“I hope you don’t mind, me dropping in like this. I thought we could speak more freely outside of the office.”

This, from a man who made his living as a criminal defense attorney having the most private conversations in the world.

I stepped back to let him in. Levy noticed my loft, then stared out through the sliders into the canyon. The morning haze filled the house with a milky glare.

“Hey, this is nice. You’re very private up here.”

“What’s up, Alan? I have to leave for an appointment.”

He turned from the view and put his hands in his pockets like he didn’t know what else to do with them.

“Angel Tomaso was murdered.”

“I know.”

“I know you know. The police found you with the body.”

“Are you here as an attorney, Alan? Are they going to charge me?”

“No, nothing like that, but-”

He managed to look pathetic. I had never seen Alan Levy look pathetic before, but then he suddenly frowned.

“Tomaso was murdered. Tell me a young man found himself in a relationship that resulted in murder, I would say that sort of thing happens all the time. But not this particular young man. Not at this particular time. Maybe you were right about there being more to this than the pictures recovered with Byrd.”

The frog eyes blinked.

“Tell me what’s going on.”

“Marx is still working the homicides.”

Levy’s eyebrows arched in surprise.

“But Marx closed the case. He shut down the task force.”

“Marx kept his top people on, what they call his inner circle. The task force might have been officially shut down, but Marx is still kicking rocks. The problem is, I’m not sure whether he’s trying to find evidence or hide it.”

I told him how Marx was connected to Leverage and how he had interfered with the Repko investigation even before Byrd’s body was found. When I described the video disk of Debra Repko’s murder, Levy grew irritated and stopped me.

“What did they do with it?”

“No one knows. Marx took it away from the CGI house before the work was finished. It’s possible he sent it to the FBI lab, but that’s only a guess.”

“So the FBI has it?”

“I don’t know where it is, Alan. For all I know, Marx is using it as a bookmark. Either way, it was probably garbage like SID said.”

Levy told me to go on, and I did, anxious to finish so I could leave for my meeting with Maldenado. When I told Levy about Ivy Casik, he leaned forward.

“This woman claims someone was writing a book about Lionel Byrd?”

“She’s claiming Byrd told her someone was writing a book about him. He could have made it up.”

Levy considered me for a moment, then took out a pad.

“Is she credible?”

“She knew Byrd had been charged in the Bennett murder and about the trumped-up confession Crimmens used to make his case.”

“Have the police interviewed her?”

“They went to her apartment, but I don’t know if they reached her. She wasn’t home when I went back to check.”

“Which officer was that, Marx?”

“Bastilla.”

Alan grunted again and wrote something.

“All right. I’ll try to see the Casik woman, too. Tell me how to find her.”

He copied her name and address as I gave him directions, then tapped at the pad with his pen.

“Here’s what I can do. I’ll request Byrd’s criminal history-not just the arrest record, but the complete history. The DA shouldn’t object, and if she does, well, there are others who won’t.”

“Why the history?”

“Perhaps an officer who arrested him turns up on the task force. Maybe an attorney who once represented him now works for Leverage. You never know what you might find.”

I nodded. The big gun rolls into action.

“I’ll see if I can find out what Marx is up to. Maybe I can get more information from the inside than we’ve been able to get from the outside.”

We. I didn’t bother to correct him.

“Let’s get back to Tomaso for a second. Do you know which detective is in charge of the case?”

“That would be Crimmens.”

“Ah.”

Levy smiled as he made the note, then looked back at me.

“Had they identified any witnesses? Anyone see or describe the killer or a vehicle?”

“No witnesses by the time they cut me free. They had already started the canvass. They were striking out.”

“Evidence recovered at the scene?”

“Nothing they mentioned in front of me. Alan, look, I have to get going.”

He put away his pad and pushed back from the table.

“I know you have to go, but listen-you should be careful. Byrd had these pictures. That much is an undeniable fact. The man didn’t just find them on the side of the road.”

“Didn’t we go through this before?”

“Yes, but Tomaso has caused me to reconsider. Even if Byrd wasn’t a party to the murders, the person who gave those pictures to him was, and Byrd and that person were connected. That man is still out there.”

“I know.”

“You don’t want to end up like Tomaso, do you?”

“Alan, I have to go.”

“If Byrd was connected to someone at Leverage, maybe we’ll find the connection through his record. In the meantime, stay away from Marx. You should lay low for a while, Elvis. Don’t give these people an excuse to arrest you.”

“They could have arrested me yesterday.”

“They might still change their minds. Give me a chance to find out what they’re doing before you get yourself in worse trouble.”

We reached the door, and I watched him go to his car. It was a lovely car, and he waved as he got in.

“Hey, Alan. Good to have you aboard.”

He twisted around to look at me. He said, “I’m sorry I doubted your instinct.”

I smiled as he drove away.

MEMBERS OF the Los Angeles City Council had downtown offices on Spring Street, but each member also maintained an office in his or her district. Maldenado’s district office was in a two-story strip mall in an area where most of the signs were in Spanish and Korean, conveniently distant from the spying eyes that went with the downtown action. The councilman’s office was located above a women’s health club. The women entering the club were uniformly beautiful, but this probably had nothing to do with the councilman’s location.

I parked underground, walked up to the second floor, and entered the reception area. The receptionist was speaking Spanish to an older couple while two men in business suits waited on the couch, one tapping out a text message while the other read some sort of document. Photographs hanging above the two men and behind the receptionist showed Maldenado with Little League teams, sports stars from the Dodgers, Lakers, and Clippers, and various politicians. I counted Maldenado with three different California governors and four U.S. presidents. The only person who appeared with Maldenado more than once was Frank Garcia.

The receptionist said, “May I help you, sir?”

The older couple had taken a seat.

“Elvis Cole for Mr. Maldenado. I have a ten o’clock.”

“Yes, sir. They’re expecting you.”

She immediately led me around her desk and into Maldenado’s office. She didn’t bother to knock or even announce me. She opened the door, let me walk in, then closed the door behind me.

Before entering politics, Henry Maldenado had sold used cars and trucks, and had been good at it. His office was large and well appointed, and reflected his love of cars with models of classic Chevrolets. Maldenado was a short, balding man in his fifties who looked younger than he was, wearing jeans, a short-sleeved shirt open at the neck, and cowboy boots. A bank president’s desk sat at the far end of the room, bracketed by a glass wall overlooking the street and a couch. He came around his desk, offering his hand and a charming, natural smile. A second man sat on the couch.

“It’s good to see you again, Mr. Cole. If I haven’t expressed this before, I want to personally thank you for the help you’ve given to Frank in the past. He is one of my closest, dearest friends.”