"Yes?"

"Mr. Steele, this is security, at the front gate. We have a John Rudd out here. Says he's delivering a pizza, but he doesn't look like a pizza delivery guy. He's driving a beat-up looking Toyota, and he--"

"It's all right. He's making a joke. Give him a visitor parking pass and let him in."

"Okay, Mr. Steele, whatever you say."

Steele clicked off the phone. He could just see Rudd out there at the gate trying to keep a straight face as he told the stern security guard he was delivering a pizza. He must be out on another one of his all-night stringer runs, prowling the LA freeways searching for any kind of interesting mayhem to describe in gory detail in tomorrow's newspaper.

Steele turned back to the computer and continued scrolling through the police incident reports. Plenty of things going on tonight in LA. Not surprising for a Friday evening. But nothing that might be related to the whereabouts of the illusive Mr. Culp.

When the doorbell rang, Steele grabbed his crutches and got up to let Rudd in. As usual, when Steele looked out through the peephole, Rudd had his eye pressed up tight against it. Always the joker.

When Steele opened the door, Rudd almost fell in. Another joke. He was grinning, as always, as he held out the pizza box. "Pizza delivery for Mr. always-working Drew Steele."

"Very thoughtful, Rudd, even if I don't eat pizza."

Rudd headed straight for the kitchen. "Yeah, I know, but I figured you could use some company while I ate it.." He got a plate out of the cupboard and put a couple of big pieces of pizza on it. Then he opened the fridge. "Damn, you never have anything in here but healthy crap. Couldn't you just once have a beer for me, or something?"

Steele went back to his computer. "There's fresh-squeezed orange juice in there. Better for you than beer."

"Are you kidding? My digestion system can't handle anything that healthy." He came to look over Steele's shoulder while he munched his pizza. "What ya working on? A new case?"

"Uh huh. Missing-person. Guy named Kenneth Culp. A walk-away Vegas casino employee. White, middle-aged, married. They think he may have been headed for LA."

"Middle-age crisis, I bet," said Rudd, his mouth full of pizza. "Younger woman involved. Has to be."

"Possibly. I did ask if any the women he works with were missing. They said no."

"Not an office romance? Well, then I bet it was one of those hot drink girls they have over there. The last time I was in Vegas, I got to talking to this cute drink girl who kept me in beers all the time I was playing the slots. I tell ya, she was somethin' else. Really built, like out to here. But turned out she had a boyfriend."

Steele tried to concentrate on the incident reports. There was a middle-aged DOA at UCLA Medical. Multiple gunshot wounds. He scrolled down to see if there was a follow-up. There was. The DOA was a black man. Couldn't be Culp.

"You're not very good company," complained Rudd. "Maybe I should take my pizza out to the pool. Seen any new women out there lately while you're swimming your morning laps?"

"None that you haven't already scared off."

"Very funny. I think I'll go out and check, just to be sure." He put a few more pieces of pizza on his plate and headed for the door. But before he got there, the cell phone on Steele's desk buzzed. Rudd stopped and turned back. "That's your mobile. Maybe it's Loren."

"Not likely," said Steele, glancing at the international clock at the bottom of the computer screen. "It's pretty early in the morning in France." He picked up the phone. "Yes."

"Mr. Steele?"

"That's right."

"I'm here. Where are you?"

Steele didn't recognize the voice. "Who is this?"

"Why, it's Rita Culp, Ken's wife. I called as soon as I found the place. That's what you said to do, didn't you?"

Steele tried to think why the missing man's wife would be calling him. And what place was she referring to? She must be confused. "Mrs. Culp, I didn't call you. Did someone at the casino tell you to contact me?"

"I don't understand. You said I should come to LA right away. You said to go to this Crueltown place and then call you. I'm there now. I rented a car at the airport and came straight here, right where you said, but it's dark and there's nothing out here except a tall fence with barbed wire along the top. Is there a gate somewhere? Are you inside?"

Crueltown! It had been a while since Steele had heard that dreaded name. But why had someone told her to go there? Something was wrong about this, very wrong. "Listen to me, Mrs. Culp. I didn't call you. I was hired by the casino to find your husband, but they didn't ask me to contact you. They didn't even give me your phone number."

"But why would someone say they were you? Are you telling me I came all this way for nothing?"

Rudd came back to stand by the desk. "What's going on?"

Steele held up a hand to silence him. "Mrs. Culp, listen to me carefully. Crueltown is a dangerous place. Known for crime and drug dealing. Get out of there. Drive north. Get away from the harbor district as fast as you can."

"I'm already going north. Where should I go?"

"Just keep going until you get back to an area where there are people around. Are there any cars behind you?"

"Only one. It's kind of a dark deserted road. I don't like it here."

"Speed up."

"What?"

"I said go faster. Do it!"

"All right, I'm speeding up. But why?"

"Is the car still following you?"

"Yes, It's still back there. Mr. Steele, you're worrying me. What's going on?"

"Someone wanted you in the Crueltown area. Maybe they hoped you would lead them to your husband. Is that car still following you?"

"Yes, but it's dropping back. I'm going very fast now."

"Good. Keep going. Don't slow down."

He pressed the cell phone's speaker button, and handed it to Rudd. "It's the wife of my missing person. Keep her talking."

"Good evening, ma'am," said Rudd cheerfully. Uh, how are you?"

"Who's this? What happened to Mr. Steele?"

"I'm, uh, his associate. He'll be right back with you."

Steele reached under the desk to get his prosthetic foot. The footshell and shoe were already in place. He attached it to his stump and opened the lower desk drawer to get a pistol. He chose the little Beretta .32 automatic, and also a tiny pen gun. He slipped the pistol into the specially-designed holster that was attached to the prosthetic foot's carbon fiber composite ankle shaft, and slipped the tiny pen gun into its tight-fitting, pre-drilled hole. He pulled down his pants leg to hide it all, put on his other shoe, and stood up.

