I wanted to talk to the clerk, but I also intended to search the room even though the clerk probably wouldn't go for it. I knew I would enter the room when I had Chen make the duplicate key, and I knew I wasn't going to wait for the police to get it done. I crossed the lobby like any other registered guest, and went down the hall. Room one-sixteen was in plain view of the couple at the brochure rack, but not the desk clerk. I rapped lightly on the door, listened, then slipped the card into the lock. I pushed open the door, and went in.

The room was empty.

Like the motel, it was spare and plain, with an alcove for a closet and a small bath beyond the alcove. The lights were off, the drapes were pulled, and the air smelled of cigarettes. Everything was neat and tidy because the housekeeper had already made her rounds. Two pairs of men's slacks and two shirts hung in the alcove above a battered gray suitcase. I checked the suitcase for a name tag, but the suitcase was tagless. No telltale clues stood out on the bed or dresser to tie the room to the man in the alley, and the nightstand drawers were empty.

The bathroom was empty, too, except for a small black toiletries case. I was hoping for a prescription bottle showing a name, but it held only the usual anonymous travel articles available at any Rite Aid. I went back to the alcove, and checked the pants hanging on the rail. The pockets were empty. The suitcase was unlocked, so I opened it. A naked woman smiled up at me. She was on the cover of one of those freebie sex newspapers filled with ads for strippers, outcall services, and massage parlors. This one was the Hard-X Times. I lifted it aside, and stared down at myself.

In a way I didn't understand, my chest hurt, as if a pressure had built within me until some part of me cracked and the pressure escaped. The picture was part of an article about me published in a local magazine. The reproduction was poor and murky, like it might have been copied off a library microfiche; my eyes were dark smudges, my mouth was a black line, and my face was mottled, but I knew it was me. I found two more articles under the first, one I remembered from the Daily News and another from the L.A. Weekly.

This was his room.

John Doe #05-1642.

I put the articles aside and searched the rest of his suitcase. I felt through his underwear and three rumpled shirts, then felt along the inside lining of the suitcase for some kind of identification, but instead I found something hard and round inside a roll of socks. I unrolled the socks and counted out $6,240 in twenties, fifties, and hundreds.

I counted the money twice, put it back in the socks, then finished searching the room. Nothing identified the occupant, almost as if he was purposefully trying to hide himself.

I put everything back as I had found it, let myself out, and went back to the lobby. The older couple was gone. A name tag on the clerk's blazer read James Kramer.

I gave him my best cop tone.

"My name is Cole. I'm investigating a homicide, and we believe a person or persons involved might be a guest at your motel. Do you recognize this man?"

I held out the morgue shot, and watched Kramer's mouth tighten.

"Is he dead?"

"Yes, sir, he is. Do you recognize him?"

"He looks kinda different, like that."

They always look different when they're dead. I put away the picture, and took out my notepad.

"We're trying to identify him. We believe he was staying in room one-sixteen. Can you tell me his name?"

Kramer moved to his computer and punched in the room number to bring up the invoice.

"That's Mr. Faustina-Herbert Faustina."

He spelled it for me.

"Could you give me his home address and phone?"

He read off an address on College Ridge Lane in Scottsdale, Arizona, then followed it with a phone number.

"Okay. How about his credit card number?"

"He paid cash. We do that if you put down a three-hundred-dollar cash deposit."

I tapped my pad, trying to figure out what to ask next while he stared at me. You should never give them a chance to think.

He said, "What did you say your name was?"

"Cole."

"Could I see your badge?"

"If he made calls from his room, those calls would show up on his bill, right?"

He was beginning to look nervous.

"Are you a policeman?"

"No, I'm a private investigator. It's okay, Mr. Kramer. We're all on the same side here."

Kramer stepped back from the desk to put more distance between us. He didn't look scared; he was worried he would get in trouble for answering my questions.

"I don't think I should say any more. I'm going to call the manager."

He turned to pick up his phone.

"You need to do something before you call. Someone else might have been involved, and they might be in his room. That person might be injured and need help."

He held the phone to his face, but he didn't dial. His eyebrows quivered, as if he was sorry he had ever taken a crappy job like this.

"What do you mean?"

"Check his room. Just peek inside to see if someone needs help, then you can call your manager. You don't want someone dying in that room."

He glanced back toward the hall.

"What do you mean, dying?"

"Faustina was murdered. I knocked on his door before I came to you, but no one answered. I don't know that anyone is inside, but I'm asking you to check. Make sure no one is bleeding to death, then call."

Kramer glanced toward the hall again, then opened the desk drawer for his passkey and came around the desk.

"You wait here."

"I'll wait."

When he disappeared down the hall, I went behind the desk. Herbert Faustina's account still showed on the computer. I found the button labeled CHECKOUT INVOICE, and pressed it. A speedy little laser printer pushed out Herbert Faustina's final room charges on three pages. I took them, and left before Kramer came back. I did not wait. The World's Greatest Detective had struck again.

Ten hours start to finish, and I had Faustina's name and address, and a list of every call made from his motel. I was thinking about calling Diaz and Pardy when I realized I was hungry, so I picked up a couple of soft tacos from Henry's Tacos in North Hollywood and ate them on the benches out front. I wolfed down the tacos like a starving dog, then bought two more, slathering them with Henry's amazing sauce. I would probably have Faustina's life story by dinner, and his killer by bedtime. LAPD would probably beg me to clear their other unsolved cases, and I thought I might go along. Largesse is everything.

When I finished eating, I worked my way up Laurel Canyon to the top of the mountain, then along Woodrow Wilson Drive toward my house. I was feeling pretty good until I saw the unmarked sedan parked in front of my house, and my front door wide open.

I parked off the road beyond my house, then walked back to check out the car. It was an LAPD detective ride with a radio in the open glove box and a man's sport coat tossed casually on the back seat. My friend Lou Poitras was a homicide lieutenant at Hollywood Station, but this wasn't his car. Also, Lou wouldn't leave my front door hanging open like an invitation to bugs and looters.

I went inside. Pardy was on my couch with his arms spread along its back and his feet up on the coffee table. He didn't get up or smile when he saw me. A black Sig hung free under his arm.

"You have a nice little place here, Cole. I guess it pays off, getting your name in the papers."

"What are you doing?"

"I was up here asking your neighbors about you. They say your car was here all night, so I guess you're in the clear unless something else comes up."

"I meant what are you doing here in my house."