“Dead serious, Clive.”

“Oh, man.”

“Do you send cars back with three wheels?”

Hatfield smoothed back his hair, favored us with a gap-toothed grin. “Sure, ask her, she got no reason to lie. Then y’all can tell her how good I’m looking.”

“Will do, Clive.”

“Make her squirm,” said Hatfield. “Tell her y’all saw me with some actress.”

“Name and number, Clive.”

“Brittany Louise Hatfield. Hold the phone far away from your ear, that girl can get loud.”

Milo copied down the information and watched him go. We returned to the front office and showed a picture of Kat Shonsky to Esther.

She studied it for a while. “Can’t swear to it but she could be one of them who comes by to see him.” Holding the photo closer. “Not bad. Better than some of the others.”

“Clive’s popular?”

“You wouldn’t believe,” she said. “They bring him lunch. Guy must have something going on but I don’t see it.”

I said, “Doesn’t appear to be charm.”

“Clean hands, either.”

I said, “This kind of work, be hard to stay clean.”

“Exactly, that’s why I’m dating a teacher.”

Milo said, “Clive ever ask you out?”

“You’ve got to be kidding.” She returned the photo. “You think he did something to her?”

Milo said, “You see him as capable of that?”

“To me, he’s an oaf with a sour personality but he’s never lost his temper or done anything aggressive. But I guess anyone’s capable of anything. So you do suspect him.”

“We’re nowhere near that, ma’am. It would be best to keep this conversation under the hat.”

She removed her glasses. “I wasn’t planning on spreading rumors.”

“Of course not. So, Clive-”

“Clive’s fine,” she said. “Everyone here is fine. I’m really busy.”

The glass partition slid shut.

As I backed out of the lot, a Bentley turned in and blocked my way.

Another black one. Red interior.

I rolled forward.

The Bentley didn’t budge.

Milo stuck his head out and said, “Give us some space.”

The driver’s window opened and a blue-shirted man stuck his head out and shouted, “Can’t you read? Customers only, dude!”

Milo said, “Ah the travails of the alpha male,” got out, had a thirty-second chat with the shouter. By the time he was back in the Seville, the stunned driver had given me plenty of room.

I said, “Making friends and influencing people,” and turned onto Pico.

“If I had Clive’s natural charm, I could’ve gotten a free lunch. How do you figure?”

“I guess there could be a certain rough appeal.”

“Rough enough for him to hurt Kat Shonsky?”

“He doesn’t like women,” I said, “and this particular woman dumped him.”

“With his wife and kids gone, he’s lonely, maybe gets horny and remembers how driving around in fancy wheels was a big thrill for Kat, why not try it again?”

I said, “He claims he doesn’t know the customers but all he’d have to do is read a work order to learn Heubel’s address. And if he actually tinkered with Heubel’s car, he could’ve known about the spare key in the wheel well.”

“Hell,” he said, “he could have a master key. So you like him.”

“On the negative side, he bears no resemblance to Ella Mancusi’s killer. And there is the matter of that alibi.”

He found Brittany Hatfield’s number in Mississippi and punched it. “Hi, is your mom there? A friend from California. Yes, Cali – Mrs. Hatfield? This is Lieutenant Sturgis of the Los Angeles Police Department. No, I’m sorry, it’s not about that… I see. I’ll do what I can but, first off, could you tell me…”

He did a lot of listening, ended up holding the phone away from his ear. “Clive was right about her being surround sound. And she’s got reason to yell, seems the prince has a bad-check problem. As in three straight months of child support bouncing. She put in for a wage garnish, that’s what she thought I was calling about. Unfortunately, she does verify that he was in Mississippi when he says he was. Stayed with her and the kids until he ‘went off to Biloxi to see that insane bitch mother of his.’”

He stretched his legs. “Back to nowhere at warp speed.”

Memos and message slips blanketed his desk. Public Affairs had called to inform him that Ella Mancusi’s murder might be on the news tonight, he needed to be available for comments if necessary. Sean Binchy had phoned twice, no message. Gordon Beverly wanted to know if any progress had been made on Antoine.

I said, “Sixteen years, it’s still fresh for them. But Tony, with a brand-new loss, hasn’t called to ask about Mom.”

“Funny thing ’bout that?” He phoned the cop watching Mancusi, confirmed a clear pattern: The subject stayed in his apartment all day, emerged late afternoon for the brief drive to the same food stand, ate a burrito in his car, littered, returned home.

Sean had taken the initiative to canvass the block of Villa Entrada where the Bentley had been abandoned. No neighbor had seen or heard a thing, no one was aware of any juvenile delinquents in the neighborhood prone to GTA.

No sign of Kat Shonsky’s Mustang.

He played with Gordon Beverly’s slip. “I’m starting to feel like a family counselor. At least Kat’s mother hasn’t gotten past her denial yet.”

“She might if you asked her for a blood sample.”

“Mitochondrial match to the blood in the Bentley? Let’s see how the initial request is doing.”

He logged on to the New Jersey lab’s site. “Still way at the back of the line and without a confirmed felony, it’s gonna stay there. Okay, time to disappoint the Beverlys.”

I said, “I still don’t understand why Texas doesn’t pressure Jackson to be specific before you waste all this time.”

“Because it’s not about logical or ethical, Alex. It’s politics.” He swung a big foot onto the desk. Papers scattered and fell to the floor. He made no attempt to pick them up. Unwrapped a cigarillo and bit down hard. Wood splintered. He inspected the shattered tip, tossed the whole thing into the trash. Yanking a drawer open, he pulled out a thin blue folder. “Let’s give Antoine’s buddies another try.”

Repeat call to Bradley Maisonette’s parole officer, same voice mail, same message. St. Xavier High informed him that Mr. Good was out ill. Rather than try to wheedle Good’s personal data out of the receptionist, he ran a vehicle check.

“Two-year-old gray Ford Explorer, address on North Broadmoor Terrace.” He thumbed through his Thomas Guide. “Up in the hills, near the Bowl. Time to pay a sick call.”

His desk phone jangled. What he heard on the other end made him button his jacket and tighten the knot of his tie. Checked his shoelaces, rolled his shoulders, gave off the tiniest wince, stood.

I said, “Sudden meeting downtown?”

He stared at me.

“You went all appearance-conscious.”

“Mr. Wizard. Yeah, yeah, the chief wants to schmooze, I’m to be at his office before it’s physically feasible.”

“What’s the topic?”

“Pending cases,” he said. “His Righteousness probably got media calls on Mancusi or Beverly or both, doesn’t want to sound uninformed.”

“Have fun,” I said.

“Real chuckle-fest… you have a problem talking to Wilson Good by yourself?”

“Not unless it violates procedure.”

“Psychologically sensitive case like Antoine?” he said. “A shrink’s deft touch is clearly called for. Also, the chief likes you, so he’d approve.”

“When did that come up?”

“Last time he summoned me. Seems he read that paper you published last spring, agrees that most profiling is bullshit.”

“The chief reads psych journals?”

“The chief has a master’s in psych. He suggested you should be on the payroll. I told him the department wasn’t economically competitive.”

He quoted the pay scale.

I said, “Thank you, sir.”