“What exactly happened?” I said.

“What happened? Shit happened is what happened. Brooker and I were up there playing I Spy when they grabbed us. Two guys and that little Russian girl and they managed to get us cuffed before we knew what hit us. Finally, we convinced them we weren't the enemy and they freed us, demanded we leave, it was their operation. Brooker and I refused because we didn't trust them to protect you, said we'd spoil whatever plans they had if they didn't share the wealth. Bluffing, because I knew that if the debate stretched out I'd have to split. Because I wanted to make sure someone was watching you- didn't want you in there without surveillance.”

He blinked hard- wet eyes? Rubbing them hard, he coughed.

“They agreed to let us in on it but they had to call the shots. She did- Irina, Svetlana, whatever. She agreed to let us be part of the rear attack if we didn't “cause problems.' The arrangement was Brooker and me and one of them- the black-haired guy- in back of the house and her and the other guy- the fucking landlord- at the front door. The guy with us had a mike, parabolic, like Sharavi's, but it wasn't working well and by the time he got it going, Baker was ready to… I'm sorry, Alex, when I heard you say potassium chloride I nearly- I told the guy we're going in right now, bucko, he tells me he needs a signal from her, I say fuck you, and he uses his beeper to signal her and she says she's already at the front door, just hold on one second, but I'm already up, running for the glass door anyway and the black-haired one is holding on to me, I'm fighting with him, come this close to shooting him. Finally Svetlana and Landlord pull the front-door thing, do Tenney, we can hear them shooting him and we do the rear attack on Baker- I'm sure all of us perforated him- what a mess, Alex.”

He gripped the wheel and turned to me.

“Not that they're unhappy. What went down is exactly what they planned. There were never gonna be any arrests.”

61

Other than a false story about Wilson Tenney, none of it ever hit the news.

Wes Baker's heart-attack obit was printed only in the police protective association newsletter.

Baker had been right about one thing: So few things had impact.

I never saw Daniel again.

“Carmeli's gone, too,” Milo told me. His fifth visit to my house in one week. He was drinking more. I kept trying to look my best, assure him I was fine.

“The whole family, him, the wife and son. Ditto, Baker's boat. I went down to the marina, harbormaster said Baker had sold the boat to “some guy with an accent' who'd decided to dock at Newport.”

All of Andrew Desmond's identity papers had disappeared from my pockets. I'd given the clothes to Goodwill.

“How're you and the department getting along?” I said.

“They still claim they love me.”

He sat at my kitchen table and ate a corned beef sandwich, noisily. Wonderfully, reliably gluttonous.

Some things do matter.

“What do you think happened to Daniel?” I said.

“I'd like to think they didn't hold it against him, but… tried to contact Brooker, he's split for parts unknown… Daniel was a good soldier, Alex. Up until the last moment, he did exactly what they wanted.”

“Defining the target.”

“He was their hound, just like me. Spotting- pointing. They used us both to pinpoint the prey, then brought in the attack dogs for the kill.”

“Revenge,” I said. “Carmeli heard everything. Including why Baker had chosen Irit. Now he knows it wasn't just random madness. Wonder how it affected him.”

“Who knows… bet you he never told the wife.”

I smiled.

“What's funny?”

“Your big performance: Mr. Chest Pain, rogue cop on the lam.”

He slapped his sternum and rolled his eyes.

“Debonair,” I said. “So tell me about this promotion. And why.”

“Kicked back up to D-III but removed from West L.A. They're giving me an office at one of those little mini community outposts they're putting up all over town. Cop-lite, the guys call 'em, but I get my own space, separate entrance. The title is major case investigator- troubleshooter on nasty stuff, anywhere in the city. The promise is I don't have to deal with red tape, get total departmental support and backup.”

“Sounds good.”

He rubbed his face. “I'm not kidding myself, Alex. They want me out of the station- any station. And I know damn well this can go either way: the best thing that ever happened to me or they marginalize me, ease me out. If it's the second, fuck 'em, I'll deal with it. Meanwhile, they've upped my pay and promised lieutenant within a year.”

“Still sounds good,” I said. “Now, tell me why.”

“The official reason is that they were intending to do it all along- the meeting with the deputy chief was about that. Because of my solve rate, people in high places had put in a good word for me.”

“Carmeli. Wanting you out of the way.”

“Carmeli and the department,” he said. “The realreason is they need to shut me up. Because Carmeli told them about Baker and NU and what he was going to do about it, and they didn't try to stop him.”

“Common interest,” I said. “The last thing LAPD needed was a psycho-killer cop.”

“Clean slate, Alex. Can't say I'd rather see Baker in court.”

“And the story about Tenney being picked up for Raymond Ortiz and Latvinia and dying in a shoot-out with police gives their families some peace of mind. Too bad Raymond's body will never be found.”

“They told his parents Tenney had burned it completely- confessed it before he went for his gun.”

“Convenient,” I said.

Frowning, he took something out of his pocket and placed it on the table.

Two neatly cut squares of newsprint.

This morning's paper.

Two papers, same date. Los Angeles Times, The New York Times.

The local story was slightly bigger, a front section, page 12, the lower right-hand corner:

PSYCHOLOGIST PERISHES IN HOUSEFIRE

SANTA MONICA- Fire investigators said an early-morning blaze that killed a psychologist yesterday was the result of faulty electrical wiring.

Roone M. Lehmann, 56, died in his bed of smoke inhalation during the fire that erupted in a secluded area of Santa Monica Canyon and consumed his house along with nearly half an acre of surrounding vegetation. Neighbors' houses were spared. The structure had been outfitted with smoke alarms but apparently they failed to go off.

Lehmann, a bachelor, had served as a consultant to the Los Angeles Police Department as well as to several other foundations and institutions, including the Central City Skills Center. Funeral arrangements await notification of next of kin.

The smaller scrap said:

BOATING ACCIDENT CLAIMS TWO

A couple boating on Long Island Sound drowned yesterday evening in what police are terming a freak accident.

Farley Sanger, 40, and Helga Cranepool, 49, had apparently embarked on a nighttime sail when their craft sank after a previously undiscovered hole in the bottom widened and filled the twenty-foot sailboat with water.

“Mr. Sanger boated all the time,” said a Manhattan neighbor, preferring to remain anonymous, “but never at night.”

Sanger, an attorney, was a partner in the firm of…

I gave him back the clippings.

“Same day, probably the exact same time,” I said, sliding the papers toward him. “Perish the careless.”

“Hey,” he said, “they made the rules.”