I must have dozed, sitting upright. Dietz appeared. I opened my eyes to find him perched on the bed beside me. He was holding some papers in one hand and a mug of tea in the other. "Drink this," he said.

I took the mug and held it, focusing on the heat. Tea has always smelled better than it tastes. I can still remember how startled I was as a kid when I was first allowed to have a sip. I glanced up at the skylight, which showed a circle of lavender and smoke. "What time is it?"

"Ten after seven."

"Have we heard from Clyde?"

"He called a little while ago. She's fine. They treated her and sent her home. No sign of Agnes yet. How are you?"

"Better."

"That's good. We'll have some supper in a bit. Henry's bringing something over."

"I hate being taken care of."

"Me, too, but that's bullshit. Henry likes to feel useful, I'm starving, and neither of us cook. You want to talk?"

I shook my head. "My soul's not back in my body yet."

"It'll come. I got a line on the guy from the L.A. police. You want to take a look?"

"All right."

There was a sheaf of LAPD bulletins, maybe six. I studied the first. wanted felony traffic suspects. There were ten mug shots-like class photos-one circled in ballpoint pen. It was him. He looked younger. He looked pale. He looked glum-one of life's chronic offenders at the outset of his career. His name was Mark Darian Messinger, alias: Mark Darian; alias: Darian Marker; alias: Buddy Messer; alias: Darian Davidson. Male, Caucasian, thirty-eight years old, blond hair, blue eyes, tattoo of a butterfly on the web of his right hand (I'd missed that). His date of birth was Jury 7, Cancer, a real family man at heart. His California driver's license number was listed, his Social Security number, his NCIC file number, FBI number, his department report number, his warrant number. The arrest, apparently in the summer of 1981, was for violation of Vehicle Code Section 20001 (hit-and-run resulting in death) and Penal Code Section 192(3)(a) (vehicular manslaughter while driving under the influence). The photograph was an inch and a half wide square, taken straight on. It helped to see him shrunk down to Lilliputian proportions, the size of a postage stamp. He looked like a low-life punk, the black-and-white mug shot not nearly as sinister as the flesh-and-blood reality.

The second police bulletin read: arrest for murder of a police officer, Felony Warrant LACA, with a string of numbers, charging Penal Code Section 187(a) (murder) and Section 664/187 (attempted murder) with a six-line narrative attached. "On October 9, 1981, two Los Angeles police officers responded to a domestic disturbance during which the above suspect fired an unknown type semiautomatic at his common-law wife. When the police officers attempted to subdue him, suspect shot one of the officers in the face, resulting in his death. The suspect then fled on foot."

The names of two detectives, assigned to the case, were listed below that, along with several telephone numbers if information came to light. At the bottom of the page was a line in bold print. kindly notify chief OF POLICE, LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA, it said. KINDLY KILL THIS MAN ON SIGHT, I thought.

The third bulletin was dated less than two months back. ONE MILLION DOLLAR ROBBERY INFORMATION wanted. And there he was again, in a police composite drawing, this time with a mustache, which he must have shaved off in the interim. According to the victim's account, the suspect had followed a wholesale gold dealer into a gold exchange business in the Jewelry Mart section of downtown Los Angeles on March 25, where he relieved the victim of the gold he was transporting, valued in excess of $625,000. The suspect had produced a gun and robbed the victim and another employee of an additional $346,000 in gold "granules" and $46,000 in cash. Mark Messinger had been identified from fingerprints at the scene.

I leafed through the remaining bulletins. There was apparently no crime Mark Messinger was incapable of committing-the well-rounded felon with a major in murder and minors in armed robbery and assault with a deadly weapon. He seemed to operate with equal parts impulse and brute force. He didn't go in for the intellectual stuff, nothing with finesse. The million-dollar robbery was probably the most sophisticated thing he'd ever done.

"Now we know how he can afford to take on a cut-rate hit," I said.

Dietz tapped the paper, pointing to one of the last lines of print. A brief note indicated that the suspect was reported to have relatives in Santa Teresa. "That's how he knew Tyrone Patty. From here. They were cellmates in the county jail four years ago. I guess they kept in touch."

"Have the cops here talked to his family?"