Ax Dement got out of the Ram, but no one exited the passenger side.

Dement had the same badass-hick getup he'd displayed in the family photo: plaid Pendleton, jeans, motorcycle boots. Sleeves rolled to the elbows exposed chunky, inked-up forearms. Greasy hair was tied back in a ponytail; a full, unruly beard framed a nose that looked as if it had assaulted someone's fist.

Big guy, like his dad. Hitching the jeans, Dement Junior swaggered to the motel office, pushed a button, pulled open the iron grate, then the door, emerged within seconds swinging a key on a chain.

Quick transaction. A regular?

Ax Dement nodded at the Corolla, which Moe now had a fix on: mud-brown, mashed in several places, primered in patches. He wrote down the tags as Dement lit up a cigarette, made his way to a room on the northern arm of the U.

Most distant room of twelve, that corner of the lot swathed in darkness.

The Toyota's occupants got out.

The woman had teased-up dark hair and a coarse, blasé face. Midthirties, Anglo, five two in stiletto heels. White tank top, short red skirt; the purse was black patent leather. Gigantic red hoop earrings swung alongside a squarish face. Good overall figure, but a little thick and loose in places. Like someone who'd once been toned but had given up.

She ran a finger over her lips, fluffed her hair, gave a little hip wiggle that the guy with her didn't notice because he was fumbling with a cigarette pack.

He was older-forty, forty-five. Anglo, five ten or eleven, skinny except for a protruding gut. Bald on top, but the hair on the sides was long-streaming down to his shoulders. A bushy mustache banditoed a weak-chinned, unmemorable face. A hugely oversized white tee tented over sag-jeans. Moe wondered if he wasn't the only one concealing firepower.

The man lit up, started walking toward the room Ax Dement had entered. The woman followed, teetering as the asphalt fought her heels. One time, she tripped and had to flail to maintain balance. Her companion never noticed.

Moe hurried out of the Crown Vic, stood as close to the room as he could without being spotted.

No knock; they walked right in. Quick flash of incandescence before the door shut.

Your basic hooker-pimp-john dope party?

Moe hazarded a jog over to the Ram.

No passenger. So Mason Book's plans for the evening didn't include this level of slumming. For all he knew, Book didn't even live at the house on Swallowsong, that was Dement Junior's place, just another Industry brat living off Daddy.

For all he knew, the skinny guy Aaron had seen leaving ColdSnake wasn't even Mason Book-no, that didn't make sense, Stoltz worked for Book, why would he be driving anyone else in the middle of the night?

For all he knew, Stoltz was on the job tonight, had come by to pick Book up right after Moe left the scene.

For all he knew, none of it related to Caitlin Frostig.

Returning to his car, he ran the Corolla's tags, expecting nothing.

Then the info flashed on the MDT screen and he was pierced by an icy-steel hit of adrenaline, that needle of excitement jabbing his brain.

A few more key-clicks and he was in heart-pumping cardiac marathon mode.

Wanting to pounce.

Ax Dement left the motel first, after thirty-two minutes of party.

Moe, antsy the whole time, watched him go and decided to stay until the couple exited.

Hoping a couple would exit. Given what he'd learned. Talk about guilt… to his relief, the woman stepped out, tying her hair in a high ponytail. Heading straight for the motel's front office, she got buzzed in without ringing the bell. Once inside, she placed her hand on the clerk's shoulder. Smiled. Squatted and disappeared from view.

The lights went out for just under three minutes. The woman exited the office massaging the back of her neck, waited by the Corolla until her companion appeared.

He staggered to the car. She rubbed his bald head and the two of them got back in. The Corolla bumped out of the parking lot, turned right on Sunset.

Again, the idiot forgot to turn on his lights. This lapse extended for three and a half blocks.

The idiot had a name, courtesy Moe's mobile terminal.

Raymond Allison Wohr.

Street moniker: Ramone W. Every mope considered a nickname his birthright.

Male white, five eleven, one eighty, brown and brown. A DOB that made him thirty-seven, an address in La Puente that was probably outdated.

A little younger than Moe's guess, but no surprise given Wohr's history.

The MDT had spat out a twelve-page sheet, and that didn't include the sealed juvenile record. Nearly two decades of arrests, mostly dope. Lots of weed possessions, a few intents to sell the herb, pills, cocaine, a heroin charge that went nowhere. Wohr had served lots of county jail time awaiting trial, meaning he was no big-time player and no one cared enough to go his bail.

Despite that, his win-loss record wasn't bad, split nearly evenly between acquittals and convictions. The latter had sent him on periodic trips to various branches of the California penal system where Wohr had been judged a possible “affiliate” of the Aryan Brotherhood, but never a member. Meaning the gang didn't want him because he was too stupid, unpredictable, or lacked courage, but was willing to use him for low-level scut.

During Wohr's intermittent spells of freedom, he amassed traffic violations, resulting in a license suspension, still in effect.

The Corolla was registered to Arnold Bradley Wohr, two years older. Same address in La Puente, no criminal record.

The older, law-abiding brother, giving his clunker to Ray out of pity, family loyalty, whatever?

Too bad, Arnie, you've left your law-abiding self damn vulnerable.

Raymond Wohr's vehicular infractions included a couple of speeders, a trio of failures to make a full stop, some ticky-tacky license/reg stuff in La Puente that was probably a local uniform knowing Ramone was a mope and harassing the fool.

The kicker was four-count 'em!-driving without headlights and two DUIs, both of which Wohr had managed to beat.

As if not busy enough, Ramone W had also managed to rack up a slew of petty larcenies: the small-change shoplifting and sneak-thieveries that financed an impoverished druggie's chemistry experiments.

Now he was pimping shopworn street girls to Hollywood brats.

Moe calculated how much of Wohr's thirty-seven years had been spent behind bars, came up with just over fourteen, not counting juvey time. Your basic turnstile con, nothing particularly interesting until you got to Wohr's latest involvement with the criminal justice system.

Eighteen months ago, he'd been hauled in by Hollywood Homicide-by Petra Connor and Raul Biro, talk about your small cop-world-as a person of interest in the murder of a woman named Adella Bertha Villareal.

No charges had been filed against Wohr, and as far as Moe could tell the case remained open.

Adella Villareal's body had been found three months before Caitlin Frostig stepped into darkness and melted away.

There were limits to what the computer could teach him; the details he needed were in a blue-bound Hollywood murder book. He'd call Petra in the morning.

Now he followed Wohr's illegal wheels west on Sunset, but this time the Corolla bypassed the boulevard at Virgil, continued north to Franklin, turned left.

Back into Hollywood, the quieter, seamier east end of the district, where European tourists sometimes ended up on deserted, creepy side streets, hoping to spot someone like Mason Book but more likely encountering someone like Raymond Wohr.

Said felon pulled in front of a cheesy-looking apartment building on Taft and Franklin and let his hooker girlfriend off. She looked cross as she turned her back on Wohr. Entered the building as Moe jotted the address.