not just the manager, I’m part owner. So if there’s something going on that affects the building, I need to know.”

“Who are the other owners, sir?”

“My brothers-in-law, the dentists.” The elevator vibrated the room. Parks sat through it, stoic. “I depend on this place. Is there something I should worry about?”

Milo said, “At this point, no. What kind of problems have Hacker and Degussa given you?”

“At this point,” said Parks.

“The problems, sir?”

“A few noise complaints at the beginning. I spoke to Hacker, and it stopped.”

“What kind of noise?”

“Loud music, voices. Apparently, they bring women in, throw parties.”

“Apparently?”

“Mostly I’m sitting in here,” said Parks.

“Ever see the women?”

“A couple of times.”

“The same women?”

Parks shook his head. “You know.”

“Know what, sir?”

“The type.”

“What type is that?” said Milo.

“Not exactly… high society.”

“Party girls.”

Parks’s eyes rolled. “Hacker pays his rent. I don’t get involved in the tenants’ personal lives. After those first few complaints, they’ve been fine.”

“What’s the rent on their unit?”

“This is a money issue? Some sort of financial crime?”

“The rent, please.”

Parks said, “Hacker pays 2200 a month. The unit has two full bedrooms and a den, two baths, and a built-in wet bar. On the harbor side it would be over three thousand.”

“The women you saw, would you recognize any of them?”

Parks shook his head. “Everybody minds their own business here. That’s the point of the Marina. You get your divorced people, your widowed people. People want their privacy.”

Milo said, “Everyone doing their own thing.”

“Like you, Lieutenant. You ask all these questions, tell me nothing. You seem pretty good at keeping your business to yourself.”

Milo smiled.

Parks smiled back.

Milo asked to see Hacker’s parking slot, and Parks took us down to a subgarage that smelled of motor oil and wet cement. Half the slots were empty, but the black Explorer was in place. Milo and I looked through the windows. Food cartons, a windbreaker, maps, loose papers.

Stan Parks said, “Is this about drugs?”

“Why would it be?” said Milo.

“You’re examining the car.” Parks went over and peered through the windows. “I don’t see anything incriminating.”

“Where’s Mr. Degussa’s spot, sir?”

Parks walked us a dozen slots down to a Lincoln Town Car, big, square, the predownsize model. Chrome rims, shiny paint job. Custom job, a heavy, brownish red.

Parks said, “Pretty ugly color, don’t you think? Put all that money into restoration and end up with something like that. I keep a few collector cars, no way would I go this color.”

“This color” was the precise hue of dry blood.

“Ugly,” I said. “What cars do you keep?”

“A ’48 Caddy, ’62 E-type Jag, a ’64 Mini-Cooper. I’m trained as an engineer, do the work myself.”

I nodded.

Parks said, “By the way, Degussa also drives a motorcycle, puts it over there.” Indicating a section to the right, smaller slots for two-wheelers.

No bikes in sight.

“He pays extra for that,” said Parks. “Wanted it for free, but I told him twenty bucks a month.”

“A bargain,” said Milo.

Parks shrugged. “It’s not one of the better units.”