Across the canyon, headlights moved on mountain roads and someone somewhere laughed and it carried on the night breeze. A woman. I thought about it some more and then I moved down the slope toward my house. Sometimes there is no smart move.

I worked through the trees and the brush until I was beneath my house, and then I climbed up to the deck. There were no police posted along the back and, as best I could tell, none within the house. Of course, I wouldn't know that for sure until I went in, would I?

I checked to see if the two cops were still in their sedan, and then I went back downslope and found the spare key I keep beneath the deck. I moved back across the slope to the far side of the house, climbed up onto the deck, and let myself in through the glass doors.

The house was still and dark and undisturbed. No cops were lying in wait, and the SWAT team didn't rappel down from my loft. If the police had been here, they had come and gone without breaking the door and without abusing my possessions.

The message light on my machine was blinking. I played it back, worried that it was Jennifer and that I had missed her call, but it was Lou Poitras. He called me an asshole, and then he hung up. You've got to love Lou.

I went into the kitchen, opened a Falstaff, and drank some. The moon was waxing three-quarters, and blue light spilled through the glass steeples at the back of my A-frame to flood the living room. I didn't need the light. Behind me the cat door clacked and the cat walked into the kitchen. He went to his food bowl.

I said, "It's been a pretty crummy day. The least you could do is say hello."

He stared at his bowl.

I took out his dry food and fed him. I watched as he ate, and then I took down a larger bowl and put it on the floor and emptied the box into it. I didn't know when I would get back, so I figured that this would have to do. I turned on the kitchen tap just enough to drip. He could hop up and drink.

I went to each door to make sure it was locked, then found a nylon overnight bag and packed it with toiletry items and three changes of clothes. The police had my wallet and all the things in it, but I had spare American Express cards and Visa cards in my dresser, along with gas cards and three hundred dollars in cash. I packed that, too.

When I was done I called Charlie Bauman, a lawyer I know who has an office in Santa Monica. I called him at home. Charlie answered on the fourth ring and said, "Hey, Elvis, how's it going, buddy?" There was music somewhere behind him and he sounded glad to hear from me.

I said, "I'm sitting on the floor in my living room, in the dark, and I'm wanted on three murder counts and a dope charge."

Charlie said, "Shit, are you out of your nut?" He didn't sound so happy to hear from me anymore.

I told him about it. When I got to the arrest and the questioning, he stopped me.

"You should've called me. Never give up your right to an attorney. That was bush."

"I'm calling you now, Charlie."

"Yeah, yeah. After you fuck up."

I gave him the rest of it. When I finished, he didn't say anything for a while.

"Charlie?"

"You assaulted a police officer, and you escaped?"

"Pike and I. Yeah."

"Shit."

I didn't say anything.

Charlie said, "Okay. You've got to come in. Come to my place, and we'll go in together. I'm sure we can pull bail, even after this."

"No."

"What do you mean, no?"

"I can't come in yet, Charlie. There's something I've got to do."

Charlie went ballistic. "Are you fucked?"

I hung up.

The house was quiet with a stillness that went beyond the auditory or the visual. Outside, a police helicopter tracked across the horizon, overflying Hollywood. Closer, cars wound their way along mountain roads. The phone rang, but I did not answer it. The machine caught it, and Charlie said, "Okay, so you're not going to go in. Shit, pick up, willya?"

I picked up.

He made a sigh. "All right. I'll talk to the DA. I'll start trying to work things out."

"Sure."

"Shit, don't get killed." He hung up. What a way to say good-bye.

I went back to the aloneness of my house and wondered if in fact Jennifer Sheridan was going to call. Maybe I was just wasting my time, and risking my freedom.

The cat came out of the kitchen and watched me for a while, the way cats will, but then he tired of it and left. I thought that, were I a cat, it might be nice to go with him. Creep through a little grass, stalk a few field mice, maybe hang with a couple of nice lady cats. I guess cats grow weary of human pursuits. So do humans.

Thirty-six minutes later gravel crunched outside my front door and a light played through the entry windows. The cops from the sedan, come to take a look-see.

Footsteps moved to the carport and a second light tracked along the opposite side of the house. I scrambled behind the couch, and tried to wedge myself under it. The footsteps came out onto the deck, and now both lights raked over the couch and the living room and the stairs that lead up to my loft. There was maybe eight feet and a couple of dust bunnies between me and the two cops. I held my breath. The lights worked over the couch again and then the footsteps went away. My, my. Nothing like an adrenaline jolt to help you wile away the hours.

Seventy-two minutes after the cops had come to call, the phone rang again, and this time it was Jennifer Sheridan. When I picked up, she said, "Thank God you're there."

"Where are you?" Her voice was low, as if maybe she were calling without Mark knowing. Or maybe because she was just tired.

"I'm with Mark."

"Where with Mark?"

"I made a mistake getting you involved in this. You have to stop, now. You have to leave us alone."

"It's too late to leave you alone, Jennifer." I told her about the Eight-Deuce Gangster Boys. I told her about Eric Dees working through the Eight-Deuce to set me up and I told her about James Edward Washington getting his brains blown out. I said, "They're killing people. That means Mark is involved. They set us up with the Eight-Deuce and Akeem D'Muere killed James Edward Washington and that's the same as if they had ordered him killed. They're accessories before the fact, and if you're a part of it now, then you're an accessory after the fact. Do you understand that?"

She was breathing hard, but she didn't sound frantic. She sounded resolved. "We can't come back, yet. We have to stay away."

"Because of Mark?"

"It's not like what you think. Eric is going to work everything out. We only have to be up here a little while." Up here.

I said, "Eric isn't going to work it out, Jennifer. D'Muere is out of control. You need to come in. Tell me where you are."

"I can't do that. I'm calling to ask you to stop. I want you to leave us alone."

"I can't do that. It's larger than you now, Jennifer. There's James Edward."

Jennifer Sheridan hung up.

I stood in the dark with the phone in my hand, and then I replaced the receiver and reset the answering machine. I made sure all of the windows were locked and the alarm was armed and the faucet still dripped for the cat, and then I picked up the overnight bag, let myself out, and moved back down the slope to the trees.

It took just under an hour to work my way back to Mulholland and to the turnout where Joe Pike was waiting. It was a broad, flat area looking out on the valley. Pike's Jeep was there. So were a Toyota Celica and a Chevy van. Music came from the van.

I slipped into the passenger side of the Jeep and Pike looked at me. The smell of coffee was strong. "She call?"

"Yes. She wouldn't tell me where she is."

"You think she's in danger?"

"I think they're all in danger. I'm just not sure who they're in danger from."

Pike's mouth twitched. "It's often like that, isn't it?"