"Ask her where she is now."

"Uh, where are you now, ma'am?"

"I'm not sure, but I'm coming to a stop light."

"Good," said Steele, leaning close to the cell phone. "What street is it?"

"The sign says . . . wait a minute . . . Pacific Coast Highway."

"Turn left. See if the car follows you."

"All right. I'm turning. "It's . . . yes, it turned also, but it's staying back a ways. It's a silver car. New looking."

"How many are in it?"

"I can't tell. The windows are darkened."

"Let's go," said Steele, heading for the door. "Keep her talking."

"But what about my pizza?" said Rudd.

"Leave it. Hurry." On the way up the stairs to the parking lot, Steele thought about that stretch of Pacific Coats Highway. Once she got to Carson, there would be an endless line of no-tell motels and greasy-spoon restaurants left over from the old tourist days. "Tell her to pull into the first motel she sees."

"Damn, Steele. Wait for me. I don't know how you go so fast with that fake foot of yours."

"Just tell her."

"Okay, okay. Just let me catch my breath. I'm a big guy, remember?" He stopped to lean against the parking structure wall."

Steele went back and took the phone from him. "Listen to me, Mrs. Culp. Pull in at the first motel you see."

"Oh, right. I will need someplace to stay tonight, won't I?"

Steele hurried to his car. He was already backing out of his parking place by the time Rudd got there. Rudd barely had time to get into the passenger seat before Steele burned rubber out of the parking structure and headed for the front gate of the condo complex. Rudd hung on as Steele shot past the two wide-eyed security guards and made a sliding turn onto the street.

Rudd managed to squeak out a high-pitched, "Jesus, what's the hurry?"

Steele handed the phone to Rudd. "Find out where she is."

Rudd caught his breath, and then said, "Mrs. Culp, are you still there? It's John Rudd again."

"What happened to Mr. Steele?"

Steele blew through a red light at speed, barely missing a rusty old pickup truck. The driver panicked and hit the brakes. In the rearview mirror, Steele saw that the truck has skidded to a sideways stop in the middle of the intersection; luckily, it hadn't hit anything.

Rudd took in a big gulp of air and put his hand against the dash. "He can't talk right now, Mrs. Culp. We're coming. Really fast!"

"You're coming here?"

"Where is she?" said Steele as he dodged into the oncoming lane to get around a slow-moving red Cadillac. He hit the gas again and the car's powerful engine wailed in response. This was one of those times he wished he had a stick shift, but after he got back from Iraq, he'd discovered that his prosthetic left foot made driving his stick-shift car difficult. He'd been forced to buy a car with an automatic transmission. It made this kind of fast driving through traffic possible, but somewhat less precise.

"Where are you, Mrs. Culp?" said Rudd. "Have you come to a motel yet?"

"I'm just coming to one now, but it's kind of beat-up looking. Oh, dear, the sign says, 'Playboy in-room TV channel.' Maybe this isn't the right place for me."

"Steele grabbed the phone out of Rudd's hand. "Pull in, and stay there. We'll be there soon. What's the name of the motel?"

"Uh, the Hideaway. I'm turning in now."

"Did the silver car follow you in."

"No. It stopped across the street. That sort of worries me, Mr. Steele. Why did it stop? What do they want, Mr. Steele?"

"Listen to me," said Steele, making sure he kept his voice calm. "Go into the motel office. Watch from there to see if that car does anything."

"All right. I'm pulling in."

Steele handed the phone back to Rudd. The last two lights before the freeway on-ramp were green, and Steele was barely able to overtake a big brown UPS truck before he had to duck back into the right lane to make it onto the ramp. He built up speed all the way down the curving ramp, and once he was on the freeway, he began to slalom his way through the heavy evening traffic.

Rudd was clinging to his seat belt. He held the phone against his chest and whispered, "What's the big hurry? Is she in danger?"

"She could be. Someone lured her to LA, claiming to be me. They told her to meet me at Crueltown."

Rudd let out a low whistle. "Crueltown. Not that place again. But why would anybody want her to go out there?"

"They may be trying to find her husband. Somehow they must have found out I'd been hired to search for him and used me to get her to come here from Las Vegas. Ask her if she's in the motel office."

Rudd nodded. "Are you in the office yet, Mrs. Culp?"

"Yes, but the manager is on the phone talking to somebody. What should I do?"

Rudd looked at Steele.

"Ask her if she sees anyone in the parking lot. Is that car still across the street?"

"Look in the parking lot, Mrs. Culp? Can you see anybody?"

"Just a second. I'll have to go to the window."

Rudd put his hand over the phone. "

"She's looking."

"I'm at the window, Mr. Rudd. Are you still there?"

"I'm still here, Mrs. Culp"

"The car hasn't moved. No, wait, now they're pulling in here. It's. . . it's parking right behind my car. Oh, dear. A man in a long leather coat is getting out. He's leaning down, talking to somebody inside their car. Wait, a man in the back seat just rolled down his window. Now the man is talking to him too."

"Give me the phone," said Steele.

Rudd handed it over.

"Mrs. Culp, it's Drew Steele again. Listen to me. Don't stand in front of the window. Is there a place where you can watch that car without them seeing you?"

"Just a second. Yes, I can see them through this little window in the door, but the manager is staring at me. I think he's getting suspicious."

"Just keep watching that car. If anyone heads toward the motel office, tell the manager to call the police."

"Really? But what if they only want a room?"

"Then you can say you're sorry, that you made a mistake. You have to realize that if someone is following you, you may be in danger."

