"Okay. Then what?"

"Nothing. What you think, what? He went off, and we went over to Stephen's, drop off his cut of the money. We shared a blunt, then came home. Stephen like to spark up, he get some money. He keep a lot of dope in that house."

Thomas made a nasty smile when he mentioned the pot, like he was paying Stephen back for putting him in this position. He would mention it to the police, too.

I wanted to tell Diaz about the car. If Faustina's car was still near the scene, an alerted patrol officer might find it. Then we could trace his name and address through the vehicle registration. If the shooter was currently joyriding in Faustina's car, we might even catch the killer.

I thanked them for their time, then started out when I saw the pictures again. I looked back at them. Dana had come up beside Thomas, and slipped her hand into his.

I said, "What Faustina said about love being the Fifth Horseman? He was wrong."

I pulled the door, then hurried back to my car, and called Diaz. If I couldn't reach her, I planned to call Starkey, but Diaz answered on the third ring.

She said, "Cole, is that you? I've been trying to get you the past hour."

I hate my cell phone.

"I have a possible car description, Diaz. It's-"

"We have his name. Beckett got the ID from those things in his legs. We know Herbert Faustina's real name."

John Doe #05-1642, also known as Herbert Faustina, had been identified through the appliances in his legs as George Llewelyn Reinnike, originally from Anson, California. I made her spell Reinnike. She told me to come to her office, and promised a full report. It was great news; so good that I did not feel the eyes, or notice that I was being followed.

The Central Community Police Station was headquartered on Sixth Street, a few blocks south of the Harbor Freeway in downtown Los Angeles, and not far from the murder site. It was a five-story modern brick building dwarfed by surrounding skyscrapers, and constantly patrolled by bomb-sniffing dogs. LAPD's SWAT is headquartered at Central, as is the elite uniformed Metro Division. Like the other police stations in Los Angeles, it was known as a Division until someone decided that Division made the police sound like an occupying army. Now we had Community Police Stations, which sounded user-friendly.

I put my car in a civilian parking lot, entered through the main entrance on Sixth, and waited for Diaz to come get me. When the elevator finally opened, Pardy was the only one aboard. He was standing straight and stiff as if his suit was tight, and he did not look at me. His jaw worked as if he had bitten into a sour candy.

He said, "Get on."

I got on. Pardy hit the button to close the doors before anyone could join us, then turned and squared his shoulders to face me.

"You could have filed a beef for what I did, but you didn't. For what it's worth, I appreciate that. I was out of line."

He hesitated like he wanted to say something more, but finally turned back to the door. Sometimes these guys will surprise you.

"That was classy, Detective. Thank you."

He nodded, still not looking at me, but now he seemed more relaxed.

"I spoke with Golden this morning. That was good work, you finding him so fast. I'm not going to ask why, but he's cooperating."

"I inspire good citizenship."

"Sure."

"The girls who saw Reinnike will cooperate, too. They expect you to give them a pass."

"They don't have anything to do with the shooting, they don't have to worry. All I'm about is the murder."

"Make that clear to them, and you'll be okay."

"After I saw Golden, I went by the Home Away Suites. I'm also not going to ask how you got Reinnike's bill, but don't do anything like that again. You understand what I'm saying?"

"I get you."

"Diaz wants me to let it go, and I owe you one, so this is the one."

"Did you go over the calls Reinnike made?"

Pardy took a moment to answer.

"He called damned near every police station in the city. I've been thinking about it."

"Yeah, me, too."

When the doors opened again, Pardy led me along a light beige hall that was lined with file cabinets, and into the Homicide Bureau. The homicide detectives were housed in a narrow room with too much furniture and not enough storage. Like the hall, the homicide room bristled with file cabinets.

Diaz was at the far end with two detectives who looked like middle-aged carpet salesmen. Pardy gestured toward her.

"Detective Diaz will show you where. I gotta get the file."

Diaz met me in the center of the room, then led me to her desk. It was wedged against the wall, and faced another desk. A black female detective as small and brittle as a hummingbird was at the adjoining desk, quietly asking someone on the phone to tell her what happened next. She scribbled notes as she spoke, ignoring us.

"Siddown here, Cole. So does the name Reinnike or Anson, California, mean anything to you?"

Like she expected a lightbulb to flash over my head and me to shout, DADDY!

"No. Do you have anything on him?"

"Beckett ran the name through NCIC and DMV. No one by this name shows on their rolls, either; which means he resided out of state or held a license under another name."

Like his alias, Herbert Faustina, George Llewelyn Reinnike was also a cipher.

Pardy returned with a black three-ring binder. It was his murder book. As the lead homicide detective, Pardy would file all the reports, witness statements, and relevant evidence he accumulated in this one binder. Since this was his first case as the lead, it was probably the first time he had been responsible for the book. He draped a leg over the edge of Diaz's desk, and carefully snapped open the rings. There weren't many pages yet in the book, but more would be added as the case developed. He handed me a thin stack of reports.

"Okay, Cole, this is the medical examiner's prelim, and the records from the company that manufactured the appliances. You can read it here in front of us, and make notes, but you can't make copies. That's the way it is."

I was anxious to read, but Diaz touched the reports before I could begin.

"Hang on. You said you had a vehicle description. Let's get started with that."

Pardy made notes on a yellow pad as I repeated Thomas's description.

"They get the plate?"

Diaz cut off his question as if he was stupid.

"He would have told you if he had the plate. Keep going, Cole-did you get anything else?"

"They prayed."

Diaz and Pardy waited the way I waited when Margaret Keyes first told me.

"Reinnike didn't have sex with them. He paid them to pray for him."

Partly laughed.

"That's bullshit. Are you making that up?"

"All three women told me the same thing. They prayed for his forgiveness."

Diaz's dark eyes colored like smoke on the horizon.

"Why did he need forgiveness?"

"He didn't tell them."

Pardy frowned at Diaz.

"I'm telling you, this sounds like bullshit. Golden probably tells all these whores to say that to beat the sex bust."

Diaz continued to stare at me with the cloudy eyes, then frowned at Pardy like he was spastic.

"You saw the crosses he had all over himself? It's not a stretch to imagine he's some kind of religious freak, is it?"

Pardy grunted, but still looked unconvinced.

"When we're done here, have Cole go over everything each girl told him. When you talk to them, see if you get the same answers. Maybe you'll catch one of them in a lie. Right now, you should put out a BOLO on the car. That's a good description. Some traffic cop might pick it up while we're here dicking around."

Pardy left to file the BOLO, and Diaz watched him go.

"You gotta tell him every goddamned thing, one slow-motion step at a time. And they say Mexicans work slow."