Wohr hung his head.

“After how she disrespected you, can't say I blame you,” said Moe.

Petra said, “Me neither. I did that to my man, I can't even imagine.”

Wohr's face tilted up.

Petra said, “My man and me, no one raises a hand to anyone.”

Moe said, “Doing it right on the street. And it's not like you hit her back. You stayed cool, I respect that-Detective Connor respects that.”

Petra said, “That's a whole lot of patience.”

“You walked away,” said Moe. “That was manly. Then you made one of your famous calls. What's the harm in that-there's facts, you state them to someone, how they handle it isn't your business. Problem is, they handled it by carving her up, Ramone, I'm talking taco meat. You want to see those pictures again?”

“No!” Wohr's hands wrapped around the back of his head. He bent low. “Aw, man.”

“Horrible scene,” said Moe. “Even for detectives like us who see murder all the time. But that's not your business, you just made a call, how they chose to handle it was their decision. And that'll help you, Ramone. That's bound to help you, people understanding the difference between making a call and doing a fifteen-wound knife-murder.”

“I didn't know.”

“Didn't know what?”

“Nothing.”

“What would happen after you made the call?”

“Yeah.”

“You make calls, that's what you do,” said Petra. “You're the phone man, king of the phone lines.”

Wohr kept his face hidden. She reached into her pocket, drew out her own phone, and Moe waited for some dramatic flourish. Instead, she read a text message. Mouthed, John's here.

Moe sat back down, positioned his knees an inch from Wohr's. Tolerated the stench of the guy's breath, the sour despair emanating from Wohr's pores. “Notice, Ramone, that we're telling you about Alicia, not asking. 'Cause we don't need you.”

Wohr looked up again. “Yeah,” he said.

“Yeah, what?”

“She hit me, I called.” Touching his cheek. “She hadda know that wasn't gonna work out.”

“Good man,” said Moe. “Being straight is what's going to help you. Now pick up that pencil and give us all the details you left out the first time.”

Wohr complied. When he was through, Moe pulled him to his feet and cuffed him, recited the charges, read him his rights.

Wohr said, “Murder? For using the phone?”

Moe and Petra walked him to the door. Deputy D.A. John Nguyen was outside, talking to a jailer, holding papers. He looked at Wohr. “This is him?” As if disappointed.

Petra said, “This here's the Emperor of the Phone.” Laughing. Moe thought she looked really pretty, fresh and confident and calm, not a wrinkle in her pantsuit.

His own head was filled with bad music: a little bit of melody but too many missing notes.

CHAPTER 41

Aaron was the shepherd, Mason Book, the sheep.

The actor stood naked and skeletal in the front room of the rocket-ship house as Aaron dressed him in the discarded robe. Docile as a pet. Spills from the protein drink Book had dumped left creamy, clotted stains on the black chair and the smooth stone floors. Aaron was careful not to step in the stuff as he steered Book to a nearby sofa, then realized that position offered a great city-lights view.

Suicide view; no sense reminding him of what he'd missed. Taking Book by the elbow, he guided the actor into an adjoining space, smaller, set up with red suede chairs, a black desk with a gray tweed swivel seat and black-lacquered bookcases, mostly empty but for a handful of DVDs on one shelf.

Recent movies, all crap, probably freebies from the studios or the Academy. None of Book's films on display.

He put the actor in the swivel seat, aimed it at a red wall, slipped a hand into a pocket of his cargo pants, and activated the mini-recorder. Nice and silent; it always paid to have good gear.

“Tell me what happened, Mason.”

“When?”

“The night Adella Villareal got murdered.”

Book licked his lips. “I didn't see that.”

So much for the power of guilt. Here we go with the mind-games. “Tell me what you did see, Mason.” Smiling reassuringly at the actor, as he tried to forget the pain that continued to course through his body. Fingers of fatigue scratching through the adrenaline rush.

Telling himself this would work out, had to work out, Book was a whack, could be opened. Hopefully no one would show up at the wrong moment.

Book sat there. Aaron's hand glided over his nylon holster. “Mason, it's time to be true to yourself.”

Book said, “I saw everything but not that.”

“Not what?”

“Killing her.”

“So you know she was killed.”

Book's cadaverous face tilted up. Pale hair swooshed as Book spread his arms in a Who-me? gesture. Appealing boyish, despite the self-inflicted ravages.

With enough makeup, the right camera angle, the guy might be able to pull off one of his charming roles.

“I'm your angel, Mason. You need to tell me everything.”

Book sniffled, let loose more eye-water.

Self-pitying bastard. Aaron felt like smacking him.

Book turned away and dry-heaved. The actor's rib cage expanded like bellows as cloudy amber liquid dribbled out of his mouth, flowed over his chin, plinked the floor.

Meltdown on its way. Damn. Where is Delaware when you need him?

Aaron said, “Tell me what you know, Mason. You'll feel a lot better.”

Book retched again. Breathed loud and raspy, lost control and got sucked into a coughing fit. Aaron slapped his back until the paroxysm stopped. Book took to comfort like a wounded puppy, pressing his head against Aaron's thigh. Grasping Aaron's sleeve with a filthy-nailed hand.

Was he like that?

Aaron patted Book's hand. Book pressed closer. “You're here for me.”

“Of course I am, Mason. But I need to know everything.”

He peeled Book's hand from his arm, pulled up a red chair and faced the actor. Scooting forward until his knees were an inch from the actor's bony bumps. Memories of drab, departmental interview rooms. This place was pretty but no less oppressive.

“Go ahead, Mason.”

“He said it was just a meeting with her.”

“He, being?”

“A friend. I didn't even know her.”

“What's this friend's name, Mason?”

“His real name's Ahab.”

“But everyone calls him Ax.”

“Ax. Yeah-you know him?”

Jackpot! Aaron could almost feel the recorder whirring in glee.

“We angels know all sorts of things.”

“He's not famous,” said Book. “He wants to be, but he's not.”

“One of those,” said Aaron. “Bet you know a lot of them.”

“Oh, yeah…,” said Book. “I thought he'd protect me. He's fat-strong. Eats what he wants.”

“Lucky him… so Ax said he was meeting with Adella.”

“He said a girl from that place.”

“What place?”

“This place we used to go to.”

“A club?”

“More like a bar,” said Book.

“A bar where you and Ax went to drink and hang out?”

Book's eyes fixed on Aaron. “You look like Denzel.”

“People say that.”

“Denzel could play an angel,” said Book. “He's a really talented guy.”

“Yes, he is,” said Aaron. “This place where you and Ax went, it has a name.”

“Riptide.”

“Adella hung out there, too.”

“I don't know her name,” said Book. “I never was with her there.”

“Ax was.”

“I never saw that.”

“But he told you.”

“Yeah.”

“The night it happened, Mason, what kind of meeting did Ax say it was?”

“You know.”

“I don't unless you tell me, Mason.”

“To party. All of us.”

Aaron said, “You and Ax were going to do a threesome with Adella.”

“I didn't know her name. He said a real piece of ass he knew from Riptide, she was wild.”

“Perfect for a threesome.”