I said, "What kind of truck?"

He stepped back and looked over Pike's Cherokee.

"This track."

"A red Jeep like this?"

He shrugged. "I think it was this one, but it might've been another."

The corner of Pike's mouth twitched. In all the years I had known him, I have never seen Pike smile, but sometimes you'll get the twitch. For Pike, that's him busting a gut.

I said, "You see the driver?"

He pointed at Pike. "Him."

Pike looked away, and sighed.

The homeless man peered at us hopefully. "Would you have a small job that needs a careful craftsman? I am available, don't you know?"

I gave him ten bucks. "What's your name?"

"Edward Deege, Master Carpenter."

"Okay, Edward. Thanks."

"No job too small."

"Hey, Edward. We want to talk to you again, you around?"

"I am but a Dixie cup on the stream of life, but, yes, I enjoy the reservoir. I can often be found there."

"Okay, Edward. Thanks."

Edward Deege peered at Pike some more, then stepped back, as if troubled. "Release your rage, my friend. Rage kills."

Pike pulled away.

I said, "You think he saw anything, or he was just scamming us?"

"He was right about the ponytail. Maybe he saw a four-wheel-drive."

We followed Lake Hollywood Drive down to Barham, and when we turned left toward the freeway, Pike said, "Elvis."

Karen Garcia's red Mazda RX-7 was parked behind a flower shop on this side of Barham, opposite the Jungle Juice. We hadn't seen it when we were at the Jungle Juice because it was behind a building across the street. We couldn't see it until we were coming down, and I wished then that it wasn't there to see.

Pike turned into the parking lot, and we got out. The Mazda's engine was cool, as if it had been parked here a very longtime.

"Been here all night."

Pike nodded.

"If she went up to run, that means she never came down." I looked back up the hill.

Pike said, "Or she didn't leave by herself."

"She's running, she meets some guy, and they use his car. She's probably on her way back to pick up the Mazda now." I said it, but neither of us believed it.

We asked the people at the flower shop if they had seen anything, but they hadn't. We asked every shopkeeper in the strip mall and most of the employees, but they all said no. I hoped they had seen something to indicate that Karen was safe, but deep down, where your blood runs cold, I knew they hadn't.

With her father's money, Karen Garcia could've lived anywhere, yet she chose a modest apartment in a Latin-hip part of Silver Lake favored by families. The Gipsy Kings played on someone's stereo; the smells of chili and cilantro were fresh and strong. Children played on the lawns, and couples laughed about the heat storm. Around us, great palms and jacarandas slashed like the tails of nervous cats, but the area wasn't littered with fronds and limbs. I guess if you cared about your neighborhood you cleaned up the mess without waiting for the city to do it for you.

We left Pike's Jeep by a fire hydrant and walked into a courtyard burgeoning with hand-painted clay pots that overflowed with gladiolas. Apartment number 3 belonged to Marisol Acuna, but Pike didn't come with me to the door. We knew from Mrs. Acuna that Karen's apartment was on the second floor.

A heavy woman in her late fifties stepped out of a ground-floor apartment. "Are you Mr. Cole?"

"Yes, ma'am. Mrs. Acuna?"

She glanced at Pike. He was already climbing the stairs. "She hasn't come home. Let me get the key, and I'll let you inside."

"Frank gave us a key, ma'am. You should wait down here."

A line appeared between her brows, and she glanced at Pike again. "Why don't you want me up there? You think something bad is up there?"

"No, ma'am. But if Karen comes home I'd hate to have her walk in on a couple of strange men. You keep an eye out. If she comes while we're up there you can tell her what's going on and bring her up." What a fine and wonderful lie.

Pike wasn't waiting for me. Karen's door opened.

I gave Mrs. Acuna a final smile, then took the stairs three at a time, slipping into Karen's apartment behind Joe. He stood in the center of the living room, holding up a finger to stop me, his gun hanging loose in his right hand. Pike carries the Colt Python.357 magnum with a four-inch barrel. Firing a heavy bullet, it will generate almost six hundred foot-pounds of energy and can punch its way through an engine block. Pike uses the heavy bullet.

He went through a short hall into the apartment's only bedroom, then reappeared almost instantly, the Python now gone.

"Clear."

Sometimes you just have to shake your head.

I said, "Can we spell 'paranoid'?"

Karen Garcia's apartment was furnished well beyond the rent she paid. An overstuffed leather couch with two matching chairs dominated the living room. A modern desk was positioned under two casement windows so that she had a view of the street; psychology texts were shelved on the desk, along with three Tami Hoag novels, a Nunzilla, and an AT &T telephone/answering machine combo. The red message light was blinking. A framed snapshot of Karen wearing a silly crown and holding a glass of wine was tacked beside the window. She was barefoot, and smiling.

I said, "You want the messages or the rest of the place?"

"Rest of the place."

All of Karen's messages were from her father except the one from me and one from a man named Martin, asking if she wanted to go to a quebradita. Martin had a Spanish accent, and a mellow voice. After the messages, I went through the drawers, and found a Rolodex. We would bring it to Frank to see whom he knew, and, if we had to, we would phone every name to see if we could find someone who knew where Karen was.

Pike reappeared from the bedroom. "Jeans on the bed, sandals on the floor. Her toothbrush is still in the bathroom.

Wherever she went, she wasn't planning on staying." You take your toothbrush, you're thinking you'll stay the night. You leave it, you're coming home.

"Okay. She changed into her running things and left the other stuff, figuring to change back later."

"That's my call."

"You see any notes, maybe a calendar that says her plans?"

I thought he was about to answer when Pike held up his finger again, then took three fast steps toward the door. "Someone's coming."

"Mrs.Acuna."

"Someone bigger."

Pike and I set up on either side of the door as a large, ruddy-faced man in a gray suit made the landing and looked in at us. Two uniformed LAPD officers appeared behind him. The man's eyes widened when he saw us, and he pawed under his jacket. "Police officers! Step away from the door and move to the center of the room. Now!"

The suit clawed out a standard LAPD-issue Beretta 9 as the uniformed cops drew their own weapons. Mrs. Acuna shouted something down in the courtyard, but no one listened to her.

I said, "Take it easy. We're working for her father, Frank Garcia."

The detective had the gun on us now, and the two uniformed cops were aiming past his head. One of them was young, and looked like his eyes were about to do the Pekinese pop-out. If I was the detective, I would've been more scared of them than me.

The detective shouted, "Step back from the door and move to the center. Hands from your bodies."

We did what he said. He toed open the door and stepped through, the two uniforms spreading to cover us from the sides.

"My name's Cole. We're private investigators working for her father."

"Shut up."

"My license is in the wallet. Her father hired us a couple of hours ago. Call him. Ask the woman who lives downstairs."

"Shut the fuck up and keep those hands where I can see them!"