McMichael: When was the pop?

Thigpen: Mid-November.

McMichael: Pete know about all this?

Thigpen: Sure.

McMichael: Tangible thanks?

Thigpen: Offered five grand. I said no.

McMichael: V upset?

Thigpen: P upset. V cried a lot.

McMichael: Court together?

Thigpen: Yes. Judge Brooks OR'd him because of P and me.

McMichael: Did P punish him?

Thigpen: No idea. P's a hothead. V's dumb and strong as a horse.

McMichael: V get violent with the girl?

Thigpen sighed and looked back up at the camera. He waved, then wrote: No. It was Courtney Gonzalez, the Fifth St. junkie with the dimples, cute? Calls herself Angel.

McMichael: You moonlighting for P?

Thigpen: Got together with the V thing. Just trailering new cars down to TJ for leather, then back. P had some stolen from him once, wanted someone capable. Overpaid me as thanks for V.

McMichael: $300K worth?

Thigpen: Don't ask.

"I'm goddamned asking, Jimmy," said McMichael.

Thigpen looked up at the camera and sighed, then fixed McMichael with a cool stare.

McMichael took back the notebook and wrote: How often to TJ?

Thigpen: Wednesday nights.

McMichael: You and V?

Thigpen frowned slightly, took the pen and wrote: V once or twice.

McMichael: Who's doing it now?

Thigpen shrugged.

McMichael: Who was pissed at P, and vice versa?

Thigpen smiled as he wrote: P obnoxious. Loud, in your face. Like that old wop Partaglia in Property- remember him?

McMichael nodded: Any idea who killed P?

Thigpen: None at all. Employee maybe?

McMichael read the sentence, glanced up at the camera then back to Thigpen. The ex-vice cop had that wide-eyed boy's expression that was such foolproof bait to the working girls. An expression that said, yes ma'am, no ma'am- I'm just here to help.

McMichael wrote again: Thanks. Tell me what happened to you, Jimmy.

Thigpen: I just got careless.

McMichael: IAD's afraid you're going to take some guys down with you.

Thigpen: Afraid's their job.

McMichael: You could make a case- too young, not enough training and supervision.

Thigpen shrugged.

McMichael: Are you covering for other cops, Jimmy?

Something dark registered in Thigpen's eyes. Then he smiled his eighteen-year-old's smile, took the notebook and stood. He ripped out the last several pages, tore the little sheets in half, then quarters, then dumped them into his toilet and flushed it.

The escort deputy appeared and the cell door opened. "The lieutenant wants to see you," he said to McMichael.

"Later, Jimmy."

"Later, Mick."

McMichael followed him to the protective custody command booth, where the lieutenant stood, arms crossed, shaking his head. "I'd like to know what went on in there."

"We just passed kites back and forth, then flushed them."

"Yeah, I saw that. Like a couple of gangbangers. Whose side are you on anyway?"

"I'm with the good guys."

"I'll need a written statement of everything that was communicated," said the lieutenant. "We've got a full legal right to that, according to the California Penal Code."

"What I have is evidence in a murder investigation, so you get nothing. That's in the code, too."

"I can make this uncomfortable for you at Fourteenth Street."

"It's already uncomfortable. But thanks for offering, Lieutenant. I'll take my gun."

The lieutenant hesitated, then nodded to one of the deputies.

McMichael checked his weapon, holstered it and walked out. The deputies made him wait a long time at each door before buzzing him through. He could see them from the guard booths, smiling at him. But he finally made it out of the jail, steel doors slamming closed behind him.

Assistant Chief Jerry Bland sat heavily at his desk, staring at McMichael. He chewed then didn't. Behind him, the entire wall was taken up with bowling trophies and police awards.

"So is he covering for other guys or isn't he?" asked Bland.

"He's not saying."

Bland shook his head and looked at McMichael without goodwill. Then he stood and went to one of the windows. "I always liked Jimmy Thigpen. Most people did. But I really don't give one shit about a cop who propositions a whore and an undercover deputy, takes them to a hotel room full of dope. And happens to have three hundred unexplained grand in the trunk of his car. And won't talk to us. You really think he's just one bad cop, McMichael? Or did he have some help from the other guys on Metro/Vice?"

"I asked him straight out if he was covering, but he didn't answer."

"Great."

"Maybe it is great. Maybe Jimmy's just a messed-up cop who saw some easy action and took it. Solo."

Bland continued to stare at McMichael. "Wouldn't that be nice? Yeah. Maybe Jimmy's the long and short of it, like you said. Maybe I've been worrying about problems we don't have."

Henry Grothke Jr. tapped his fingers on the desktop as McMichael displayed and explained the registered mail and FedEx receipts, each secured in a clear plastic bag.

The lawyer sighed and shook his head. "I can't talk to you about these. It's a blatant breach of confidentiality."

"Pete's dead," said Hector. "So it's not going to bother him. Why's it bother you?"

McMichael tried to look patient. He liked having Hector along to play the bull.

"No," said the attorney. "I won't do it without a subpoena."

"What if you get permission from Patricia?" asked McMichael. "As executor."

Grothke hit him with a sharp little glance, then threw up his hands as if there were no limits to McMichael's depravity. "Go ahead."

McMichael got her on his cell. The connection was bad. She told him she had no idea what her grandfather might have sent to Grothke, Steiner & Grothke, but she didn't care if Henry discussed it. She'd expect a full report from McMichael. He gave Junior the cell and watched his face harden and redden.

Grothke handed him back the phone like it had Ebola virus on it. He looked at Hector, then McMichael, then walked past them and shut the door. When he sat back down his composure was back. He buzzed the receptionist and told her to hold his calls.

"Pete was thinking about removing the diocese from his will," he said. "He sent us two letters to that effect- November and December of last year."

"How come you didn't tell us before?" asked McMichael.

Grothke looked at him with affronted pride. "It was a matter between a man and his god. You don't consider God a suspect, do you?"

"That's a dumb thing to ask," said Hector.

"Remove the diocese why?" asked McMichael.

Grothke sighed and cleared his throat. "Mr. Braga was unhappy with their decision on naming the new parish out in Poway. Mr. Braga suggested St. Peter's, in consideration of his generous gifting to the diocese for the last four decades. Pete knew, of course, that the name would only be coincidental to his own. Unfortunately, there is already a large parish in a nearby community, Fallbrook, named St. Peter's. The diocese had to decline."

Grothke waited.

"But Pete wouldn't take no for an answer," said McMichael.

"Not Mr. Braga," said Grothke, with a hint of contempt. "He then argued that it be called St. Anna's in memory of his wife. But there is no St. Anna in the Catholic religion. So Pete insisted on St. Victor's, but he's not a saint, either. Rumor had it that the diocese decided to go with its original choice, which was Saint Gabriel's."