I tapped the pen against the pad, frowning. 'Just because LeCedrick was a creep most times doesn't mean he was a creep that time.'

Eddie laughed harder. 'Keep dreaming.'

I said, 'You hear anything that would indicate she might be willing to fudge a case?'

'You talk to his mother?'

'Whose mother?'

'Earle's mother was in the house when Rossi made the collar. She saw the whole thing.'

'Anything in the file?'

'Nada. I would've talked to her, though. 'Course, whether they listened is a different matter.'

'Do you have her address, Eddie?'

He did, and he gave it to me. It was the same address in Olympic Park as that listed on LeCedrick Earle's arrest report. I hung up, then phoned information for Louise Earle's number and called her. I still needed to see LeCedrick, but maybe I could see her first. Maybe she had something to offer that might bolster his version of events, or clarify it. I let the phone ring ten times but got no answer. Guess I'd have to see LeCedrick sans clarity.

I hung up again, washed the dishes, then climbed into my car and made the long drive south to see LeCedrick Earle.

The harbor town of San Pedro lies on the water at the southeast point of the Palos Verdes peninsula, sixty miles south of Los Angeles. It's pretty much a straight shot down the San Diego Freeway across a rolling flat fuzz of low buildings and single-family homes, past Inglewood and Hawthorne and Gardena to Torrance, and then yet farther south on the Harbor Freeway to the water. The Port of Los Angeles is down there, with the gleaming white cruise ships that come and go and the great Queen Mary that forever stays and the U. S. Federal Correctional Facility at Terminal Island.

Terminal Island is on the western side of the harbor, and the facility itself is on the outermost end of the island. The Queen Mary is next door, as are the berths for the cruise ships, but neither can be seen from the prison. From the prison, you could only see open water, and the water looked very much like iron. Sort of like the bars of the cells.

I crossed a land bridge to the island and followed the signs to the prison, and pretty soon I passed through a high chain-link gate and parked at the administration building. A tall link fence topped by concertina wire surrounded the prison, which was new and modern and clean. A guard tower overlooked the grounds, but it was new and modern and clean, too. No gun ports. No swivel-mounted machine guns. No snarling guard dogs or barrel-chested yard-bulls sapping prisoners into line. All of the guards wore blue blazers and ties, and none of them carried guns. They carried walkie-talkies, instead. Modern justice.

I went inside to the reception desk, identified myself, and told the guard that I had an appointment to see LeCedrick Earle. The guard was a clean-cut guy in his early thirties. He found my name in his log, then turned it around for me. 'Sign here, please. Are you armed?'

'Nope.'

He flipped through a large loose-leaf book until he found Earle's name, then used his phone to tell someone that he wanted prisoner number E2847 brought out. When he was finished he smiled at me and said, 'Someone will be right out for you. Wait by the sally port.'

A couple of minutes later a second guard brought me through the sally port to a glass-walled interview room. A neat new table sat in the middle of the floor with four comfortable chairs around it. A second glass door was behind the table, and there was a nice gray berber carpet. The air smelled of Airwick. If it weren't for the guards peering in at you and the wire in the glass, you'd never know you were in a prison. Portrait of the Big House as corporate America.

Thirty seconds later the same guard opened the rear door and an African-American guy in his late twenties came in and squinted at me. 'You that guy come about Rossi?'

The guard said, 'Buzz me when you're done and I'll come get him.' The guard had bored eyes and spoke to me as if Earle wasn't there and hadn't said anything.

'Sure. Thanks.'

The guard left, locking the door.

LeCedrick Earle was maybe an inch shorter than me, with dark glossy skin and a shaved head. He was wearing a prison-issue orange jumpsuit and Keds. I said, 'That's right. I work for an attorney named Jonathan Green.'

'You a lawyer?'

'Nope. I'm a private investigator.'

Earle shrugged. 'I saw that ad in the paper and called. I talked to some guy say he was a lawyer.'

'The ad was about information leading to the arrest of James X for the murder of Susan Martin.' Truly had filled me in before he'd left the office. 'You know anything about that?'

He dropped into the near chair, put his feet on the table, and crossed his arms. Showing smug. 'Don't give a damn about that. I know about Rossi. I read in the paper she one of the cops arrest Teddy Martin. She put the fuck on me, I figure she maybe put the fuck on him, too.'

'You don't care about the reward?'

'Fuck the reward.' Giving me righteous. Giving me can-you-believe-this? 'Can't a brother just wanna do his civic duty?'

'I read your arrest report, and I read the letter of complaint your lawyer filed against her. What happened with that?'

'Shit, what you think happened? They didn't do a goddamned thing. Say it's my word against hers.'

'Your mother was there.'

All the show and the exaggeration flicked away. His eyes darkened and his face seemed to knot. 'Yes, well, she don't know nothing. Just a crazy old lady scared of the police.'

I said, 'Okay, so the arrest report is wrong and Rossi is lying.'

'Goddamned right. Bitch set me up.'

'She says that you tried to buy your way out of a traffic violation with a fake C-note.'

'Bullshit. That money was real.'

'You really tried to buy your way out with a C?'

'Man, I had so many outstanding warrants. I was scared she was gonna run me in. That's what I was tryin' to avoid.'

'So what happened?'

He uncrossed his arms and leaned forward. 'I pass her the note and she laughs. She says she don't come that cheap and I say it's all I got. She says I guess we gonna get locked down, then won't we? I'm gettin' the Hershey squirts cause of all the warrants, so I say I got a few hundred stashed at the house. She says let's see it, and that's when we go home.'

'She followed you to your house to get more money.'

'Oh, yeah. That part's true.'

'Okay.'

'So We get there and go inside and I got the money back in my room, not much, a few hundred, but it's real. I worked for that cash.'

'Okay.'

'We go back to my room to get the money and the next thing I know the gun's coming out and she's screamin' at me to get on the floor an' I'm squirtin' for real 'cause I think the crazy bitch gonna shoot me and so I go down and she snaps on the cuffs and then she takes this little bag of cash from under her jacket and that's the shit.'

'The funny money?'

He was nodding. 'I say, what's that? I say, whatchu think you doin'? She say shut the fuck up. Oh, man, next thing I know more cars are pullin' up and she's tellin' them other cops that the flash cash is mine and now I'm in here. How you like that shit?'

I stared at LeCedrick Earle and LeCedrick Earle stared back. His eyes did not waver. He said, 'Well?'

'Well what?'

'Just thinking.'

Thinkin' what?'

'Wondering about you and Waylon Mustapha.'

He waved his hand. 'That's just bullshit bad luck.' He waved the hand some more. 'Waylon grow up down the street from me. Waylon and me know each other since kindergarten and blow a little smoke together, that's all. I can't help it I know Waylon. I know guys who killed people, an' I ain't no murderer.'

'The money Rossi booked into evidence matched with paper that Waylon deals.'