'Before we came here.'

'You find anything?'

Jasper smiled. 'You know we didn't, and you know we're not going to find anything here either, but we gotta cover the bases.'

'Great, Jasper. That makes me feel better.'

Jasper crossed his arms and leaned with his back to the balcony rail. He was wearing little round government sunglasses and a dull gray suit, fine for Seattle but hot down here. It would be hot, and it just screamed 'fed.' He said, 'I don't like doing this, but I think you're holding out.'

'Moi?'

'I asked people about you, and those people said if you were looking for a guy, then you probably found him. I just can't figure why you won't come clean.'

'Maybe they're wrong.'

He nodded. 'Could be.'

'But maybe I just don't like being muscled, so I'm being petulant.'

He laughed. 'They said that, too.' He let the laugh fade. 'I know that Clark Hewitt was in Seattle. I know from eyewitnesses that a man matching Hewitt's description was seen in contact with Wilson Brownell, a former close associate and master counterfeiter. I'll bet you know that, too.'

'I saw Brownell when I was in Seattle. He didn't know anything.'

'I hope for Clark 's sake he didn't.' Jasper watched the men inside work for a while. The black agent discovered the Pinocchio clock and nudged the red-haired agent, then they both stared at it. Jasper said, 'Brownell was tortured to death with a steam iron. I brought down the pictures. You wanna see?'

I shook my head.

'Here's a safe bet, Cole. Whatever Brownell knew, the Markovs now know. If Brownell knew whatever name they're living under, or an address or a phone number, they've got it now. You understand what I'm saying?'

'I get it, Jasper.' I took a breath, and stared south toward Catalina. I tried to see through the haze, but I could only make out the island's outline without seeing what was really there. 'I don't know where Clark is.'

The pocked agent came to the French doors and said, 'Jasper.'

Jasper went in and the four of them gathered by my desk and mumbled in low whispers, the red-haired agent standing with his hand on the pocked agent's back. It wasn't enough that I was ducking Russians and had the weight of the U.S. government on my case, but now I was thinking that maybe Brownell had known exactly where Clark was, and what he was doing, and maybe Dobcek and Sautin were on their way now. Maybe they already had Clark, but if they did there was nothing that I or Jasper could do about it, and I told myself that thinking about it did no good. The kids were the important thing, and the kids were safe. Maybe Clark was still okay, and if I could find him I could save him. If I could find him, maybe I could even bring him to Jasper without having to worry about them nailing him for a counterfeit beef. If he was still alive.

The black agent shook Jasper's hand and walked out of my office. The red-haired agent pointed out the Pinocchio clock to the pocked agent, and the pocked agent shook his head. Jasper came back to the balcony. I said, 'Is the party over?'

Jasper said, 'You're not in the clear. You just get a pass for today.' He gave me a card. 'I'm staying at the Marriott downtown. I wrote my room number here. You decide to do the right thing, gimme a call.'

'Sure.' The right thing.

He looked at the haze and shook his head. 'How do you people breathe this shit?'

'Makes us tough, Jasper. Angelinos have the toughest lungs in America.'

He nodded, probably more to himself than to me. 'Yeah, sure.' Then he took a deep breath of it and went back to the door. 'I've known Clark Hewitt since he came to us, begging us to save his ass from the Markovs, and I can tell you he isn't what he seems.'

I stared at him.

'He comes across like this doof, but he's more than that.' He smiled at me, but there was no joy in it. 'Whatever you think you know about him, I can promise you this: It ain't what it seems, and neither is he.'

Reed Jasper showed me his palms like he had given me the Rosetta stone and it was up to me what I did with it. Then he walked back through my office and out the door. The red-haired agent and the pocked agent walked with him, and they didn't bother to close the door.

I stayed on the balcony until they left the building and climbed into two dark blue G-rides and melted into the traffic on Santa Monica Boulevard. Then I went in, closed the outer door, and picked up my papers. It took most of an hour, but no more than that because there hadn't been a lot in my files. Nothing seemed to be missing, though a small ceramic statue of Jiminy Cricket had fallen and broken. I threw it away.

When the papers were in their folders and the folders back in their files and the files once more in the cabinet, I opened a longneck Budweiser, sat at my desk, and put my feet up. I said, ' Clark, you'd better be worth it.'

The phone rang then, and I scooped it up. Mr. Happy-go-lucky. Mr. Shirttail-out-and-nothing-on-my-mind, hanging around his office with a liplock on a longneck, the very image of the depressed detective contemplating the loss of his license and livelihood to the weight of the United States government. 'Elvis Cole Detective Agency, professional detection at going-out-of-business rates.'

Tracy Mannos said, 'Are you drunk?'

'Not yet.'

'Well, bag it. Can you come see me?'

I frowned at the Pinocchio. 'Now?' Thinking about Pike and those kids at the safe house. Thinking about following the Long Beach lead. 'You find out something about Lucy's negotiation?'

'I'd rather do this in person, here at KROK.' Ah.

'Why there?'

She sounded irritated. 'Stop being stupid and get over here.' Then she hung up.

I locked the office, then slowly drove to KROK to see Tracy Mannos. No one followed me.

No one that I could see.

CHAPTER 20

KROK Television, Power Channel 8 (Personal News from Us to You – We take it personally!!), was housed in a large brick and steel building off Western Avenue in the east side of Hollywood. I parked in the little security lot they have next to the building, and found Tracy waiting for me in the reception area. I hadn't expected her to be waiting, but she was, and she looked anxious. I said, 'Guess you found something.'

'Let's talk in my office.'

Tracy Mannos was a tall, attractive woman in her early fifties. Her hair was streaked with gray and cut close, and she carried herself with an erect, no-nonsense corporate manner, every inch the authoritative station manager. Lucy and I had met her when I was working on the Theodore Martin murder case, and she had been impressed enough with Lucy's bearing and legal analysis to suggest to her bosses that Lucy be offered the job of on-air legal analyst.

She led me through a heavy glass security door and along a sterile hall, near deserted because of the time of day. She said, 'Stu Greenberg's our head of business affairs. I asked him about Lucy's negotiation, and he said that there was nothing unusual about it. In fact, he told me not to worry.'

'Did you ask Mr. Greenberg if perhaps he's had some association with Mr. Chenier?' We went into a sleek white office with comfortable chairs and a cluttered desk. Photographs of a man and three children dotted the walls.

Tracy settled back in the chair and smiled at me. 'A television station is a very political environment, Elvis. People are easily offended, and more than one back around here sports multiple knife wounds.'

I nodded. 'You're saying you couldn't ask him straight out.'

'We have to be very careful that we don't step on something that bites us.'

I nodded again.

'Though I did manage to gain a bit of intelligence when I was in Stu's office.'