The Buzz Cut was FBI.

I cruised past the Federal Building to a little Vietnamese place I know for squid with mint leaves. They make it hot there, the way I like it, and as I ate, I wondered why the FBI would be involved in Karen Garcia's homicide. Local police often call in the Feebs to use their information systems and expertise, but the Buzz Cut had been around at almost every step in the dance. I thought that odd. Then, when I introduced myself at the autopsy, he'd refused to identify himself. I thought that odd, too. And now the Feeb was smiling, and they don't smile for very much. You make one of those guys smile, you'd need something pretty big.

I was pondering this when the woman who owns the restaurant said, "We make squid you like?"

"Yes. It's very nice." The woman was small and delicate, with a graceful beauty.

"I see you in here very much."

"I like the food." The conversation I could do without.

The woman leaned close to me. "Oldest daughter make this food you like. She think you very handsome."

I followed the woman's eyes to the back of the restaurant. A younger imitation of the woman was peeking at me from the kitchen door. She smiled shyly.

I looked at her mother. Mom smiled wider and nodded. I looked back at the daughter, and she nodded, too.

I said, "I'm married. I've got nine children."

The mother frowned. "You no wear ring."

I looked at my hand. "I'm allergic to gold."

The mother's eyes narrowed. "You married?"

"I'm sorry. Nine children."

"With no ring?"

"Allergies."

The woman went to the daughter and said something in Vietnamese. The daughter stomped back into the kitchen.

I finished the squid, then drove home to read the reports. Some days you should just eat drive-thru.

The autopsy protocol held no surprises, concluding that Karen Garcia had been killed by a single.22 caliber bullet fired at close range, striking her 3.5 centimeters above the right orbital cavity. Light to moderate powder stippling was observed at the wound entry, indicating that the bullet had been fired at a distance of between two and four feet. A cut-and-dried case of homicide by gunshot, with no other evidence having been noted.

I reread the criminalist's report, thinking that I would call Montoya to discuss these things, but as I thought about what I would say to him, I realized that the white plastic was missing.

When I read the report that Pike brought last night, I recalled that Chen had recovered a triangular piece of white plastic on the trail at the top of the bluff. He had noted that the plastic was smudged with some sort of gray matter and would have to be tested.

In this new report, that piece of plastic was not listed.

I checked the page numbers to make sure all the pages were there, then found Pike's copy and compared them. White triangle in Pike's report. No white triangle in Krantz's report.

I called Joe. "You get the report you brought over directly from John Chen?"

"Yes."

"He gave it to you himself?"

"Yes."

I told him about the missing plastic.

"That sonofabitch Krantz doctored this report. That's why he delayed giving it to me."

"If he left something out of Chen's report, I wonder what he left out of the autopsy."

I was wondering that, too.

Pike said, "Rusty Swetaggen might be able to help."

"Yeah."

I hung up and called a guy I know named Rusty Swetaggen at his restaurant in Venice. Rusty drove an LAPD radio car for most of his adult life, until his wife's father died and left them the restaurant. He retired from the cops the same day that the will was read, and never looked back. Dishing out fried cheese and tap beer was more fun than humping a radio car, and paid better. Rusty said, "Man, it's been forever, Elvis. Emma thought you'd died." Emma was his wife.

"Your cousin still work for the coroner?" I'd heard him talk about it, time to time.

"That's Jerry. Sure. He's still down there."

"A woman named Karen Garcia was cut two days ago."

"The one belongs to the tortilla guy? The Monsterito?"

"His daughter. I'm on the case with Robbery-Homicide, and I think they're keeping something from me."

Rusty made a little whistling sound. "Why does Robbery-Homicide have it?"

"They say it's because the tortilla guy owns a city councilman."

"But you don't think so?"

"I think everybody's keeping secrets, and I want to know what. An ME named Evangeline Lewis did the autopsy. Another report these cops gave me was doctored, so I'm thinking maybe the autopsy protocol was altered, too. Could your cousin find out about that?"

"He doesn't work down in the labs, Elvis. He's strictly front office."

"I know."

I waited, letting Rusty think about it. Six years ago he had asked me to find his daughter after she'd run away with a crack dealer who'd wanted to bankroll his business by putting Rusty's little girl in the gang-bang sex business. Without telling her. I had found his daughter and destroyed the tapes, and now his daughter was safe, and married to a nice young guy she'd met in her recovery group. They had a baby. Rusty never let me pay for a drink, never let me pay for food, and after I stopped going to his place because I was embarrassed by all the free stuff, I'd had to beg him to stop sending it to my home and office. If there was a way to help me, Rusty Swetaggen would do it.

"Jerry would have to get into the case files, maybe. Or the ME's personal files." He was thinking out loud.

"Would he do that and talk to me?"

"Who's the ME again?"

"Evangeline Lewis."

"He'll talk to you or I'll beat him to death." Rusty said that with an absolute lack of humor. "I'll give him a call, but I can't say when I'll get through to him."

"Thanks, Rusty. Call me at home."

"Elvis?"

"Yeah, Rusty."

"I still owe you."

"You don't owe me anything, Rusty. You say hi to Emma. Give my love to the kids."

"Jerry will do this for you if I have to strangle him."

"It won't go that far, Rusty. But thanks." You see what I mean?

I spent the next hour cleaning the house, then went out onto the deck to work my way through two asanas and two katas. As I worked, I thought about Rusty's need to repay something that didn't need to be repaid. Psychologists would speculate that Rusty wanted to vicariously participate in his daughter's salvation, as if he were somehow struggling to recapture the manhood he had lost by the violation of his daughter. I thought not. I knew Rusty Swetaggen, and I knew men like him. I believed that he was filled with such a terrible and powerful love for his daughter, and for me, that the great pressure of that welling love had to be relieved or it would kill him. People often die from love, and this is a secret we all keep, even from ourselves.

When I went back inside there was a message waiting. It was Rusty, telling me to meet his cousin before the day shift began at five the next morning at a place called Tara 's Coffee Bar. He had left the address, and he had given directions. I knew it would be like that.