“I was kidnapped by four Iranians,” Sara Butler said.

“When?” Budgie asked.

“About an hour ago,” Sara Butler said.

Budgie looked at Fausto, who nodded and went out to broadcast a code 4, meaning sufficient help at the scene, since the suspects were long gone.

“What did you say when you called it in?” Budgie asked. “We were under the impression that it had just occurred.”

“I don’t know what I said, I was so upset.”

“Okay,” Budgie said. “From the beginning, please.”

After she’d given all of the contact information for the report, and after listing her occupation as actress, Sara Butler said, “I was supposed to meet my girlfriend here but she called me on my cell and said her husband came home from a trip unexpectedly. And I thought I might as well have a drink since I was here.”

“You had more than one?”

“I don’t know how many I had.”

“Go on.”

“I got talking to some guy at the bar and he started buying me martinis. I didn’t have that many.”

Worrying about the liquor license, the cocktail waitress looked at Budgie and said, “We wouldn’t serve anyone who’s drunk.”

“Continue, please,” Budgie said to Sara Butler.

“So pretty soon I started feeling weird. Dizzy in a weird way. I think the guy slipped me a date rape drug but I didn’t drink enough of it to knock me cold.”

“How many martinis did you drink?”

“No more than four. Or possibly five.”

“That could knock a hippo cold,” Budgie said. “Go on.”

“The guy who bought me the martinis offered to drive me home. Said he had a black Mercedes sedan and a driver parked right in front. Said he’d be in the car. I said okay and went to the ladies’ room to freshen up.”

“Weren’t you worried about the date rape drug?” Budgie asked.

“Not then. I only thought about it after the kidnapping.”

“Okay, continue.”

“Then I left the club, and there was a long black car at the curb and I went to the back door which was open and got in. And goddamn! There were four drunken Iranians in the car and one of them closed the door and they took off with me, just laughing their asses off. And I realized that it was a limo and I was in the wrong car and I yelled at them to stop and let me out.”

“How did you know they were Iranians?”

“I go to acting class with two Iranians and they’re always jabbering in Farsi. I know Iranians, believe me. Or Persians, as they prefer to call themselves when they live in a free country, the bastards.”

“Okay, and then?”

“They were groping me and kissing me and I scratched one on the face and he told the driver to stop and they pushed me out of the car right onto the street and I ran back here. I want them arrested and prosecuted for kidnapping.”

“Kidnapping might be very hard to allege in this case,” Budgie said, “but let’s get the report finished and see what the detectives think.”

“I don’t care what the detectives think,” Sara Butler said. “I’ve done half their job for them already.”

And with that she produced a tissue that was carefully folded, and said, “These are fingernail scrapings from the Iranian’s face. And my coat there can be examined for latent fingerprints.”

“We can’t get fingerprints from fur,” Budgie said.

“Officer, don’t tell me what you can’t do,” Sara Butler said. “My father’s a lawyer and I won’t have my report swept under the rug by your detectives. The dirt from my dress will identify where I was lying in the gutter in case someone says I wasn’t pushed from the car. And those fingernail scrapings will positively identify one of my assailants after a DNA analysis.” She paused and said, “And Channel Seven is on the way.”

“Here?”

“Yes, I called them. So I suggest you take this case very seriously.”

“Tell me, Ms. Butler,” Budgie said. “Do you watch CSI?”

“All the time,” Sara Butler said. “And I know that some cheap lawyer for the Iranians might say I got into the car by design and not by accident, but I have that covered as well.”

“I’m sure you do,” Budgie said.

“The man who bought me the martinis can testify that he had a car waiting for me, and that will prove I just made a mistake and got into the wrong car.”

“And I suppose you have the man’s name and how we can contact him?”

“His name is Andrei. He’s a Russian gentleman who said he worked as manager at the Gulag in east Hollywood. And he gave me a business card from there. I think you should check on him and see if he’s ever been accused of doctoring a girl’s drink either at his nightclub or elsewhere. I still think I was affected too suddenly by the martinis.”

“Anything else you’d like to add?” Budgie said, intending to get the hell out before a news team arrived.

“Only that I intend to have my father call the Gulag or go to the nightclub in person if necessary to make sure someone from the police department properly investigates my crime report. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get myself together for Channel Seven.”

When Budgie got back outside, Fausto, who had stepped into the office during part of the interview, said, “Would you call that a righteous felony or an example of first-stage alcoholism and a slight PMS issue?”

“For once, you sexist old bastard,” Budgie said, “I think you got it right.”

Dmitri would have been even angrier, if that were possible, had he known that Andrei, his night manager, had been out on his night off trying to pick up a woman who subsequently got herself involved with the police. Dmitri did not want the police at his place of business ever, not for any reason. But this night he had cops all over the place, including Andi McCrea, who’d been called in from home by the night-watch detective Compassionate Charlie Gilford.

When Charlie told Andi that he was having trouble reaching other members of the homicide unit, two of whom were sick with the flu that was going around, she suggested he try one of the detectives from Robbery, and gave him Brant Hinkle’s cell number.

Charlie rang up Brant Hinkle and told him there was a murder at the Gulag and asked if he’d be willing to help out Andi. Brant said he thought he could manage and that he’d be there ASAP.

Then Brant closed his cell and looked over at Andi, naked in bed beside him, and said, “That is a very dirty trick.”

She kissed him, jumped out of bed, and said, “You’d rather investigate a homicide with me than lie here alone all night, wouldn’t you?”

“I guess I would at that,” Brant said. “Is that what you would call a commitment?”

Andi said, “When two cops are committed, the definition is similar to the one meaning residents of an asylum. Let’s go to work.”

There had been a large private party in the VIP section on the upper level of the Gulag, an area roped off and guarded by a bouncer. Dmitri had assigned two waitresses for the party and wished he’d scheduled three when the party grew much larger than had been expected. Soon the sofas along the walls and every chair was occupied in layers, young women sitting on the laps of any guy who would permit it. Everyone else was standing three deep by a railing, watching the mass of dancers writhing in the pit down below on ground level.

They were foreign students from a technical college attending this gathering put together by a party promoter who dealt with various Hollywood nightclubs. Most at the soirée were Arabs, some were Indians, a few were Pakistanis. And there were two uninvited guests from south L.A. who were members of the Crips gang, out for a night in Hollywood, one of whom claimed to be a cousin of the promoter.

Dmitri had installed a video camera on the patio outside, where customers could go for a smoke, and it was there on the patio that the crime occurred. One of the young Arabs, a twenty-two-year-old student, didn’t like something that the taller of the two Crips said to his girlfriend, and a fight started. The taller Crip, who wore a raspberry-colored fedora over a head rag, got knocked down by the Arab with some help from his friends. While several people were separating the combatants, the shorter of the two Crips, the quiet one, walked behind the Arab, reached around, and stabbed him in the belly.