Chen scowled when he saw us. He was tall and thin, with ill-fitting glasses and the hunched posture of someone sporting chronic low self-esteem. Some of the criminalists wore lab smocks, but most of them wore street clothes. Only John Chen wore a pencil caddy. He glanced around, making sure no one else was nearby. Furtive.

"Today is my day off. I spent all morning waxing my car. I was gonna cruise Westwood for pussy."

Chen is like that. His sole motivation in all things is publicity, promotion, and sex. Not necessarily in that order.

Starkey said, "That's more than we needed to know, John. Just work the card."

"I'm just saying, that's all. You guys owe me."

He held out his hand, making a little hand-it-over gesture.

"Let me see it."

I was carrying the key card in my handkerchief. I laid it on the bench, then folded back the handkerchief. Chen lifted his glasses, and leaned close to see.

"Did this belong to the vic or the shooter?"

"I don't know. It was in the alley, so I have to follow it. It might not belong to either one of them."

Chen peered closer, looking dubious, then glanced up at me.

"This guy really your father?"

I was getting a headache. I wanted whatever I could get from the key card and I wanted to get out of there.

"He was a deluded old man who thought he was my father. That's all."

"Starkey said he was your father."

Starkey said, "I got it wrong, goddamnit. Cole doesn't look anything like him. I saw the pictures."

I said, "Are you going to look at the card or not?"

I was sorry I called them.

Chen brought the card to a workstation that looked like a Napster geek's dream: A desktop computer was wired to what appeared to be VHS, VHS-C, BETA, 3/4", 8mm, and digital tape decks, along with DVD/CD players, mini-CD players, and several different swipe-card readers that might have come from your local supermarket. A sign on the wall read NO MAGNETS, NO INFO, NO JOB. Lab rat humor.

Chen went to work on the computer, bringing up different windows on the screen.

"Most of the work we do here is with counterfeit credit and ATM cards, but we can analyze commercial key cards, too. Most hotels in the U.S. buy their systems from one of three magnetic-lock companies, and they all use the same coding. We'll try the commercial codes first. Who's the detective in charge?"

"Kelly Diaz. She's Divisional Homicide at Central."

Chen typed in her name.

"I'll have to call her for the case number. Does she put out?"

Starkey punched him in the back, told us she had to get back to work, then stalked out of the lab.

I said, "Jesus, John, show a little class."

Chen seemed disappointed with my answer, but not embarrassed that he had asked. He glanced after Starkey and lowered his voice still more.

"You owe me for this, man. Tell your girlfriend she owes me, too."

"Starkey isn't my girlfriend."

Chen rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, sure."

Chen finished filling in the boxes, then picked up the key card with a pair of plastic forceps and swiped it through a card reader. The information embedded in its magnetic strip instantly appeared on the computer.

00087662///116/carversystems//

0009227//homeawaysuites047//

0012001208//00991//

Chen tapped at the screen.

"Here it is, dude. It's from the Home Away Suites chain. The oh-forty-seven is probably the location. The one-sixteen is probably the room number. All this junk on the left side is just coding sequences. You don't have to worry about that."

I copied the information into my notebook. Room 116 at Location 47.

"What's Carver Systems?"

"The company that made the lock. Remember I said only three or four companies make this stuff? That's them. Does Diaz know you have the card?"

"Not yet. I was going to give it to her later."

Chen looked worried.

"I can't do this off the books. This is a homicide."

"I'm not asking you to do it off the books. Diaz knows I'm working the case. She's good with it."

"Then I'd better keep the card. I can have the CI send over the vic's prints to see if we get a match."

"Can you make a duplicate for me?"

"You mean make you another key card?"

"Yeah. Now that you have the codes, can you put them on another card?"

"Make you a key for room one-sixteen?"

"Yeah."

Chen looked uneasy again, cocking his head like a nervous parrot.

"This isn't some kind of grudge thing, is it, you thinking someone murdered your old man? If you kill somebody, it'll be my ass."

"He isn't my father."

"I'm going to tell Diaz I made a dupe for you. I'll tell Starkey, too.

"Tell them. That's fine."

Chen dug around in a cabinet until he found a box of blank cards. He typed on the computer some more, swiped a new card through the reader, then handed it to me. He didn't look happy about it.

"Room one-sixteen."

"Thanks, John. I owe you."

"You better not kill anyone."

I pocketed the card and started back through the lab.

"Hey, Elvis."

I stopped. John Chen was staring at me with the wary parrot eyes, only now the eyes seemed sad.

"I don't look like my father, either."

I went out to my car, but Starkey had already gone.

Home Away Suites was a chain of cheap no-frills motels geared to drive-by salesmen and people on their way to somewhere else. They were big in the Midwest, but had only six locations in Southern California, with two in the L.A. area, one being in Jefferson Park just south of mid-city, the other in Toluca Lake. Jefferson Park was closer to downtown, so I got their number from information, and called from the SID parking lot. A chipper young woman answered.

"Home Away Suites, your home away from home, may I help you?"

"Is this location number forty-seven?"

"Pardon me?"

"You have several locations, and each location has a number. I'm trying to find number forty-seven."

"I don't know anything about that."

She didn't ask me to hold on, she didn't offer to find out, she simply stopped talking. Home Away probably didn't hire for initiative.

"Could you ask someone, please?"

"Okay. Hold on."

Okay.

A few minutes later she came back on the line.

"Sir?"

"I'm here."

"We're number forty-two. You want the Toluca Lake location."

"Could you give me their address?"

"I'll have to look it up."

"Never mind. I'll call information."

Welcome to the exciting world of Private Detection.

I got the address from the information operator, then headed around the north side of Griffith Park, across Burbank, and into Toluca Lake.

Toluca Lake is a small treesy community wedged between Universal Studios and Burbank where the Ventura and Hollywood freeways merge. Most residents have never seen the lake as it is surrounded by expensive homes, but the larger community is a comfortable mix of middle-class homes, well-kept apartment buildings, and sidewalk businesses.

I followed Riverside Drive across the back of Toluca Lake to Lankershim Boulevard, then slipped under a freeway overpass and into North Hollywood. The Home Away people had cheated the location, but I guess they figured close was good enough. So much for truth in advertising.

Home Away Suites #47 was a gray stucco box; no restaurant, no room service, no frills. Just the kind of place for a traveling salesman or a family on a limited budget. I parked on the street, and entered a lobby as plain and simple as the outside. A bored young man in a gray blazer sat behind the registration desk, reading. An older couple was standing at a rack of tourist brochures, probably trying to decide between standing in line for the Leno show or driving to Anaheim for Knott's Berry Farm. Beyond the registration desk was a set of stairs, and a long straight hall leading to the first-floor rooms.