Out on the harbor before us, about a dozen kids were holding a regatta in snub-nosed Sabots, the triangular sails filling and luffing as their little boats darted and tacked across the water. We discussed my theory about who had thrown the bomb. I explained about Vega and Castro and the other two guys in the black Suburban. Teru and Simon agreed the other guys were probably operatives of some kind with the Guatemalan junta, and the bomb had probably been their way of making sure I didn’t get involved with the URNG.

“So,” said Teru, “I imagine you’ve decided to get involved with the URNG.”

I said, “Of course.”

Teru nodded, then took another bite out of his grilled-cheese sandwich. “This is pretty good,” he said.

“Thank you,” replied Simon.

That afternoon as Teru worked on the damaged lawn and Simon took charge of cleaning up the glass and supervising a guy who came to replace the broken window panes, I thought through how I’d go about investigating the Doña Elena kidnapping. I could have started in a lot of ways, but the kidnapper’s friends and neighbors were as good a place as any. I figured Sal Russo might not want to cooperate with me after I had given him so much attitude at our lunch together, so I called the Orange County Sheriff’s Department and left a voice mail for Tom Harper. I asked if he would call Russo and get a copy of the file on the Toledo kidnapping and murder case for me, or at least the last known address of the perpetrator, Alejandra Delarosa. Then I searched the Internet for everything I could find about the woman.

I learned that Delarosa had been in the United States illegally and had worked for Arturo Toledo for some time prior to the crime. She had a daughter and a husband who was deported soon thereafter. Almost every article called her a “URNG terrorist,” or “a member of the URNG terrorist organization.” The police were quoted making statements along those lines. In one interview, the Guatemalan ambassador to the United States denounced the kidnapping and murder as the act of Communists. A single grainy black-and-white photograph of the Delarosa woman had been picked up and repeated countless times across the web. I printed out a copy.

I also watched the videos Russo had mentioned during our lunch conversation. They were pretty bleak. Doña Elena stared at the camera with terror clearly written on her face. The Delarosa woman stood behind her wearing a black-knit ski mask with holes for her eyes and mouth and holding a .38 special to Doña Elena’s temple. To see such a glamorous person looking sweaty and filthy and reduced to pitiful begging made me feel vaguely embarrassed. The videos felt personal, as if I was watching a friend in trouble, someone I actually knew.

In one sense it was true. Doña Elena had already been well on her way to fame back then. In the seven years since, she had become one of Hollywood’s major stars. I would have known her anywhere, but as a glamorous celebrity, not as the pitiful woman begging on the screen.

All of the videos were easy to find on the Internet. I made a point of watching them in chronological order. I looked for connections and differences between them. I watched the edges of the frame, hoping to spot a hint of something the kidnapper hadn’t intended to reveal, some kind of clue that might lead in a direction other than the URNG. But of course I saw nothing the police had missed, nothing to refute Delarosa’s claim that she was working for Vega’s organization. I watched them all three times. When I was done, I had a feeling I had missed something, but it was probably wishful thinking.

Harper returned my call after a couple of hours. He said, “Listen, I know you didn’t want to tell Russo why you’re interested in this case, but this isn’t the kind of thing you usually handle. You got a client connected to this Delarosa woman somehow?”

“Got to keep busy.”

“Seriously, what’s the deal?”

“Seriously, I need something to do to keep from going back to the nuthouse. A guy asked me to look into this thing, so I thought I would.”

“None of your usual clients need a driver anymore? A protection detail?”

“I’ve only had one call since I got out of the hospital. Apparently my regulars prefer bodyguards who don’t lose clients.” I didn’t blame them either. Nobody cared that I had nearly lost my mind forever. In my business, there was no room for excuses. All that mattered was success or failure.

“You’re gonna make a comeback, buddy.”

“Sure. You got that file from Russo?”

“It’s still an open case, Malcolm. He’s not going to let you see the file.”

“He answered my questions when we had lunch.”

“And you kind of insulted the guy, if you remember. Besides, you made it seem like idle curiosity. Now you’re coming off like a guy with a case.”

I sighed. “Did you at least get Delarosa’s last known address?”

“Listen. Sal’s not a bad guy. What was with your attitude the other day?”

“Guess I’m looking for someone to blame.”

“Don’t blame Sal.”

“I apologized at lunch.”

“He’s still mad.”

“I’ll apologize again the next time I talk to him. Did you get that address or not?”

“Sal wasn’t happy about it, but yeah.”

Harper read the address to me and I wrote it down. I said, “That’s Pico-Union, right?”

“Yeah. You want to watch yourself up there, Malcolm.”

Pico-Union was the most densely populated urban area west of the Mississippi, almost exclusively populated by Latinos. Most were originally refugees from Mexico’s economy and from the bloody civil wars in El Salvador and Guatemala. The neighborhood was in a nearly constant state of dispute between about a dozen gangs and had one of the highest murder rates in LA. But I figured it would be a walk in the park compared to Kunar Province in Afghanistan.

“I can handle it,” I said.

Harper said, “Oorah,” then hung up.

It would have been dark by the time I got to Pico-Union if I left right then, so I decided to wait. I walked over to the garage and backed the stretch Mercedes stretch out onto the asphalt pavement. I gathered a bucket, chamois, some microfiber towels, soap, and wax. Also a little brush for the hard-to-reach spots on the wheels. I unwound the water hose and went to work. For some reason, washing and waxing cars helped me relax. I did some of my best thinking with a soapy rag in my hand.

A little over an hour later, as the sun was going down, I finished with the car. It stood there, a black and shiny reminder that I would never drive Haley anywhere again.

I sighed. I needed a different kind of distraction. A different kind of work.

I went over to the guesthouse. In the kitchen I opened a fresh bottle of Glenlivet single malt. I poured two fingers in a water glass, took the bottle and the glass into the living room, and sat at the desk. I fired up the computer. I still had the nagging feeling I had missed something in those videos of Doña Elena and Alejandra Delarosa.

Sipping the Glenlivet, I watched them all again, Doña Elena’s famous features filling the screen, as she cried and begged for her life while a masked and uniformed Alejandra Delarosa held a semiautomatic to her head. There were four videos, each about three minutes long. I paused between each of them to think, pacing myself with the Scotch. When the last video was over, I finished off the glass, poured myself another, and started again with the first video. When the last video was over the second time, I poured another drink and replayed just that one. It was different.

In the other three videos, Alejandra stood unmoving and silent as Doña Elena spoke to the camera. But the last one seemed different somehow. I couldn’t put my finger on the difference. It was something in the body language or the way the Delarosa woman held the gun. I turned the sound as high as it would go. I played those final seconds over and over and made myself forget all preconceptions in order to just watch and listen.