And when word got to the detective squad room that the pursuit suspect had ended up dead, shot at some location east of Hollywood Division but wanted by Viktor Chernenko, it stirred a lot of interest from the usually disinterested night-watch detective Compassionate Charlie Gilford.

Andi McCrea and Brant Hinkle were just getting ready to leave for the Gulag to follow up on their own homicide case and try to get their hands on Dmitri’s videotape, when Compassionate Charlie looked their way.

Andi said, “Don’t even think about it, Charlie. The guy was shot somewhere outside Hollywood, and I’ve got all I can handle anyway.”

Compassionate Charlie shrugged and started making calls. When he was through, he put on his checked sport coat and headed for Sunset and Gower so as not to miss a chance to offer commentary on another Hollywood dream gone terribly wrong.

Wesley Drubb was so excited that Hollywood Nate told him to hang on to his seat belt for fear of levitation. Viktor Chernenko had spoken to Robbery-Homicide Division detectives from the Bank Squad who were on the ATM case and had phoned his lieutenant at home. Things were happening so fast it was hard to decide what to do next other than to write a search warrant for the Ramsdale house and hope that they could locate the woman who called herself Olive Ramsdale. Another Hollywood robbery team had the house under surveillance, waiting for her.

There wasn’t anything else for 6-X-72 to do at the moment, so Nate and Wesley reluctantly had to go back to the streets and return to ordinary police work.

Viktor said to them, “I shall write you a commendation for your good performance whether or not we solve this case. And do not forget Olive. You know her. You might see her at the taco stand or the doughnut shop or the cybercafé.”

“We’ll be looking,” Nate said.

“Keep the eyes skinned,” Viktor said. “And thank you.”

Andi and Brant had decided to have a quick bite before going to the Gulag. One thing about Russian nightclubs, they stayed open until the last minute the law allowed, so Andi figured they had plenty of time left.

They were in Thai Town, Andi working on a green papaya salad and Brant devouring a red curry with chicken, his eyes watering from the chilis. They each drank two Thai iced coffees, both to soothe their burning mouths and because they needed the caffeine jolt, having had so little sleep in the past two days.

Brant said, “Since I’m the new kid on the block and bouncing from robbery team to helping you, I think I’ll talk to the lieutenant about working homicide full-time. You’re shorthanded.”

“Everybody’s shorthanded,” Andi said, sipping the iced coffee through a straw.

“It’s not that anybody would fight over me,” Brant said. “The boss knows I’ll only be around here until the promotion list gets down to me and I’m appointed.”

“Lieutenant Hinkle,” Andi said. “It has a nice sound. You’ll be a good watch commander.”

“Not as good as you,” Brant said. “I expect you to knock ’em dead and be near the top of the next list. The troops will love working for you.”

“Why is that?”

“You have a good heart.”

“How do you know what’s inside? You’ve only seen the outside of me.”

“Cop instinct.”

“Careful, buddy. I’m at the age where I get all giddy when a man flatters me like that. I might do something stupid. Like taking you seriously.”

“I’m several years older than you. I’m ready to be taken seriously.”

“Let’s postpone this conversation until end-of-watch,” Andi said, “when I can focus on it.”

“Whatever you say, partner.”

“I say, let’s go get a videotape and clear a homicide.”

“Is Viktor still gonna meet us there for a little Russian fast talk?”

“He’s a very busy guy tonight but he said he would.”

“To the Gulag, comrade,” Brant said with a smile that crinkled his heavily lashed green eyes and made Andi’s toes curl under.

Cosmo was a shocking sight to Ilya when he limped up the stairs. She helped him clean up the head wound and stanch the ooze of blood. As to his finger, she did her best to hold the laceration together with butterfly Band-Aids, then wrapped and taped the finger until they could get to a doctor tomorrow and have it sutured. Where they would have that done, where they would be tomorrow, was anybody’s guess. Ilya just wanted to concentrate on getting the money from Dmitri tonight.

“We may run away now, Ilya,” Cosmo said. “We have diamonds. We find somebody in San Francisco.”

“We are very much hot,” Ilya said. “Too much happening. We got no time no more. The police shall be coming when Farley informs to them about us. No time to fish for diamond people in San Francisco. We need money now. You know, Cosmo, I may run clear back to Russia. I do not know.”

He didn’t know either. All he knew was that he was very much afraid to face Dmitri tonight without the ATM money. And to try to sell him a lie. Dmitri was very smart. More smart than Ilya, he thought.

He made the phone call to the cell number Dmitri had given to him.

“Yes,” Dmitri answered.

“Is me, brother,” Cosmo said.

“Do not say your name.”

“I shall like to come in thirty minute.”

“Okay.”

“You ready to finish business?”

“Yes, and you?”

Cosmo swallowed and said, “Ready, brother.”

“See you in thirty,” Dmitri said, and somehow Cosmo could see that smile of his.

Cosmo put on the black beret to hide his head wound. It was something that Ilya wore with her black sweater and boots when she wanted to look very sexy. He wore a pale white sport coat and blue slacks and his best cordovan shoes. He tucked the Beretta inside his waistband in the small of his back. He cinched the leather belt tight to hold the pistol there.

Ilya was wearing the tightest red skirt she owned, and a shell with a deep V neckline, the one that made her breasts swell out, and a short black jacket over that, one trimmed with sequins. And since they were going to a Russian club she wore her black knee boots with three-inch heels. She was not short on bling, she thought. Ilya liked that American word: “bling.”

Cosmo forced a brave smile and said, “We go to get our thirty-five thousands, Ilya. We go to the Gulag.”

The Oracle looked at the clock. He was getting hungry and this had been a very busy night what with the pursuit driven by a dead man, and Viktor Chernenko tying up one of his midwatch cars, along with more ordinary Hollywood madness breaking out here and there as though there was a full moon. He felt a stab of heartburn and popped a couple of antacid tablets.

He said to the Watch 3 sergeant, “I gotta go do a PR job to keep some dirtbag of a lawyer from making a personnel complaint on everybody in Hollywood Division who met or failed to meet his goofy daughter who’s made a bogus crime report. I just gotta get the name and address of the manager of a nightclub, if the guy really is the manager. Maybe he just has business cards made up to impress the chicks he meets in bars.”

“Which nightclub you going to?” the sergeant asked.

“A Russian joint called the Gulag. You know it?”

“No, but I imagine it’s a Russian Mafia hangout. They change owners and names more often than they change underwear.”

The Oracle said, “After that, I’ll be taking code seven with Fausto and his partner. They found a hot new mama-and-papa Mexican eatery. Call if you need me.”

When the Oracle drove out of the Hollywood Station parking lot, he sent a message to 6-X-76 telling them he was on his way to the Gulag and shouldn’t be there for more than fifteen minutes.

The Gulag parking lot was jammed when Cosmo wheeled his Cadillac in. He had to park in the far corner by the trash containers.

“Dmitri should hire valet boys,” Ilya observed nervously.

“Too cheap,” Cosmo said.

They could hear the place rocking the moment they stepped out of their cars. Cosmo snuffed out his cigarette, touched the pistol under his coat, and limped to the entrance with Ilya.