To Die in Beverly Hills

'They squeezed him for who hired him to post the bond,' Chagra said. 'He said they weren't just fishing around. It was like they knew something.'

'Where did they book him?'

'They didn't book him. They talked to him at his office.'

'What did he say he told them?'

'He said he didn't tell 'em shit.'

'He told them something or he would have been booked.' Suspiciously, he surveyed the busy street.

'DeMille's got too much to lose by handing me up. He does a grand a week with us.'

'I don't like the way you handled this. You should have used someone else to go to the bondsman. You would have kept yourself one-removed.'

'You're the cop,' Bones said. 'You're the Sherlock Holmes. If that's what you wanted me to do you should have said so.'

Bailey looked Chagra in the eye. 'From now on you and I don't meet,' he said. 'Don't call me unless you call from a pay phone. I'll do the same.'

'So they find out I had the broad bailed out. It's not against the law to bail someone out.'

Bailey grabbed Chagra's collar with both hands. 'You think too much,' he hissed. 'Like your pal Lee.'

Bailey slammed Chagra backward into the synthetic-brick wall of the restaurant. As Chagra rubbed the back of his head, Bailey turned and stared at the traffic on La Cienega. A sedan driven by a black man wearing a snap- brim hat drove slowly by. Bailey stared at the car. It continued north toward Sunset Boulevard and turned right.

'I'm sorry, Travis. I wasn't trying to be wise. I really wasn't.'

'Call me tomorrow,' Bailey said as he started toward Sunset.

Chagra hurried away.

Bailey returned to the table and sat down. 'We're leaving,' he said as Delsey took a bite.

'Right now?'

Bailey motioned for the waiter, paid the bill in cash and then slipped him a twenty-dollar bill.

'Oh, thank you, Mr. Bailey,' the waiter said. 'You're very kind.'

'Is there a back way out of here?'

'Is everything all right?'

'My friend is involved in a divorce,' he explained. 'A private eye is following her.'

The waiter led them through the kitchen and out the back door. Bailey surveyed the parking lot. Seeing nothing suspicious, he walked to his car with Delsey tagging behind. They quickly got in, and Bailey drove out over a low curb onto a side street rather than use the normal exit. He made three U-turns to see if he was being followed, then headed west on Sunset Boulevard toward his apartment.

'Would you please tell me what's going on?' Delsey asked for the third time.

'The Tony Dio mob might be following me,' he said. 'Bones just told me he heard a rumble. They want to get back at me because I killed Sheboygan.'

Delsey looked puzzled. 'That doesn't make sense.'

'Nothing makes any sense in police work.'

'What are you going to do?' She poked him gently. 'Really,' she said when he didn't answer, 'what are you going to do?'

'Let them make their move,' he said without taking his eyes off the road. 'I'm going to let them make the next move.'

The Sheriff's Department Records Bureau had the musty smell of a library. As if on a track, female clerks and Sheriff's cadets moved about between tall shelves containing manila files. There was the muffled sound of rock music coming from a radio on a windowsill.

Carr watched the computer screen as Della Trane tapped keys. She had greeted him with friendly talk and made no mention of their last date. Her hair was pulled back into a handsome chignon and her khaki uniform was starched and neatly pressed. She wore an even layer of makeup and her lipstick was generously and meticulously applied. Carr thought she looked more attractive than he'd seen her in years.

'One more time,' she said without taking her eyes off the computer screen. 'You want all burglary reports with silver listed as stolen property for the last ninety days?' She turned and gave him a quizzical glance.

'With victims whose addresses are listed in Beverly Hills,' Carr said.

She tapped the keys for a moment. BevH printed out on the screen in green electronic letters.

'Anything else?'

Carr shook his head.

Delia Trane punched a key. The teleprinter raced. She stood up and stretched, arching her back. Her profile was striking. Carr offered her a cigarette, which she accepted. He gave her a light and lit one himself.

'I hope things worked out with your girl friend,' she said.

Before he could answer, she turned to the teleprinter and adjusted the paper and handed it to him. 'The funny part is, that wasn't the first … not even the second time that has happened to me. And I don't even go out that much. That's the funny part. I don't have that many dates. It's like if a piece of plaster was to fall from the ceiling at any given moment in time, it would probably fall directly on my head.' They both chuckled.

Carr examined the computer printout. There were at least twenty-five names and addresses on the list. He folded it and stuffed it in his coat pocket.

'I have forty-five minutes for lunch,' Della said, glancing at her wristwatch.

'Olvera Street okay?'

Nodding in agreement, she slipped her arm in his as they strolled out of the building and down Spring Street to a Mexican restaurant sandwiched between some Olvera Street tourist gift shops. A young waiter wearing a serape showed them to a table on the patio.

During a quick lunch of tacos and chile rellenos, Della drank three margaritas.

Afterward, Carr walked her back to the Hall of Justice and headed to the Field Office. To avoid No Waves, he entered through the back door.

At his desk, he circled six names on he list that started with W, dug a telephone book out of a filing cabinet and thumbed through for the names. As he expected, the names, like the names of most affluent people, were not listed. Having lit a cigarette, he dialed the number of the Pacific Telephone Company Security Office. The woman who answered asked for his agency code number. He read a seven-digit number that was scribbled on his desk's ink blotter.

'Lemme have the name,' the woman said as if she were half asleep.

'I have six of them,' Carr said.

'I can only take two names at a time. Rules.'

Since he knew there was no use arguing, he gave her two of the names. She flipped pages and read off two phone numbers. The phone clicked. After two more calls (she made him repeat his agency code number each time), he had compiled a list of six unlisted phone numbers.

He dialed one of the numbers. A man answered.

'Is this Mr. Waterford?' Carr said.

'Speaking.'

'I'm Special Agent Carr, U.S. Treasury Department. I'm calling about the burglary.'

'Which one?'

'The one that occurred within the last three months.'

'Treasury Department?' Waterford said. 'Does this have something to do with my income tax?'

'No, sir. I just need to know if your silver that was stolen in the burglary had a W engraved on each plate.'

'No,' the man said. 'There was nothing engraved on it. What's this all about?'

'Just a routine crime survey.'

'Another way to waste the taxpayer's money.'

'Thank you for your time-'

The phone clicked, Carr set the receiver down. He drew a line through Waterford's name and address, then