I followed Coyote into a kitchen. A blackened stockpot, the source of the aroma, sat on a battered gas stove. An illuminated happy face lamp rested on the windowsill. Bags of pinto beans and rice lay against the wall along with a pile of rat traps.

I dropped my bags on a table covered with faded red-and-white-checkered contact paper. One of the table legs was splinted with a crooked two-by-four.

"Maybe you recognize my home from last month's Architectural Digest," Coyote said. He hooked a loop of coat hanger wire over the knob to secure the front door. A threadbare woman's knit sweater hung from a nearby nail.

"You have a woman?" I asked.

"Had," replied Coyote.

"Chalice? Vampire?" I couldn't imagine a woman of any kind stepping foot in this squalor.

"More than a chalice," Coyote said. The lines on his face deepened. "Era mi vieja." She was my old lady.

"She lived here?"

"We had a different place."

Good for her. "Your vieja's name?"

"Heather."

The idea of a woman named Heather shacking up with Coyote was so ridiculous I wanted to laugh out loud. Any girlfriend of his would've been a hag. Heather was the name of a coed, rosy-faced and plump as a strawberry. "Where is Heather?"

Coyote's aura tightened in sadness around him like orange shrink-wrap. "She went to the place all humans go when they get old and die, ese."

"What was Heather-"

Coyote cut me off. "You'll sleep downstairs." This conversation was over. He pointed to the short, narrow door on the wall adjacent to a stove.

"You have a basement?"

"I told you I lived in a palace." Coyote unfolded a towel covering a stack of flour tortillas on the counter by the stove. He turned one of the stove handles with a set of pliers and let the gas hiss.

"Where are you sleeping?" I asked.

Coyote motioned at a tattered curtain hanging over the threshold to another room. "In there."

He struck a match and tossed it into one of the burners. A fireball whooshed and settled into a blue ring of flame. Coyote set a tortilla over the lit burner.

When the tortilla began to smolder, Coyote picked it up and bounced it in his hand to let it cool. Folding the tortilla, he spooned from the stockpot to make a burrito. He offered it to me. "Unlike you, I'll share."

"No thanks, I'm full."

"No kidding, buey." Ball-less asshole. Coyote chewed the burrito. Some frijoles dribbled down his shirt and onto the floor. He bent over to pick them up. He brought them to his mouth and stopped. Coyote glanced back to the sweater, sighed, and tossed the beans into the sink. Maybe one of Heather's rules had been "No eating off the floor," and this act of cleanliness was his homage to her.

Coyote pulled the small door open and stooped to enter. "Bring your shit, ese."

The creaking, wooden stairs-made offence posts, plywood signs, and lumber scraps-led to a basement with a low ceiling.

A string dangled from a ceiling bulb, but there was no point in turning it on. The dirt floor was swept smooth. Cabinets and a workbench cluttered with tools stood along one wall. A big sturdy table sat in the middle of the room. A gray metal coffin rested on the table.

"Heather?" I asked.

"Chale. What am I, a ghoul? That's your bed, ese."

In that case, tired as I was, this coffin looked more inviting than a Posturepedic mattress.

Coyote plodded up the stairs. "I'll see you manana." He closed the door.

I put my bags on the workbench and climbed on the table to inspect the coffin. Knowing Coyote, I expected mice and roaches to spring out when I opened the lid. But it was empty, smelling as it should, like stale vampire. No crumbs anywhere from midnight snacking. The satin lining was dry and free of stains. Nothing worse than sharing a coffin with a bed wetter.

I changed into pajamas, folded my street clothes on the table, and stepped into the coffin. I wiggled my hips to settle into the lining, laid back, and stretched my legs and arms. I yawned and reached to close the lid. I let sleep overtake me until a rustling and the squeaking of wood awoke me.

What was that? I wondered how long I had been asleep. I opened the lid only enough to grope for my watch. Even though I had night vision, I liked pressing the stem of the Timex and watching the face glow. Time was 6:40 P.M. Saturday. I had been out awhile.

Pushing the lid open, I felt refreshed and invigorated enough to arise vampire style, keeping my body rigid and rotating upward on my heels. But I had forgotten about the low ceiling and thumped my head. Dust sifted over me.

Massaging my forehead, I climbed out of the coffin and sloughed off the dust. The floor above groaned as someone, I assumed Coyote, moved about the kitchen. I sniffed the odor of rodent blood. Breakfast? I hoped not.

During my sleep, the details of the investigation had circled my head like orbiting moons, distant, yet exerting their pull. As I got dressed, I realized who might provide information that I needed.

Veronica Torres. There was one question I had forgotten to ask her.

I got my cell phone. Reception in the basement was lousy. I climbed the stairs, and when I got a good signal, dialed her number. Voice mail picked up. I said hello and added, "Veronica, did Roxy Bronze leave any files that the police missed? If so, call."

Call regardless, we need to get together.

I entered the kitchen and was overwhelmed by the smell of animal flesh and spicy peppers.

Coyote stood beside the table, scooping bloody lumps out of a bucket and cramming them into a meat grinder. "Buenos tardes, flojo." Good afternoon, lazybones. "I'm making rat chorizo. Know what my secret ingredient is?"

Industrial waste? I shrugged. "El amor?"

"Love? You're a funny guy, ese." Coyote laughed. "No, the secret to good rat chorizo is to leave the tails on." He plucked a tail from the bucket and slurped it like a strand of spaghetti.

I wondered if the cuisine had killed Heather, not old age. Looking to the nail by the door, I saw that the sweater was gone.

A percolator with hot coffee sat on a front burner. Coyote kept bags of human blood in his refrigerator. I heated one in the microwave. I filled a tall cup with coffee and blood. After toasting a couple of tortillas, I tore them and dipped the pieces into my drink, doing my best to ignore the stink of Coyote's sausage making.

While he busied himself with rat chorizo, I filled a basin with warm water to wash and shave.

My cell phone buzzed. I had a text message from Veronica. She didn't waste words. Her reply was: YES

I texted her back: WHEN CAN I GET THE FILES?

A minute later she answered.

NOW

Veronica texted me her address in Hollywood. By the time Coyote dropped me off at her place, it was already after nine. Since Veronica had asked me to visit on a Saturday evening, and remembering she had said earlier we'd get together for dinner, I inferred that her offer included breakfast as well. Being the optimist that I am, I brought along my overnight bag and condoms.

Her home was in a two-story four-plex in pastel green stucco. Lush grapevines, thick as quilts, draped the walls. Small balconies with wrought iron railings jutted from the upper levels. The fragrance of jasmine shrubs and orange trees wafted through the night air like incense.

I scoped the area with my contacts out to check one last time for suspicious auras. The coast clear, I put my contacts back in and climbed the short concrete steps.

Veronica's address was curiously 5l8 1/4. I entered a tiled breezeway and stepped around small palms and ficus plants growing in terra-cotta pots. Newspapers wrapped in plastic bags and junk mail were piled in one corner.