After a moment's silence, she said, "In danger? But . . . why?"

"Those men may think you know where your husband is. Do you?"

"No, isn't that why the casino hired you? To find him? I don't understand any of this."

"We'll talk as soon as I get there. Is the silver car still out there?"

"Yes. I'm not feeling so good, Mr. Steele. I think I have to sit down. My legs feel kind of . . . shaky."

"You have to be brave, Mrs. Culp. Can you think of any reason why those men might be looking for your husband?"

"No. I didn't even think the casino should have hired you. At least not so quickly. Maybe he . . . I mean, maybe Ken just needed some time to think. Needed to get away. Lately, he's been under a lot of . . ."

Steele knew the reason the casino had hired him was because of the missing money, but it was possible Mrs. Culp didn't know about that. "He's been under a lot of what? Pressure?"

"Yes, but maybe he . . . wait, the man in the leather coat is walking away from their car. Now I can see him better. I think he might be Mexican, or something like that. Hispanic anyhow."

"Is he coming toward the office?"

"No, he's walking over to my car. He's looking in the windows. What should I do?"

"Tell the manager to call the police."

"Really?"

"Yes, tell him somebody has been harassing you. Tell him they followed you to the motel."

Steele heard her talking to the manager, then she came back on the phone: "He's doing it. He's really scared. A little foreign man. He talks with a funny accent. I can barely understand him."

"Are you back by the door?"

"Yes."

"What is the man in the leather coat doing now?"

"He's moved away from my car. He's walking this way. No, wait, he's gone back to their car. He's talking to the man in the front seat again. Oh, God. I'm scared, Mr. Steele. What should I do?"

"Stay where you are. I'm getting off the freeway right now. I'll be there in just a few minutes." Steele dropped the cell phone into his lap and made a wide turn onto the off-ramp. He knew he was going way too fast to make the turn, so he had to nearly lock up the brakes at the bottom of the ramp. The tires howled as he skidded sideways onto Pacific Coast Highway, barely missing a well-preserved old Chevy. The elderly woman in the passenger seat of the Chevy stared wide-eyed as they flew past.

Rudd opened his eyes. "Wow, those are some good . . ." He gulped loudly. "Brakes."

Steele picked up the phone and kept his eyes on the road as he spoke to Mrs. Culp. "Now listen carefully, Mrs. Culp. I'm driving a white Ford. A big car. Four doors. I'll be coming into the motel's parking lot soon. I'll be moving fast. I'll pull up in front of the office. As soon as I stop, we'll swing open the back-seat door. You run out and get in. Do you understand?"

"I . . . I guess so. But what about my rental car?"

"We'll worry about that later."

"All right, if you say so."

Steele saw the Hideaway motel sign ahead on the right. "There it is." He maintained his speed, waiting for the right moment to brake.

Rudd put both hands out against the dash. "No, wait, you're going too fast."

Steele braked hard, and dived into the parking lot. The front tires lost grip and he almost clipped the edge of the building, but he quickly corrected the slide and came to a sudden, tire-smoking stop in front of the motel office door. "Now!" he yelled into the phone. "Come out. Run!"

The office door flew open and Mrs. Culp came running out. She was a big woman, but she was moving pretty fast.

Rudd reached back and opened the back seat door for her. She jumped in, and Rudd pulled the door closed. Steele immediately floored the accelerator to put the car into a rubber-burning drift to make it spin around in the tight parking lot. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man in the leather coat run for the silver car. It was a BMW 750i. If they decided to follow, it meant trouble: it was a very powerful, good-handling car.

Steele got the car straightened out just in time to slide back onto Pacific Coast Highway. He was barely able to squeeze between two of the many cars that were lined up in the right-hand, eastbound lane. The car behind him laid on the horn, but Steele ignored it and quickly moved over into the left lane. He accelerated, keeping his eyes on the rearview mirror to see if the BMW was following. If they were willing to follow even after they had been made, it would tell him a lot. If they did, it meant they wanted Mrs. Culp badly. But why?

He saw the BMW roar out of the motel parking lot. They were coming.

Steele switched lanes back and forth to try to find a path through the heavy traffic, but he kept on having to slam on the brakes as he came up on slower cars. He wasn't getting much of a lead on the BMW.

Rudd turned in his seat to look back. "They're still coming. Should I call nine-one-one?"

Steele glanced in the rearview mirror. The BMW seemed to be staying back a ways. Maybe they were just going to follow to see where Mrs. Culp was going. "Let's wait and see what they do," he said.

"But why were they following me?" said Mrs. Culp. Her voice was high-pitched and panicky. "I really don't know where Ken went. Maybe we should just stop. I'll tell them I don't know where he is, and then they'll leave us alone."

Steele adjusted his visor mirror so he could see her. She was turned sideways in her seat, looking back. Her hands were clasped together, as if she was praying. "It won't help talk to them, Mrs. Culp. The fact that they are still following us tells me they probably weren't trying to find your husband after all. They know we won't lead them to him. But if that's so, I have to ask myself why they would want you so badly. What aren't you telling us?" He watched for her response in the mirror. She looked confused.

"Me? I don't know anything. What do they want?"

"You tell me."

"Honestly, Mr. Steele, I don't know."

She seemed to be telling the truth. But if she didn't know anything about her husband's disappearance, why had they lured her to Crueltown? It didn't make any sense.

"They're getting closer," said Rudd.

Steele glanced at the rear view mirror. "Not much I can do about it in this traffic. Let's see how bad they want us." He darted out into the left lane and punched it. The Ford picked up speed quickly, but moving that fast in the heavy Pacific Coast Highway evening traffic meant he had to keep a close watch on every car they came up on to be sure they didn't make an unexpected move. Luckily, most of them saw the Ford's very bright halogen driving lights closing fast behind them and stayed out of his way.

