"And you think I can help?"

"Felix, I'll tell you everything I know. Enough to bury them all for good."

The alarm in my kundalini noir tripped. Cragnow or Paxton could be using Rosario to track my cell phone.

"Rosario," I said, "I'll call you back at your number. But double-cross me, and I will hurt you."

"Hold on, Felix-" he blurted as I palmed my cell phone and turned it off.

If Rosario's information was any good, it could be my break to get at Cragnow and Venin.

First, get as much distance as possible from here, in case my call had been monitored.

I hiked under the overpass until I came across a path that led into East Los Angeles. I couldn't imagine finishing this investigation chasing after Cragnow in a city bus. I needed wheels. Something fast and cheap.

A Yamaha V-Max motorcycle sat on the lawn of a house. In the world of crotch rockets, the V-Max was king testosterone. A FOR SALE sign asked 34,800 OBO.

Dents, scratches, faded paint, and blued chrome exhaust told me this bike had been ridden awhile. Gray duct tape covered the edges of the seat. The tires had plenty of tread. The wheels and disk brakes looked true.

I sat on the V-Max and worked the foot and hand controls. Other than needing a wash, the bike was in fair shape, considering the high mileage on the odometer.

I could zap the owner and rip him off, but while I might be a lecherous, bloodsucking killer, I was no thief. Besides, bad karma had plagued me enough in this case; I didn't need any more.

I walked up to the house behind the Yamaha and rang the doorbell. A man appeared at the screen door and stepped out. He was a slender Chicano about my height in his late twenties, with the smudge of a soul patch, tattoos, and wearing denim cargo shorts and a wife beater.

We rapped about the bike. He kept calling me cunado. Brother-in-law.

I asked, "How's it run?"

"Cunado, it's got more huevos than two of you."

Good enough. We haggled over the price and settled on $3,800.

"Cunado, aren't you going to give it a ride first?"

"If it doesn't have huevos," I said, "I'll come back for yours."

I gave him cash. He handed a pair of stiff leather gloves and an envelope with the title, registration, and keys. He added a beanie helmet in dark matte gray with two bloodshot eyes glued to the front.

"Better wear it, cunado. State law."

I cruised the neighborhood to get a feel for the machine. After a few minutes I couldn't resist and goosed the throttle. The V-Max shot forward like it wanted to fly. This bike had plenty of huevos. I smiled.

I stopped at a 7-Eleven to gas up and buy a street map. Rosario wanted to talk. I studied the map, looking for someplace public yet open enough for me to check that Rosario arrived alone. There were plenty of neighborhood parks close to here. Too small. How about Elysian Park north of Dodger Stadium? Maybe.

Beyond that, the much larger Griffith Park with its woodsy, hilly trails. Good enough.

My kundalini noir grumbled. Last I had to eat was the posole and blood. A carniceria would have cow's blood, but considering the trauma of the day, I wanted something more nourishing and comforting-fresh human.

A red Ducati sport bike glided to the curb in front of the 7-Eleven and stopped next to my V-Max. The rider swung a booted leg off the Ducati. A red leather riding suit with black mesh trim hugged feminine curves. She flipped up the front of her helmet. The cheek pads scrunched her features, but I recognized the eyes. She was the yuppie in the Ferrari that night Coyote and I were chased from Dale Journey's church.

The woman looked at my Yamaha. She gave a dismissive shake of her head, as if to say, what a P.O.S.

I was hungry, and this woman had shown up. What timing. I took off my sunglasses and contacts. Guess what, lady? It's snack, time.

I asked about her bike, we made eye contact, and wham, she was mine.

I led her by the hand around back, where we hid between the crib for recycling cardboard and the Dumpster.

I removed her helmet and unzipped the jacket. Her perspiration and perfume wafted in a mouthwatering aroma. Her neck was more delicious than I remembered. I took my time, no sense being a pig.

My kundalini noir satisfied, I put the helmet back on her head, zipped the jacket, and left her slumped against the wall behind the Dumpster.

I rode to Griffith Park. I passed the golf course, then the Greek Theatre, and stopped near the bird sanctuary. Steep, wooded hills hemmed the narrow grassy patches along the road. I could easily move about hidden from view. Rosario would meet me here.

I left Griffith Park and stopped at a pay phone. So what if Cragnow or Paxton listened in? I had a plan.

Rosario answered on the second ring.

"Time to talk." He'd better recognize my voice. "Jot this down." I gave him directions into the park from the south side, entering through Vermont Canyon Road. "Be there at three-thirty."

The phone rustled, as if Rosario was shifting it on his shoulder. I imagined his fat neck sagging against his collar. "Yeah. I got it."

"And Rosario, you want me to help you, right?"

He kept quiet. His reply was heavy. "I'm not playing games with you, Felix."

"Good. I don't think Roxy Bronze or Katz Meow need the company."

I drove back to Griffith Park and left my motorcycle close by, where I could get at it in a hurry. I knelt behind a shrub along the west side of the field and observed the road winding toward the bird sanctuary.

I gave myself a half hour to reconnoiter the area. Taking off my sunglasses, I read the auras of the park visitors. No orange vampire auras. All red, nothing suspicious.

At twenty after, a black Porsche Cayenne drove up Vermont Canyon Road, paused in front of the bird sanctuary, and U-turned to park in the lot south of the open field. Rosario got out. He was alone. His white dress shirt reflected the sunlight with a metallic sheen. He carried a folded newspaper under one arm. Looking about, he dabbed his hairline with a kerchief. Dark circles the size of volleyballs marked the sweat stains under his armpits. He undid his necktie and tossed it into his Porsche before shutting the door. The alarm beeped.

What was with the newspaper? Is that where he carried his .45 automatic?

Rosario made his way around the other cars parked in the lot. A woman pushed a stroller. An elderly couple checked a tourist book.

Rosario halted in the middle of the small clearing, turned his gaze to the left and right, rolled up his sleeves, and stood on the grass with his back to the woods.

His aura bubbled with anxiety. Tendrils of fright snaked and withdrew. His fear was unfocused. He fished the kerchief from his breast pocket and mopped sweat from his face and neck.

I studied the area again. I looked for auras shimmering with aggression. Nothing. Nobody was interested in Rosario but me.

I replaced my sunglasses, palmed my little .380 pistol, and approached Rosario from his left.

He turned his big head and looked at me. Sweat trickled into his eyes, and he squinted at my pistol.

I motioned to the newspaper. "If that's your piece, I hope you put it together right this time."

"It'll shoot straighter than that popgun you got." Rosario wiped his neck again. "It's goddamn hot. Can't we do this in the shade?"

"No. I like the view."

"Where do we start?" he asked.

"At the beginning. What brings you here?"

"To save my ass from prison. White-collar crime is one thing, murder something else. Katz. Rebecca. That scumbag Fred Daniels."

And Roxy Bronze. "When did Cragnow tell you about these murders? How? Over the phone? At your office? His place?" How forthcoming was Rosario going to be? Would he admit to visiting Cragnow's home?