It wasn't nine o'clock yet, but there wasn't much traffic around the bird refuge at night. The preserve encompasses a freshwater lagoon on a little-used access road between the freeway and the beach. The twenty-car parking lot is usually used by tourists looking for a "photo opportunity." There was a tavern across the street, but the property was currently without a tenant. I wasn't going to go down there alone and unarmed. I picked up the phone again and called the police station, asking for Sergeant Cordero.

"I'm sorry, but she won't be in until seven a.m."

"Can you tell me who's working Homicide?"

"Is this an emergency?"

"Not yet," I said tartly.

"You can talk to the watch commander."

"Just skip it. Never mind. I can try someone else." I depressed the button and tucked the telephone in against my shoulder while I checked my personal address book. The "someone else" I called was Sergeant Jonah Robb, an STPD cop who worked the missing persons detail. He and I had had a sporadic relationship that fluctuated according to the whims of his wife. Theirs was a marriage of high drama and long duration, the two having met at age thirteen in the seventh grade. Personally, I didn't think they'd progressed much. At intervals, Camilla would leave him-usually without notice or explanation-taking their two daughters and any money they had in their joint bank account. Jonah always vowed each time was the last. It was during one of these periods of domestic upheaval that I entered, stage left. I was the understudy, a role I discovered I didn't like very much. I'd finally severed the connection. I hadn't spoken to Jonah now for nearly a year, but he was still someone I felt I could call in a pinch.

A woman answered the telephone in a bedroom tone of voice, Camilla perhaps, or her latest replacement. I asked for Jonah and I could hear the receiver being passed from hand to hand. His "Hello" was groggy. God, these people went to bed earlier than I did. I identified myself and that seemed to wake him up some.

"What's happening?" he said.

"I hate to bother you, babe, but a jailbird named Curtis McIntyre just phoned and asked me to meet him at the bird refuge as soon as I can get there. My guess is the guy had a gun to his head. I need backup."

"Who's with him? Do you know?"

"I don't have an answer to that yet and it's too complicated to go into on the phone."

"You got a gun?"

"It's in my office at Lonnie Kingman's. I'm just on my way over there to pick it up. Take me fifteen minutes max and then I'll head down to the beach. Can you help?"

"Yeah, I can probably do that."

"I wouldn't ask, but I don't have anyone else."

"I understand," he said. "I'll see you there in fifteen minutes. I'll drive past and then double back on foot. There's plenty of cover."

"That's what concerns me," I said. "Don't trip over the bad guys."

"Don't worry. I can smell them puppy dogs. See you down there."

"Thanks," I said and hung up.

I grabbed my shoulder bag and my jacket with the car keys in the pocket, congratulating myself that I'd had the presence of mind to get the VW gassed up. It would take all the time I'd allotted to get from my apartment to the office and back down to the bird refuge. Whomever Curtis had with him was going to be edgy about delays, suspicious if I didn't show up in the time I'd said I would. I drove faster than the law allows, but I kept an eye on the rearview mirror, watching for cunningly concealed black-and-whites. I hoped I wouldn't have trouble laying hands on the gun. I'd moved only five weeks ago, hauling my hastily packed cardboard boxes from California Fidelity to Lonnie Kingman's office. I hadn't actually seen the gun since I bought it in May. I'd resented the necessity for the purchase in the first place, but I'd heard that my name was at the top of somebody's hit list. A private eye named Robert Dietz had stepped into the picture when I realized I needed help. Once I accepted the fact that my life was truly endangered, I gave up any passing interest in being politically correct. It was Dietz who'd insisted that I replace my.32-caliber Davis with the H amp;K. The damn gun had cost me an arm and a leg. Come to think of it, I wasn't all that sure where the Davis was either.

When I got to the office, I left my car out on the street with my shoulder bag tucked down against the driver's seat out of sight. There was little or no traffic and all the nearby office buildings were locked down for the night. I moved through the darkened arch along the driveway that led back to the little twelve-car parking lot. I didn't see Lonnie's Mercedes, but there was a section of pavement washed with the light from his offices above. Well, great. He was back. I couldn't stop and explain what was going on, but it probably wouldn't be hard to talk him into going with me. Despite his professional demeanor, Lonnie's a brawler at heart. He'd love the idea of sneaking through the bushes in the dark.