"We're coming to Wilmington," said Rudd. "You gonna stay on PCH?"

"For now."

"There's a deserted stretch of this road before we get to the 710 freeway," said Rudd. "They may try something there."

"I was thinking the same thing," said Steele. "But there's an industrial area there. I know the streets. Hopefully, they don't."

"Think you can lose them?"

"I'm going to try. There's a shortcut there the truckers use to keep from getting weighed."

Just before he got to the shortcut, they came up on a white Mercedes convertible that made a sudden lane change, pulling right in front of them. Steele had to brake hard to keep from smashing into it. The squealing of his tires startled the very-blonde older woman in the Mercedes, so she reacted instinctively by giving him the middle-fingered LA salute. Steele darted around her in the right lane and accelerated away.

"Jesus, that was too close," said Rudd, waving his middle finger back at the woman. "And I thought that Beemer was gonna smash into the back of us. They must have just about as good a brakes as you do."

Steele stayed in the right lane, ready to duck into the industrial area when the shortcut street came up. As usual, there was a bit of the evening fog coming in off of the Long Beach harbor. Steele's bright driving lights boring through the fog made an eerie effect.

The BMW came up close behind and stayed there--not doing anything, just following closely.

Steele pushed the accelerator to the floor and yelled, "Hang on everybody."

Mrs. Culp reached forward to grab Steele's shoulder. "Please slow down. You're scaring me."

Rudd reached over and pried her hand off. "Just sit back and make sure your seat belt is tight, Mrs. Culp. Steele knows what he's doing." But then he mumbled to himself," I hope."

Steele let off the gas just enough to make sure the BMW was right on his tail, then he hit the brakes and jerked the steering wheel hard right. It put the car into a four-wheel slide, and when it was lined up with the side street that led into the industrial area, he feathered the gas pedal just enough to give the tires a bit of traction. As the tires bit, the car slid onto the side street, coming much too close to the huge front grill of a big semi-truck that was just pulling up to the stop sign.

Mrs. Culp shrieked, "Oh my God." She closed her eyes and put her hands over her face.

As soon as Steele got the car straightened out, he accelerated away down the dark street. The truck driver leaned on his air horn, but the sound quickly faded as they sped away into the darkness.

Rudd looked back. "It worked. They missed the turn. Ha! They almost smashed into that damned truck."

Steele put the car into a drifting turn again to get around the next corner. The tires howled, but the heavy-duty suspension held steady. One more turn, this time just grazing the outside curb, and they were on a straight street, picking up speed. He swerved to get around another semi, and then the street was dark ahead. He pushed the car even faster, trying to make it out of the industrial area before the BMW could recover and come looking for them.

"I think you lost them," said Rudd. "Now if we can just get back to the main street before they--"

Suddenly, there were bright lights coming out of the fog right in front of them. Steele managed to miss the oncoming car, but as it shot past, he saw it was the silver BMW.

"Damn," said Rudd. "How did they find us so quick?"

In the mirror, Steele saw the BMW make a tire-smoking U-turn, and soon it was gaining on them again.

"Here they come," said Rudd. "Boy, that car is fast!"

Steele heard a pop, and a spider's web of cracks appeared in the back window.

"Get down," yelled Steele.

"What was that?" screamed Mrs. Culp.

"They're shooting," shouted Rudd. "I guess we're gonna get to test that bullet-proof glass you had installed."

"It's holding so far," said Steele. "Stay down, Mrs. Culp. You too, Rudd."

Two metallic pings came from the rear of the car, followed by the whine of bullets glancing off of the pavement.

They're still shooting," said Rudd. "Hitting the back of the car, and trying to get our tires. Are you all right, Mrs. Culp?"

She only whimpered in response.

"There's enough Kevlar in the trunk to stop their bullets," said Steele, "but I don't know how long that window will hold."

"Man oh man," cried Rudd, scrunching down in the seat to make himself as small a target as possible. "If anybody here knows how to pray, this would be a good time."

Steele heard Mrs. Culp begin to mumble to herself: "Dear God, just let me live through this. That's all I ask."

More bullets hit the rear window, and Steele began to swerve back and forth. He heard another ping as a shot hit the trunk lid, and then a loud crack as yet another shot hit the glass.

"The back window's still holding," said Rudd. "But what if they get up next to us? Are these side-windows bullet proof?" He tapped on the glass.

"Only a couple of layers of polycarbonate," said Steele. They'll hold for the first shot, but that's all."

"That's reassuring," mumbled Rudd. "Maybe we should tell them to only shoot once." He scrunched down even further, as far as his seat belt would let him.

Steele didn't have time to answer. He was approaching the onramp to the 710 freeway, and he knew he was going too fast to make the turn because the steering felt heavy; it meant one of the front tires had been hit. The double-chambers of the racing tires would keep them partially inflated for a while, but if the outside chamber became completely deflated, he wasn't sure they would stay on the rims under really hard braking.

Time to test them, he decided. He hit the brakes hard, and the rear end immediately broke loose. It meant at least one of the rear tires was also partially flat. He corrected the slide, but realized he was going to hit the curb anyhow. He steered into it to make sure they hit straight on. They bounced over the curb, slid sideways, clipped a sign pole, and scraped the concrete ramp barrier, but somehow Steele managed to get the car straightened out in time to enter the freeway. By some miracle, they were not hit by any of the cars in the fast-moving stream of late-afternoon traffic.

Steele saw an opening in the traffic in the middle lane and hit the gas to dive into it. The engine responded, but the car felt unstable; it tended to pull to the left, and that meant the tire on that side must have been the one that had been hit. Luckily, the run-flat inner tire was holding--so far.

