"Especially ese culo vampiro." That vampire asshole.

"Did you know Roxy?"

"We never met."

"How did you know about Rebecca being friends with Katz?" I asked.

"I followed Katz around. She and Rebecca hung out together. I eavesdropped on them."

"They didn't notice?"

"No, but I was right there in plain sight." Coyote extended his index fingers, as if they were antennae sprouting from his forehead. "Como una mosca." Like a fly.

"Katz needed help," he continued. "I recognized Rebecca from the Majestic Lanes. That's where I told her how Katz could find her champion."

"Champion? Me?"

Coyote licked a dollop of blood clinging, like sauce, to his mustache. He grinned. "Simon. Who else?"

"Rebecca was murdered just before I had a chance to question her. Who knew I was here? Katz. Cragnow and his goons. Lucky Rosario." The next name was difficult for me to say but I had to. "You, Coyote."

His eyes turned toward mine. He lapped blood from his fingertips and waited a moment before answering.

"Hermano, I knew you'd get around to that question. I should be offended but I'm not. You at least have the cojones to ask me to my face."

"What do you care about Roxy?"

"Maybe I don't. What's another dead human among the billions already here? But what I know is that Cragnow and his buddies who run this nidus are setting us vampires up for a disaster. This deal with humans, whatever it is, is a countdown to catastrophe."

"Why doesn't Cragnow see it that way?"

"Because he's blinded by arrogance and his thirst for power. Vato, I can't stop him alone."

Coyote took a swig from his beer and belched. "Felix, do you trust me or not?"

"I have to."

"Good, because I'm still hungry and I need to borrow something for a burrito."

I gave him a five. "Make it to go and keep the change." I heaped my bottle, plate, and napkins together and shoved them into an overflowing trash can. "There are others we need to question. Like Councilwoman Venin and Roxy Bronze's ex."

Coyote held up his plate and licked it clean. "Who'd be easier to get to?"

"Let's try the ex. Fred Daniels."

From Watts we took the Long Beach Freeway north toward Rosemead. I followed the directions from MapQuest on my wireless laptop. Coyote peeled back the aluminum foil of his burrito and ate.

I told him what I'd learned about Roxy from my research before leaving Denver. She had been married to Fred Daniels, who introduced her to the porn business. Together they were to be the first couple of smut. Daniels took the screen name of Peter Pipe.

A year later, Peter Pipe and Roxy Bronze quit billing themselves as a couple. Except for gay porn, the business was all about women, unless the guy had a prodigious pipe, which Daniels didn't. He worked as her manager and, like his on-camera "acting," failed at that. Daniels occupied himself with booze, cocaine, and the easy pickings around porn sets. Roxy was Daniels's meal ticket until she jettisoned him after a nasty divorce.

I found the address and parked against the curb.

"Que bonito chante," Coyote said. What nice digs.

The house was a fine example of midcentury Atomic Ranch: a big picture window, long horizontal lines, and plenty of ochre-colored brick. The garage doors were closed.

I removed my sunglasses and sat in the car for a moment. I studied the well-kept neighborhood and scanned for suspicious auras. Coyote and I then got out. The lawn smelled freshly watered.

The front door was tucked into an outdoor foyer paved with flagstone. A decal to an alarm company decorated the glass bricks around the main entrance.

I looked through the window in the door and saw the alarm on the opposite wall. It read: SET.

"Let's go around back," I said.

Coyote brushed past me. "Pa'que?" What for?

He touched the door handle. The alarm flashed DISABLED, and the dead bolt snapped. He pushed the door open.

Coyote gave a broad, ragged-toothed smile. "I can do more than look handsome."

Ugly, tricky bastard.

The air inside was cool and moist. A welcome relief after the rush-hour drive under the sun's punishing glare.

Lounge music drifted from the stereo receiver on a buffet table. I couldn't detect the presence of anyone in the house.

Coyote walked across the front room to check the hall. I went into the kitchen.

A glass pitcher with iced lemonade and a half-empty bottle of white rum rested on the counter. The sliding glass doors at the back of the kitchen opened to a fenced yard with a swimming pool.

I stepped around the counter and paused at the threshold to replace my sunglasses to temper the harsh sunlight. A terrazzo walkway surrounded the pool. The only sound was the gurgle of the pool filter.

Beyond the pool was a strip of lawn bordered by rosebushes and boxwood shrubs. White plastic chairs sat on the grass.

I was sure the house was Daniels's divorce settlement. Probably the only smart move in his life was that he married an ambitious porn star and mooched off her for all he could get.

Where was Daniels? The way my case was going, I wouldn't be surprised to find his drowned corpse lying on the bottom of the pool. I walked to the water's edge, expecting to find his bloated and dead face.

"Don't you move."

I turned to the left.

There was a stainless steel outdoor bar at the corner of the yard, under the shade of two magnolia trees.

Fred Daniels rose from behind the bar and aimed a Beretta pistol.

"Don't do anything stupid," I said evenly.

Daniels looked like he did in his photos. Late twenties. Blue eyes empty of deep thought. An impossibly smooth forehead, probably from overdoing Botox.

He was shorter than me. Very tan. His brown hair was gelled into spikes with blond highlights. A cream-colored linen shirt sagged over his lean torso. In his pictures he flashed a smile; here he threatened with a scowl and a 9mm pistol.

The muzzle of the Beretta and the gold links of his tennis bracelet trembled. With his left hand, Daniels picked up a glass tumbler from the bar. I smelled the lemonade and rum.

Keeping his gaze fixed on me-a gold piercing cinched over his eyebrow-he brought the tumbler to his lips and gulped nervously. Lemonade dripped down his chin and to his shirt. He set the tumbler down, and the ice tinkled. He wiped his chin and rubbed his fingers against his shirt. The trembling of his hand eased and the black malevolent hole of the gun barrel held steady on me.

I calculated my options.

Daniels stood about thirty feet away. Too far to zap with hypnosis even after I removed my sunglasses. I could try and rush him, but that would risk getting shot. Or I could draw my pistol and start blasting. But I needed to ask questions. Better that I let him drink until Dutch courage turned into a drunken stupor.

Daniels kept the muzzle trained on my chest. "How'd you get in without tripping the alarm?"

"I opened the door. If that's a problem, talk to your security company."

"Unless I shoot you as a trespasser. Then it'd be your problem."

Cheeky dipshit had better mind his manners.

In my short stay so far in L.A., pistols seemed as ubiquitous as sunglasses. "You always keep a gun handy?"

"Cragnow warned me."

That double-dealing undead son of a bitch. He wanted my help and then alerted Daniels to meet me with a pistol at the ready. What was Cragnow's agenda? What didn't he want me to know?

"Warned you about what?" I took a step toward Daniels.

"Don't come closer. Cragnow said to tell you that he gave me special bullets. I don't know what's so special about them, but he said you'd know what he meant."