'Tell me what it's like when you fuck her,' the man crooned. 'Tell me about her tits again. C'mon, tell me. Tell me again what it's like when you do the thing.' He kicked him again, and Jason groaned, rocked with the blow, and one arm jerked spasmodically. Tell me what it's like to fuck her

No response: maybe a moan.

'Tell me about Creek: he looks like a monster. He looks like Bigfoot. Tell me about Creek. Was he with you two? Were all three of you fucking her? All three at once?'

But the doper wasn't talking. He was in never-never land.

'Fuck you,' the two-faced man said, finally. He was tired of this. He could hear the ocean pounding against the pilings below them, a rhythmic roar. He took a long-barreled Smith amp; Wesson.22 revolver from his coat pocket and showed it to the bubbling wreck on the floor.

'See this? I'm gonna shoot you, man.'

'Dude.' Jason was long past recognizing anything, even his own imminent death, the killer realized.

He squatted: 'Gonna shoot you.'

He pointed the pistol at the forehead, and when the roar of the surf started to build again, fired it once.

The boy's head bumped back. That was all.

The two-faced man waited for some sensation: nothing came.

'Well, shit,' he said. He'd been having more fun when the doper was alive. Had he really fucked her? Anna? He had all the details. So maybe he had.

He stood up, pulled open the window on the ocean-side wall, and looked down. Deep water. Everything dark, but he could hear the water hissing and boiling.

Just like it should be, he thought, looking out, for this kind of scene.

At a little after one o'clock, Anna stirred, then woke all at once, aware first of her pillow, then the room, then the faint whine of a jumbo jet blowing out of LAX. She lay in bed for a few minutes, rolled over, looked at the clock, yawned, sat up and stretched.

Showered, washed her hair.

Anna liked dresses, a little on the hippie side, small flowers and low necklines, when she wasn't working, or working out.

For work, she had a carefully thought-out uniform, designed to make her fit in as many social slots as possible. The uniform consisted of cream-colored silk or white cotton blouses with black slacks, expensive black boots, and one of several linen or light woolen jackets, depending on the season. She had three HermŠs silk scarves, and always carried one or another in a buttoned inside pocket, along with a pair of gold earrings. If she dumped the jacket in the truck and rolled the sleeves on the blouse, she was hanging out. If she wore the coat, she was all business, still casual, but working. If she added the scarf and earrings, she could get by at anything short of a formal affair. Even at a formal affair, she could pass as a caterer.

Any of the looks might be necessary in a night's work, doing reconnaissance before the cameras lit up, especially if the work scene involved cops or security people allergic to publicity.

She also needed a more formal look if she'd be on-camera herself. She didn't like going on-cameraanonymity made everything easierbut sometimes an interviewer was necessary. When there was no choice, she needed the right look.

For the camera guys, appearance didn't matter: there was no way to camouflage the video lights.

Now, out of the shower, she dried her hair, pulled on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, and laced her running shoes. Stopped in the kitchen for a glass of orange juice, bracing against the wall to loosen her calves as she drank it.

The day was fine, cool, with blue skies and a light breeze from the ocean. The beach was a half-mile away, and she loosened up as she walked over on Venice Boulevard, then took a finger street down to the beach.

A very large black man, who'd once been a second-string-linebacker for the L.A. Raiders, was doing pull-ups on a rack set into the sand. He lifted a hand to Anna, continuing the pull-up with only one hand. Anna waved back and continued on to the water's edge, turned right and started running. Six miles: three miles up, three miles back. She ran along the surf, through the shore birds, a quarter mile behind another runner, feeling the sun.

When she started running, her brain was empty. The further along the beach she got, the more it filled up: Maybe go south tonight, haven't been south for a while. Wonder what happened to that burned kid, at that house fire, the last time we went south? Kid was trying to save a cat, wasn't he? Could be a feature on his recovery? It'd have to be the first item on the run. Louis could get a phone number. On the other hand, it might be a bone to throw to Channel Seventeen.

Six miles, a little over forty-two minutes. When she got back, the linebacker was sitting on the bottom bench of the basketball bleachers, putting braces on his knees.

'Hey, Dick,' Anna said. 'How're the knees?'

'Snap-crackle-pop, just like cornflakes,' he said.

'Rice Krispies,' Anna said.

'Yeah, whatever; ain't been gettin' nothing but worse.'

'Gonna have to decide,' Anna said.

'I know.' He pushed himself up, hobbled around the edge of the court. 'So stiff I couldn't walk down to the water.'

'Take the knife, man,' Anna said. 'Anything's better than this.'

'Scared of the knife. They put me to sleep, I don't think I'll wake up. I'll die in there.'

'Oh, come on, Dick.'

They talked for another five minutes, then Anna headed home. As she left, the sad linebacker said, 'If I could run half as good as you, I'd still be playing.'

The cell phone was chirping when she got home. Louis again, ready to set up for the new night? A little early for that. 'Hello?'

Not Louis.

'This is Sergeant Hardesty with the Santa Monica police.' He sounded a little surprised to be talking with someone. 'Is this Anna Batory?' He pronounced her name 'battery'.

'Ba-Tory,' she said. She spread her business cards around, and often got tips on the cell phone. 'What's happening?'

'Ma'am, I'm sorry, but there's been an accident. One of the persons involved carried a card in his billfold that said you should be contacted in case of trouble.'

She didn't track for a second, and then the smile died on her face: 'Oh my God, Creek,' Anna said. 'Is his name Creek?'

'I don't know, ma'am,' the voice said, shading toward professional sorrow. 'I don't have an identification on the person. Could you go down there?'

The body was on the beach, just at the waterline. If she'd run another five or six miles that morning, she would have tripped over it.

A line of three cop cars, two with light bars and a plain white institutional Chevy, marked the spot; a medical examiner's van sat ten feet above the water, the longest fingers of surf running up between its tires. At the back of the van, a cluster of civil servants gathered around what looked like a pile of seaweed: a body covered with a wet green blanket. Two uniformed cops kept a semicircle of gawkers on the far side of the cop cars.

Out on the ocean, two jet skis chased each other in endless wave-hopping circles, their motors like distant chain saws; beyond them, a badly-handled sloop pushed south toward Marina Del Rey, its jib flogging in the stiffening breeze.

Anna trudged across the sand toward the cop cars with a growing dread. She'd tried to call Creek at home, but there'd been no answer. Creek was always out on the water. She'd thought, any number of times, that he would someday die there.

One of the uniformed cops sidled along the line of cars, cutting off her line: 'They called me,' she said, pointing toward the group on the waterline. 'They think that's a friend of mine.'

'If you could just wait here.'

She waited by the cars while the cop walked down to the group by the water and said something to a plainclothesman, who looked briefly at Anna and nodded. The cop waved her over, and passed her on his way back to the car. 'Hot,' he said as he passed. And he added, 'Hope it's not your friend.'