"Doesn't this freeway end soon," shouted Rudd.

"It dead ends out by the Queen Mary parking lot," said Steele, but I plan to get off before then. Are they still back there?"

Rudd peeked over the top of his seat. "Yeah, they're right behind us. It looks like they've stopped shooting."

"Too many witnesses on the freeway," said Steele.

Steele had to work hard to keep the car straight. He moved into the right lane to make sure the BMW couldn't come up next to them to keep him from taking an exit.

"What're you gonna to do?" said Rudd. "Should I call the police now?"

"Go ahead and make the call if you want to, but we'll be there before the operator figures out where we are."

"Be where?"

"We've got tires going down. I'm going to try to make it to the Long Beach police station. It's not far from this freeway. Is Mrs. Culp all right?"

Rudd looked back. "She's lying down on the seat. Are you all right Mrs. Culp?"

She murmured something.

"I think she's crying," said Rudd, "or praying."

"Good," said Steele. "We can use all the help we can get." He saw the downtown Long Beach exit coming up and got ready to take it. With those tires going down, it wasn't going to be easy.

The driver of the BMW seemed to sense what he was about to do and came up fast. Before Steele could take evasive action, the BMW smashed into his back bumper, throwing them sideways. Steele fought to correct the slide. "Hold on," he yelled.

Mrs. Culp's praying got louder.

Steele barely had time to get the car straightened out before the BMW hit them again, and this time they didn't back off. They were pushing, hard. Steele knew they were trying to spin him out, or push him into the guardrail. He hit the gas and tried to keep the car straight as he approached the exit. The BMW broke contact and swerved into the next lane, clipping the rear end of the white SUV that was next to Steele's car. There were several surprised-looking women inside it. The SUV swerved into the side of Steele's car, hitting hard just behind the rear door. Mrs. Culp screamed. The driver of the SUV overcorrected and swung her car back to the left, smacking into the side of a shiny new red pickup truck. The resulting series of collisions and spin outs was the last thing Steele saw before he dived off the freeway onto the Broadway Street exit.

But before he could make it down onto the surface street, the BMW again came roaring up from behind and again smashed into his rear bumper. Steele managed to keep the Ford straight, but then the shooting started again. The rear window finally couldn't take any more hits and blew in, scattering fragments of glass everywhere inside the car. Mrs. Culp was screaming non-stop now, and even Rudd let out a scared yelp as he frantically tried to brush the glass out of his hair.

"Hang on," yelled Steele. "We're almost there."

He pushed the accelerator to the floor. He was trying hard to keep the car straight, but it was wandering back and forth on the curved off-ramp, hitting first one side wall and then the other. Steele hoped it hadn't bent the fenders in to the point they would cut into the front tires. If so, they would undoubtedly crash as soon as the tires gave out.

Finally, they made it down to the surface street. Steele knew the police station was only two blocks ahead. All he had to do was keep the BMW behind him until he got there.

"Here they come again," yelled Rudd, ducking down.

With Steele's car crippled, the BMW soon made up the distance. They came up alongside and a Hispanic-looking man in the passenger seat seemed to be laughing as he pointed a large revolver right at Steele's face. Steele hit the brakes just as the man squeezed off a shot. From the sharp metallic pop, it sounded as if the shot had hit the door post. Too close.

The BMW slowed, and the man had his revolver out the window, getting ready to fire again, but Steele slammed the accelerator to the floor and his car shot forward. Steele heard the shot, but didn't hear it hit anything.

Mrs. Culp's screaming got much louder.

Steele saw the light turn red at the next intersection, but he didn't let up on the gas. A red convertible sports car with two bikini-clad girls in it moved out into the middle of the intersection, waiting to turn left. As Steele shot past them, missing the front of their car by inches, they shouted and waved cheerfully.

In the rearview mirror, Steele saw the BMW swerve to miss the girls' car and then accelerate to come again.

The parking lot of the Long Beach police station was coming up on the right. Steele aimed for the entrance, hoping his tires would hold together long enough to make it.

Rudd looked up just in time to see the arm of the wooden guard gate coming at them. He yelled, "Oh, no!" and put both feet up against the dash.

The guard's eyes got very wide as Steele blew through the gate, turning it into splinters. The moment they were through the gate, Steele hit the brakes, but it felt like both rear tires were now flat. It made his car skid to the side where it glanced off of a parked black and white cruiser and then into the side of a shiny black unmarked police car. Steele's car pushed the black car several yards sideways until it hit a motorcycle that fell over onto another motorcycle. Steele's car finally came to a stop, but the row of police motorcycles continued to fall over like a line of noisy metal dominos. Steele switched off the engine and said, "Well, here we are." He calmly rolled down his window and waited for the police to come.

The cop from the guard gate came running up, his gun out. "Stay where you are!" he yelled. "Keep your hands where I can see them."

Steele raised his hands. "You don't have to afraid of us," he said cheerfully. "Just a little mishap. I can explain everything."

The guard was screaming into his radio. "Get me some help out here. Somebody just crashed into the Lieutenant's car. And they knocked over all the motorcycles too."

Soon, a large number of policemen came running out of the station. They surrounded the car, pointing their guns.

Steele smiled and said, "Good evening, fellas. Sorry about the mess."

The police held their ground until a man in a suit arrived, out of breath. He put both hands on Steele's windowsill and said, "What the hell's the matter with you? That's my car you just ruined." He was looking at the smashed-in shiny black, grimacing as if he was in pain.

"We were being chased," said Steele. "If you ask the guard, he will tell you that a silver BMW sped away as we came in. They were shooting at us. As you can see, they shot out my rear window. You'll also find several bullet holes in the trunk."

