Flotsam then dialed the number to the lobby phone. After the eighth ring, as he started to think his idea wasn’t going to work, the phone was picked up.

Filmore Upton Bracken said, “Hello?”

“Mr. Bracken?” Flotsam said, doing his best impression of Anthony Hopkins playing a butler. “Am I speaking to Mr. Filmore Upton Bracken?”

“Yeah, who’s this?”

“This is the emergency hotline for the law offices of Harold G. Lowenstein, Esquire, Mr. Bracken. A Los Angeles police officer just phoned us from Hollywood Station saying that you may need our services.”

“Yeah? You’re a lawyer?”

“I’m just a paralegal, Mr. Bracken,” Flotsam said. “But Mr. Lowenstein is very interested in any case involving malfeasance on the part of LAPD officers. Could you please come to our offices tomorrow at eleven A.M. and discuss the matter?”

“You bet I can. Lemme get a pencil from the desk here.”

He was gone for a moment, and Flotsam could hear him yelling, “Hey, I need a goddamn pencil!”

When Filmore returned, he said, “Shoot, brother.”

Flotsam gave him the address of Harold G. Lowenstein’s Sunset Strip law office, including the suite number, and then said, “Mr. Bracken, the officer who just phoned on your behalf said that you are probably without means at present, so do not be intimidated if our somewhat sheltered employees try to discourage you. Mr. Lowenstein will want to see you personally, so don’t take no for an answer from some snippy receptionist.”

“I’ll kick ass if anybody tries to stop me,” Filmore said.

“That’s the spirit, Mr. Bracken,” Flotsam said, his accent shifting closer to the burr of Sean Connery and away from Anthony Hopkins.

“I’ll be there at eleven.”

Filmore was waiting in the lobby when Flotsam returned, saying, “Mr. Bracken? The sergeant will see you now.”

Filmore drew himself up on his tiptoes to lock eyeballs with the tall cop and said, “Fuck the sergeant. He can talk to my lawyer. I’m suing all you bastards. When I’m through, I’ll own this goddamn place, and maybe if you’re lucky I’ll buy you a hamburger sometime. Asshole.”

And with that, Filmore Upton Bracken shuffled out the door with a grin as wide as Hollywood Boulevard.

When B.M. Driscoll and Benny Brewster went end-of-watch in the early-morning hours, Flotsam and Jetsam were in the locker room, sharing Filmore Upton Bracken adventures with Hollywood Nate and Wesley Drubb.

After the chuckles subsided, Nate said to Flotsam and Jetsam, “By the way, you guys’re invited to a birthday party. My newest little friend is throwing it at her place in Westwood. Might be one or two chicks from the entertainment industry for you to meet.”

“Any of the tribe coming?” Flotsam asked. “No offense, but I got a two-Jew limit. Three or more Hollywood hebes gather and they start sticking political lapel pins on every animate and inanimate object in sight, which might include my dead ass.”

“Why, you filthy anti-Semitic surfer swine,” Nate said.

“You inviting Budgie?” Flotsam asked.

“Probably,” Nate said.

“Okay, we’ll come. My partner admires her from afar.”

They stopped the banter when B.M. Driscoll and Benny Brewster came in looking very grim. Both began quickly and quietly undressing.

“What’s wrong with you guys?” Jetsam asked. “They taking Wrestlemania off the air?”

“You don’t wanna know,” B.M. Driscoll said, almost tearing the buttons from his uniform shirt as though he just wanted out of it. “Bad shit. Little kids.”

“So lighten up,” Flotsam said. “Don’t you guys listen to the Oracle? This Job can be fun. Get happy.”

Suddenly, Jetsam did his Bono impersonation, singing, “Two shots of happy, one shot of saaaaaad.”

Benny Brewster peeled off his body armor and furiously crammed the vest into the locker, saying, “No shots of happy tonight, man. Just one shot of sad. Real sad.”

EXCUSE ME, PLEASE, Andrea,” Viktor Chernenko said late in the morning. There were only six detectives in the squad room, the rest being out in the field or in court or, in the case of Hollywood detectives, nonexistent due to the manpower shortage and budget constraints.

“Yes, Viktor?” Andi said, smiling over her coffee cup, fingers still on the computer keyboard.

“I think you are looking very lovely today, Andrea,” Viktor said with his usual diffident smile. “I believe I recognize your most beautiful yellow sweater from the Bananas Republic, where my wife, Maria, shops.”

“Yeah, I bought it there.”

Then he walked back to his cubicle. This was the way with Viktor. He wanted something, but it might take him half a day to get around to asking. On the other hand, nobody ever paid her the compliments that Viktor did when he needed a woman detective for something or other.

Andi was glad to see that Brant Hinkle was still teamed with Viktor, and because of that she’d probably agree to do whatever Viktor got around to requesting. Ever since Brant had arrived, her belief in his possibilities kept increasing. She’d checked him out by now and found that he’d just turned fifty-three, had only been married and divorced once-a rarity among cops these days-had two adult married daughters, and based on his serial number, had about five more years on the Job than she had. In other words, he was a likely prospect. And she knew he was interested by the way he looked at her, but as yet he hadn’t made a move.

Another twenty minutes passed and she was about to go out in the field and call on a couple of witnesses to a so-called attempted murder where a pimp/boyfriend slapped around a whore and fired two shots in her direction when she ran away. Without a doubt, the whore would have changed her mind by now or had it changed for her and all would be forgiven. But Andi needed to go through the motions just in case tomorrow night he murdered her.

“Andrea,” Viktor said when he approached her desk the second time.

“Yes, Viktor.”

“Will you be so kind to help Brant and me? We have a mission for a woman, and as you see, today you are the only woman here.”

“How long will it take?”

“A few hours, and I would be honored to buy your lunch.”

Andi glanced over at Brant Hinkle, who was talking on the phone, wearing little half-glasses as he wrote on a legal pad, and she said, “Okay, Viktor. My damaged hooker can wait.”

Viktor drove east to Glendale with Andi beside him and Brant in the backseat. Viktor was very solicitous, apologizing because the air conditioner didn’t work in their car.

“So okay,” Andi said, “all I have to do is tail this Russian guy from his job at the auto parts store to wherever he eats lunch?”

Viktor said, “We have been told that he always walks to a fast-food place, but there are several that are close by.”

Brant said, “Viktor’s informant says this guy Lidorov is very tail conscious, but he probably won’t be looking for a woman to be on him.”

“And all we do is get a DNA sample?”

“That is all,” Viktor said. “My informant is sometimes reliable, sometimes not.”

“Your evidence for a DNA comparison isn’t all that reliable either,” she said, turning in her seat to look at Brant, who raised his eyebrows as if to say, Viktor is obsessive.

Viktor said, “Andrea, when I did my follow-up investigation and found the cigarette butt in that jewelry store far behind the cabinet, I know in my heart it was left there by the suspect.”

“Even though the victim was too terrified to remember for sure if the guy left the butt or took it with him,” Brant said doubtfully.

“It is an intestines feeling,” Viktor said. “And this Russian in Glendale has two convictions for armed robbery of jewelry stores.”

“I’ve heard you say you’re not sure the man from the jewelry store two-eleven is even a Russian,” Andi said.