After that first few days, the crush of reporters and numbskulls had slacked off because the cops ran out of places to search, so there wasn't much for the TV people to tape. The cops pretty much stayed on the street in front of Dersh's house, leaving when he left and coming when he came, except for the cops who sucked around the empty house next door at four-hour intervals. Amanda suspected that the reporters didn't know about the cops in the house, which was fine by her because the cops made enough noise by themselves, managing to wake her each time the shifts changed, because she slept so poorly what with the leg and all.

"Being old is hell, isn't it, Jack? Can't sleep, can't shit, and you don't get laid."

Jack Lord punched a fat Hawaiian on the nose. Yeah, Jack knew that being old was hell.

Amanda drained the rest of her scotch and eyed the bottle, thinking maybe it was time for a little refill when a car door slammed, and she thought, "Those goddamned cops with their noise again." Probably forgot their cigarettes up in the house.

Amanda shut the TV, then dragged the big M1 back to the window, thinking that she just might scream holy hell at the bastards, keeping her up like this, only it wasn't the two cops.

Between the half-moon and the streetlamp, she could see the man pretty well, even with seventy-eight-year-old eyes and a belly full of scotch. He was walking from the street down along the alley toward Dersh's house, and he certainly wasn't a cop or a reporter. He was a large man, dressed in blue jeans and a sweatshirt without sleeves, and something stuck out about him right away. Here it was the middle of the night, dark as the inside of a cat's butt, and this asshole was wearing sunglasses.

Her first thought was that he must be a criminal of some kind – a burglar or a rapist – so she hefted up the M1 to draw a bead on the sonofabitch, but before she could get the gun steadied, he disappeared past the hedges and was gone.

"Goddamnit! C'mon back here, you sonofabitch!"

She waited.

Nothing.

"Damn!"

Amanda Kimmel propped the M1 against the window, then went back to her chair, poured a fresh slug of scotch, and took a taste. Maybe the guy was some friend of Dersh's (he had male friends visit at all hours, and she certainly knew what that meant), or maybe he was just an after-hours lookie loo (Lord knows, there'd been plenty, often dressed more oddly than this).

The short, sharp bang damned near knocked her out of her chair.

Amanda had never in her life heard that sound, but she knew without doubt what it was.

A gunshot.

"Holy shit, Jack! I guess that sonofabitch wasn't a lookie-loo, after all!"

Amanda Kimmel scooped up her phone, called the police, and told them that Eugene Dersh had just been murdered by a man with red arrows tattooed on his arms.

The morning heat brought the smell of wild sage up from the canyon. Something rumbled far away, a muffled thumping like the sound of heavy bombs beyond the horizon. I hadn't thought of the war in years, and pulled the sheet over my head.

Lucy snuggled into my back. "Someone's at the door."

"What?"

She burrowed her face into me, her hand sliding across my side. I liked the dry heat of her palm. "At the door."

Knocking.

"It's not even seven."

She burrowed deeper. "Take your gun."

I pulled on gym shorts and a sweatshirt, and went down to see. The cat was squatting in the entry, ears down, growling. Who needs a Doberman when you've got a cat like this?

Stan Watts and Jerome Williams were on the other side of the door, looking like they'd been up a while. Watts was chewing a breath mint.

"What are you guys doing here?"

They stepped in without answering. When they did, the cat arched his back and hissed.

Williams said, "Hey, that's some cat."

"Better watch it. He bites."

Williams went over to the cat. "Hell, cats like me. You'll see."

Williams put out his hand. The cat's fur stood up and the growl got as loud as a police siren. Williams stepped back fast.

"He got some kinda thing with black people?"

"He's got a thing with everybody. It's seven in the morning, Watts. Did Dersh confess? You guys ID the shooter?"

Watts sucked at the mint. "Wondering where you were last night, is all. Got a few questions."

"About what?"

"About where you were."

I glanced at Williams again, and now Williams was watching me.

"I was here, Watts. What's going on?"

"Can you prove it?"

Lucy said, "Yes, he can. But he doesn't have to."

The three of us looked up. Lucy was standing at the loft's rail, wearing my big white terry-cloth robe.

I said, "Lucille Chenier. Detectives Watts and Williams."

Watts said, "You here with him?"

Lucy smiled. Sweetly. "I don't think I have to answer that."

Watts held up his badge.

"Now I know I don't have to answer that."

Williams said, "Man. First this cat."

Watts shrugged. "We were hoping to be nice."

Lucy's smile dropped away. "You'll be nice whether you want to be or not, and unless you have a warrant, we can and will ask you to leave."

Williams said, "Well, for Christ's sake."

"Lucy's an attorney, Watts, so don't get cute on us. I was here. Lucy and I went down to the Ralph's for some things, and made dinner. The receipt's probably in the trash. We rented a movie from Blockbuster. It's over there on the VCR."

"How about your buddy Pike? When was the last time you saw him?"

Lucy had come down the stairs and was standing next to me with her arms crossed. She said, "Don't answer him until he tells you why, and maybe not even then. Don't answer any more of his questions." She faced me and her eyes were serious. "This is the lawyer talking, do you understand?"

I spread my hands. "You heard her. Watts. So either tell me what's going on or hit the road."

"Eugene Dersh was shot to death last night. We picked up Joe Pike for it."

I stared at him. I glanced at Williams.

"Are you guys joking?"

They weren't joking.

"Is Krantz running a number on Joe? Is that what this is?"

"Eyewitness saw him going into the house. We've got him downtown now to run a lineup."

"That's bullshit. Pike didn't kill anyone." I was getting excited. Lucy touched my back.

Watts spoke quietly. "Are you saying he was here at the house with you two?"

Lucy stepped directly in front of me. "Are you arresting Mr. Cole?"

"No, ma'am."

"Are you exercising any warrants at this time?" Her voice was all business.

"We just wanted to talk, is all." He looked at me past her. "We don't think you're good for it. We just wanted to see what you knew."

Lucy shook her head. "This interview is at an end. If you are not prepared to arrest him, or me, please leave."

The phone rang even as I locked the door.

Lucy answered, scooping up the phone before I could get there. "Who's calling, please?"

She was in full-blown protectress mode, still my girlfriend and the woman I loved, but now as focused as a female tiger protecting her mate; face down, concentrating on what was being said.

Finally, she held out the phone. "It's someone named Charlie Bauman. He says he's a criminal attorney representing Joe."

"Yeah."

Charlie Bauman had been a United States attorney prosecuting federal cases until he decided to make five times the money defending the same guys he'd once tried to put behind bars. He had an office in Santa Monica, three ex-wives, and, at last count, eight children among them. He paid more in child support than I earned in a good year, and he'd represented Joe and me before.