The man glanced at the back of the car, and then scowled at Steele. "Yeah, I can see that. But for Christ's sake, did you have to take it out on my car? It was brand new."

"Sorry," said Steele. "Would you mind telling your men to lower their guns. We have a very frightened woman in here."

The man leaned in to look at Mrs. Culp who was still lying on the back seat, whimpering. "What's the matter with her?".

"She's praying," said Rudd. He leaned across Steele and stuck out his hand to the policeman. "I'm John Rudd, crack reporter for the Independent, and when I write my story about this in tomorrow's paper, I'll be sure to tell them what a great job you and your men are doing out here in Long Beach."

The man shook his head and turned away. "Put these people in the detention cell until I can figure out what the hell happened here."

"Right, chief. On what charge?"

"I don't care. Just lock 'em up. Book 'em for . . . " He turned to look at his smashed-in car. "How about destroying public property, for starters."

The buzzing of a cell phone was like a warning, part of the dream in which a young boy in rags was leading the way into bombed-out ruins. A map of Baghdad was spread out on the blood-stained table. It showed where all the IEDs were hidden.

As the cell phone continued to buzz, Steele stared up into the darkness. He had hoped the war dreams would end after he left Iraq, but they hadn't.

He shook off the remnants of the dream and felt for the phone. He clicked it on and mumbled, "This better be a wrong number."

The response might have been a cough, or more likely, a suppressed laugh.

"You sound sleepy, Steele. Didn't wake you did I?"

It was Rudd. Why the hell would he be calling in the middle of the night? "Very humorous, Rudd. Why would you think I'd be asleep at . . . " Steele snapped on his bedside light and tried to focus on the clock. "Four AM?"

Rudd chuckled again. "Yeah, well, you'll be happy I woke you when you hear what I just picked up on the police scanner. I was trying to help you find your missing Vegas guy and I heard some squawk about a body they found out at Crueltown. Next to the west fence. How about that, Steele? West side of Crueltown? Same place as somebody led Mrs. Culp last week. That get your interest? Or do you think it's just a coincidence."

It did get Steele's attention. Crueltown again, and Steele didn't believe in coincidences. "What makes you think it's him?"

"Call it reporter's instinct."

Steele swung his feet out of bed and reached for his pants. "Reporter's instinct, eh? What was it really?"

"Well, soon as I heard the report on the scanner, I called my contact at county sheriff's dispatch. She'd heard some radio chatter from the cops on the scene. They said the stiff was an older guy, gray hair. Not only that, they said he was a big guy. Doesn't that sound like your missing man?"

"More likely it's just another old transient. They find dead transients out there all the time."

"Yeah, I know they find a lot of bodies out at Crueltown, but hey, when somebody dies inside there, don't they usually just throw 'em over the fence? This guy was in the trunk of a car."

Steele cradled the cell phone with his shoulder as he strapped his prosthetic foot to his lower leg. The little Beretta automatic and the pen gun were still in place. Expecting more trouble, he'd left them there ever since the car chase in Long Beach. But there had been no further sign of the men who had attacked them. Mrs. Culp had gone back to Las Vegas. He had advised her to go to the casino for protection, but she hadn't, and for some reason, she wasn't returning his calls.

The police hadn't found the BMW, which didn't surprise Steele. Despite the apparent disappearance of their attackers, Steele knew the car chase wouldn't be the end of it: somebody had been trying to kill him, and they had been willing to do it in front of witnesses. Sooner or later, they would try again.

His car had been repaired, and the insurance company had begrudgingly paid for all the damage before canceling his policy. The Long Beach police department's charge of destroying public property had been dropped, and it was as if the whole incident had never happened.

"Hey, Steele, are you still there? Am I right, or am I right?"

"So you put two and two together, and figured it had to be the old guy my client is looking for."

"Well, why not? It could be, couldn't it? Maybe he was out there at Crueltown trying to buy drugs and got himself killed. And get this, my contact said the cops on the radio were all jabbering about something that was burned into the stiff's forehead. A warning of some kind."

"A warning?"

That's what she said."

"Burned? Like what? Like a tattoo?"

"She said burned. That's all she knew. C'mon, Steele, aren't my hunches usually right on? Let's go take a look."

"All right, I'll meet you there in half an hour." Steele clicked off the phone, and as he finished dressing, he thought about what Rudd had said. Why would somebody go to the trouble of burning some kind of warning into the forehead of a body? And what kind of warning would fit on a forehead? A word? A symbol?

He went to his closet and got out an inconspicuous-looking tan Harris tweed jacket. He slipped it on as he went into his office. He sat down at the desk and turned on the lamp to look up Monroe's number at the Golden Palace Casino in Las Vegas. He punched in the number, and while it rang, he turned on the computer and scanned through his old emails. He found the email from Monroe and printed out the attachment that provided the missing man's description.

"Yeah? Whatta ya want?"

Monroe always sounded a little pissed off. "Mr. Monroe? This is Drew Steele calling from LA. I may have something for you."

"You found him already?"

"Not sure yet. Could your employee have been into drugs?"

"Are you kidding? You think we'd put a drug freak in charge of the count? Culp was as an old man, about as straight and narrow as they come. With a plain-as-mud wife. Two kids already grown up and left the nest. Does that sound like a guy who would go in for drugs?"

"It doesn't, but the police here found a body of a large older man in an area known as a place to buy drugs. I'm heading there now to check it out, but if it's Culp, I'm going to need some way to make a positive identification."

"I sent you the pictures. Didn't you get 'em?"

Steele moved aside the overnight delivery envelope, and picked up the two photos. "I'm looking at them now, but from these head-and-shoulder shots he could be Joe Anybody. Ever see a dead body, Mr. Monroe? Even the relatives have a hard time identifying the deceased."

