“I’ll be there. How’s the Whitbread surveillance going?”

“I’m a block up from her place right now. So far, it’s real quiet.”

“Thanks for calling, Raul. See you at one.”

“I won’t be there,” he said. “I’m sticking to Whitbread like Krazy Glue.”

The conference room at Hollywood Division smelled like a catering truck.

On the wall was a poster of Bin Laden wearing a cartoonishly dirty diaper. The caption said, Someone get me out of this dump.

Milo wrestled with a sumo-sized double chili-cheeseburger, Petra nibbled on curly fries and a Mexican salad, Dave Saunders and Kevin Bouleau chopsticked pork lo mein from paper plates.

A wrapped parcel sat in front of an empty chair.

Petra said, “Got you a steak sandwich but I can’t vouch for the quality.”

“Or the species,” said Saunders, twirling a stick.

I thanked her and sat down.

She said, “It’s been a good morning, thanks to our Central brethren.” Flourishing a hand at Saunders and Bouleau.

Saunders’s mouth was full. Bouleau said, “We found Grant’s kill-spot, abandoned building on Santee. A homeless guy who crashes nearby remembers seeing a Hummer pull up and some guys getting out. He isn’t sure if it was two or three and doesn’t know when they left because he was stewed on Night Train. To be honest, this isn’t a person who’s totally sane. But the fact that he spotted the Hummer’s decent evidence, not too many of those cruising that neighborhood.”

Saunders swallowed. “They left blood on the floor and the walls, but took the casings. Initial scrapings are O-positive, which is Grant’s type and common, but I’ll lay odds with anyone who wants to bet against the DNA.”

I said, “Leaving a Hummer in full sight says they were confident about not being discovered.”

Saunders said, “No one’s around there at night and guys who’d shoot their own compadre in cold blood probably figured they could handle a car-booster.”

I thought the topic merited more discussion but kept silent.

Milo said, “Excellent work.”

Bouleau grinned. “It’s what we do.”

Saunders said, “No luck finding any of Grant’s relatives, yet. But we’re relentless.”

“We roar like lions but we dig like moles,” said Bouleau. “And wait, kids, there’s more, little surprise at the autopsy. Mr. Grant was shot to death but first they tried to strangle him. Coroner found a ligature mark around his neck. Grant being so big, it was obscured by fat folds when the C.I. looked him over. No rupture of the hyoid, but there was some bruising and petechial hemorrhaging in the eyes-in the corners, you’d have to be looking for it.”

Saunders said, “Like you said, they tried to choke him out, dude was too big, so they shot him.”

Petra said, “Any sign of a struggle?”

“Nope. And given Grant’s size, a frontal attack would have produced upwardly angling pathways. The tracks in Grant say he was probably prone when he got drilled. The room was basically an empty shell, big cold place, some discarded rusty engine parts in a corner, it used to be a machine shop or something.”

Milo said, “Big guy like that just lies back and takes it?”

“Coroner wonders if he was tranquilized, let’s see what the tox screen says.”

I said, “Choking’s more personal. More of a thrill.”

“My thought exactly, Doc,” said Bouleau. “But his neck was too thick so practicality won out.”

Petra said, “Attempted strangulation could also mean two people. Meaning Fisk’s car left near Lindbergh Field could’ve been a ruse.”

“He drives down there, comes back some other way?” said Saunders. “If he knows he’s being looked for, why would he return?”

“Because De Paine needed him,” I said.

“Dude must pay well,” said Bouleau.

Milo said, “Dude has income, from trucking heroin, dirty pictures, anything else people lust for. He does well enough with dope to leave behind a grand worth of H at Lester Jordan’s. We know he used speed and booze as a kid, but with that kind of self-control, he probably doesn’t shoot smack. But maybe Moses Grant was into H and that incapacitated him same as Jordan. When’s the tox coming back?”

Saunders said, “Couple of days, three, four. We were lucky to get the autopsy prioritized.”

Petra said, “How’d you pull that off?”

“To be honest, we had nothing to do with it. Coroner saw lig marks in addition to bullet holes, got curious, put Grant at the top of the pile.”

I unwrapped my steak sandwich, revealed a three-ounce sliver of something oily corrupting two halves of crumbly French roll. Closer inspection revealed curling cutlet verging on cinder, lettuce in need of Viagra.

Petra said, “Ooh. Sorry-share my salad.”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Oh, man,” said Saunders, “whatever that is could turn a carnivore into a vegan. Want some Chinese, Doc?”

“No, thanks.”

Milo hoisted his burger. “I’m not offering.”

I said, “This is when you find out who your friends are.”

“I’m watching out for your cholesterol.” He put down the sandwich. “Westside can’t compete in the evidence department, folks, but there’s more to hear about Mr. Whitbread/De Paine than dope, and it ain’t pretty.”

Three pairs of eyes sparked with curiosity. Milo told the story.

Petra said, “Animal guts. That is one sick Chihuahua.” She shoved her salad aside.

Kevin Bouleau said, “It’s nasty but if Grant really was a solid citizen who just happened to hang with two bad guys, I’m not seeing any connection to our case.”

“So far we haven’t learned anything to the contrary, Kev.”

“Damn shame. I like it better when bad guys meet an untimely end. More leads and you don’t have to feel as sorry unless they’ve got nice relatives.”

“Weeping mothers, the worst,” said Dave Saunders. “So where do we go from here?”

Petra said, “We all have the same goal: find these two sweethearts. Robert Fisk is a gym rat and a martial arts freak plus he likes to dance. But all my inquiries in those directions have gotten nowhere. Blaise De Paine visited his mommy right before Jordan’s murder, so we know he’s on speaking terms with her. Raul’s watching her house as we speak. No luck subpoenaing her phone records, her only crime is giving birth to the little bastard and he hasn’t been formally identified as a suspect. On top of that, everything’s tightened up on data searches because of Fortuno. If you guys learn something that connects Grant to De Paine, I’ll try again.”

“We will sharpen our claws and dig,” said Bouleau. “If Grant is a citizen he left tracks. So you got a face-to-face with Fortuno, huh? We Downtown folk never get to meet celebrities.”

“Not an impressive piece of humanity, Kev. You didn’t miss anything.”

“Maybe so, but I’m still looking for stories to tell my grandkids when I’m drooling on the front porch.” Bouleau turned serious. “Given the Fortuno link and De Paine being a music guy, you see any showbiz connections to any of this?”

Petra said, “I’ve asked around and so has Dr. Delaware’s girlfriend-she works with musicians, helped I.D. De Paine in the first place. Guy’s not a player, just dabbles on the fringes.”

“Sounds like ninety-nine percent of the mopes in Hollywood,” said Saunders. To Petra: “No offense, but doesn’t your captain have a SAG card?”

“He does, but he’s done real work for it.”

Bouleau said, “Like what?”

“Technical advising.” Not mentioning Stu Bishop’s minor acting roles.

“Really?” said Bouleau. “Can he get me a card? I’ll advise anyone about anything.”

Saunders said, “De Paine lives on the fringe but has expensive wheels registered to a bogus corporation. Dude like that isn’t likely to be crashing in a studio apartment in the middle of the LAX flight path.”

I said, “Maybe he’s living in a house his mother owns.”