"All right, you go check it out. If you think it might be Culp, call me back and I'll fly down there to identify him myself. Did they find the money?"

"No report of any money. The body was found in the trunk of a car. If he had any money, the killer wouldn't be likely to leave it behind."

"No, I guess not. Well, call me back in . . . what, a couple of hours?"

"You won't be asleep?"

"We're on Vegas time here, Steele. I sleep in the daytime."

As he drove over the bridge to the harbor, Steele saw one of the huge Hong Kong container ships being unloaded at the far side of the ship channel. The crane was in the process of lowering one of the large metal containers onto a waiting flat-bed truck. A line of empty trucks stretched for half a mile around the periphery of the gigantic parking lot, waiting for their turn to be loaded.

Steele thought about those containers being filled and loaded onto that ship by Chinese laborers back in the Hong Kong harbor. The last time he was there, he'd spent a lot of time down at the harbor watching the busy activity. He liked wandering the streets near the harbor, exploring the dockside shops, many of which were filled to overflowing with strange looking, but apparently edible, root vegetables that emanated an amazing diversity of exotically indescribable odors. He had enjoyed the trip, despite the sad way that case had turned out.

It would be fairly warm in southern China this time of year. Maybe he should take another trip there, this time for pleasure. If not there, he should at least take a trip somewhere, as soon as he was done with this case, as soon as he found the elusive Mr. Kenneth Culp.

Steele took the printout of Culp's description out of his pocket and turned on the overhead light to read as he drove. Sixty-three years old, six foot one, two hundred and forty pounds. A big guy. If Culp really was the man in the car's trunk, it would be a tight fit.

The summary sent by Monroe said Culp had been reported missing by his wife when he didn't come home from work at the usual time. In his original phone call, Monroe had said they thought a good chunk of the casino's money was gone too. They were still checking it out. That made it seem like a straightforward case: guy up and disappears along with an unknown amount of money. Happens every day. With an older man like Culp, it often turned out to be some kind of mid-life crisis: failed aspirations, trouble with the wife, tired of his job, or just dissatisfied with life in general. Usually a younger woman was involved. But when Steele had suggested they check to see if any of Culp's female fellow employees were also missing, Monroe had sent back a terse email to say none were, and besides, that wouldn't be like Culp.

Steele turned off the overhead light and put the printout back in his pocket. Maybe this wasn't the usual mid-life crisis thing after all.

As he approached Crueltown, Steele saw the police red and blue lights flashing vaguely through the thick smog. As he got closer, he saw several squad cars lined up next to the Crueltown fence. He recognized the last car in the line as Captain Pruett's unmarked black Buick. Steele was mildly amused. Pretty early in the morning for Pruett. Maybe they'd roused him out of bed for this one.

Steele parked a short distance from the police cars and got out. As he locked his car door, a young sheriff's deputy approached him. The deputy cautiously looked him over, keeping his flashlight's beam in Steele's face. "Can't stop here, sir. Police investigation."

Steele showed his private investigator's license. "I got a call. Is Pruett in charge here?"

"Yes, sir. Did Captain Pruett call you?"

"I'd better talk to him. I'm supposed to identify the man. They haven't taken the body away yet, have they?"

"No, not yet. Well, uh, if Captain Pruett okayed it, I guess I can let you by. They're over there by the fence." He pointed with his flashlight toward a group of men standing behind a car.

Steele recognized Pruett even from that distance. He was dressed in his usual worn-out suit, a charcoal pin-striper that might have fit him twenty years earlier. He was shining a bright light into the trunk of a new-looking Mercedes. But it wasn't Culp's car: Monroe's email had described the missing man's car as an older Honda hatchback. The Mercedes would probably turn out to be stolen.

When Steele got closer, he saw that the dead man in the carpeted trunk was curled up in the fetal position, crammed in tight. A blue tarp was under him, partially wrapped around his legs. There were no apparent injuries to the man's body, and it didn't look like there was any blood on the tarp. The lack of blood indicated the man had been killed somewhere else and dumped into the trunk afterward. And more than one person was involved because it would take at least two strong men to put that big body in there. Could it be a professional killing? If so, there would be a small hole in the side of the man's head. A pro would pride himself in doing the job with a single shot from a small caliber weapon.

Steele leaned over Pruett's shoulder. "Was it a pro hit?"

Pruett turned to shine his flashlight in Steele's eyes. "Steele. Who let you in here?"

Steele held up his hand to ward off the light. "I got a call. This may be a man I've been looking for."

"So you're up and around now. I heard you got torn up pretty bad over there in Iraq. One of those IED bombs, wasn't it?"

"I'm fine now. Can I look this guy over?"

"You're gonna have to wait 'til we send him down to the morgue. We haven't finished here yet."

"Bet you won't find a thing," said Steele. "Dinner at Monte's says the car is clean."

"You're probably right about that. Car's clean as a whistle up front. Trunk looks pretty clean too, but we'll know more when we get this guy out. I'll take the free dinner anyhow. Give me a call later." Pruett turned away to shine his light back into the trunk.

Even from where he was standing, Steele could see that there were some dark marks on the body's forehead. Was that the message Rudd had mentioned?

Steele took a moment to memorize the car's license number, then he put his hand on Pruett's shoulder. "What about that warning on his forehead?"

Pruett turned back to face him, scowling. "What do you know about that?"

"The warning may have been meant for my client."

"Listen, Steele, if you know anything about this you'd better tell me right now."

"Like I said, it may be a guy I've been looking for."

"Yeah? Well, maybe you can tell us why somebody would want to burn a couple of words onto this stiff's forehead. Where is it we're supposed to keep out of? Crueltown?"

Steele shrugged. "Let me in on this and I'll tell you everything I know. We can work together."

"I've heard that one before. If you know somethin', you'd better tell me. This is the third body we've found out here since Christmas. It means somethin's goin' on inside Crueltown. You've been inside the fence. What's going on in there? Some kind of drug war?"

Steele shrugged. "I don't know any more than you do. I haven't been in there since I went in after Furtado." It was the truth. Steele hadn't set foot inside the Crueltown fence since the Furtado drug ring kidnapped the mayor's little daughter to try to ransom her to get back a huge heroin cache the police had seized. The kidnapping of a kid was about the only thing that would take Steele inside that fence, but his job had been to find her and he did. Too bad she was already dead.

Pruett took Steele's arm and walked him away from the car. "I can't let you roll the guy over to ID him until we're done here. We haven't even dusted for prints yet. But the coroner's on his way so we should have this guy packaged up and out of here pretty soon. After they get him checked into the morgue, you can tell the guys down there I said it was all right for you to give him the once over."

By the time Steele got back to his car, Rudd was there, leaning up against it. His face looked tired and his wrinkled and baggy old brown suit looked like he'd slept in it. Steele suspected Rudd often slept fully dressed, probably dozing next to the police scanner, ready to jump up and bolt out the door to be well ahead of any other news reporters if he caught wind of a late-night LA crime.

"Careful, you'll scratch the paint," said Steele, unlocking the door.

Rudd turned to pat the Ford's fender. "You'd have a hell of a time figuring out which scratch was mine. When are you gonna get a new car, Steele?"

"This car is fine."

"At least you could have had them replace this fender instead of just patching it up after our Long Beach adventure. Hey, I know you've put a lot of special stuff into this car, but it's gotta be . . . what, four years old? It'll be a classic soon."

"Then it won't be inconspicuous anymore and I'll have to get a different one."

Rudd shrugged and pointed toward the line of police cars. "They wouldn't let me in. What did you find out? Is it your man?"

"From what I could see, it might be. Gray hair, and about the right height and weight."

"See there. Didn't I tell you?" Rudd tapped the side of his head. "Reporter's instinct."

"Maybe I should give up investigating and just go on your instincts."

"You could do worse. Well, whatta ya think? Is there a story in this for me?"

"Not likely. A casino employee goes missing and turns up dead. Your rag won't print that unless he got abducted by aliens."

"Don't make fun of the independents, Steele. Without us all you'd get is the sanitized, big-brother version of corporate-controlled news. And besides, what about that warning that was burned into his forehead? That's not your normal missing persons deal."

"That's true. An odd touch. They wouldn't let me get a close look, but I'm guessing think the words were 'Keep Out.' What do you make of that?"

Rudd thought about it, scratching his chin. "Keep out? Sounds like a sign on a fence. Keep out of where? Crueltown?"

"Could be. I guess that's what we're going to have to find out, isn't it?"

"We? Does that mean you're going to let me in on this one?"

"I could use your help on something. Want to follow me back to my place?"

"Sure. Hey, we could sit out by the pool and talk about it. Maybe some good-looking girls will be out there having an early-morning swim."

"Not likely. Follow me. I'm going to take the harbor route back."

"I'll be right behind you."

As Steele turned back to the south, he saw Rudd's headlights swing around to follow him. It would be nice if Rudd would meet a new woman, somebody kind and gentle who would take care of him, at least until he got back on his feet. Since Rudd's divorce, he'd been hitting the bottle a little too hard and haunting the downtown bars where he seemed to have a knack of meeting some of the strangest women in LA. Even worse, lately Rudd had been pestering him to come along on those bar-hopping outings, trying to convince him that since Loren had run off to Paris to study art he should try to find some new female companionship.

Steele turned up the police scanner, trying to catch any mention of them finding a body in a car trunk. There was nothing but the usual freeway pile ups and police pursuits.

As he drove back toward the harbor, Steele thought about how the big man's body had been stuffed into the trunk of that Mercedes. The lack of blood on the blue tarp showed he'd been dead for some time before the killers him in there. So why did they bother to put a tarp under him? It was as if they wanted to protect the car. But why would they do that if it was stolen?

After he was through the toll gates and starting up over the long arching bridge that spanned the west ship channel, Steele saw that they had almost finished unloading the big Hong Kong container ship. The port was shrouded in the usual smog mixed with fog, but the bright phosphor lights from the crane operator's cabin high above the ship were bright enough to penetrate the murky night. The crane was rapidly lifting the containers off the ship and lowering them onto the waiting flat-bed trucks. A short distance away, another container ship was tied up, still fully loaded, waiting its turn. They would be unloading that one for the rest of the night and most of the morning.

Steele drove the rest of the way over the bridge thinking about ships and far-away places. It was definitely time for another trip abroad, but maybe not the Far East this time. What about Paris? He hadn't been there in years. Maybe he should surprise Lauren, let her take him to the Louvre and explain which of the paintings were great and which ones weren't. She'd like that. But on second thought, maybe she wouldn't be so happy if he showed up on her doorstep unexpectedly. She might be involved with somebody else by now. Lately her emails had been mentioning one particular art professor that seemed to have taken a great fancy to "her work."

At his sprawling hillside condo complex overlooking the Pacific, Steele pulled up to the front gate. When the guard came out of the glassed-in guard shack, Steele rolled down his window. "There's a guy behind me in an old Datsun. Name's Rudd. Big guy. Thinning hair. Give him a visitor's pass when he gets here?"

The guard wrote down the information and waved him in without smiling. After the last round of home-invasion robberies in the surrounding neighborhood of expensive homes, the guards had begun to take their jobs much more seriously.

Steele parked in the upper-canyon parking structure and hurried to his condo unit. Inside, he turned off the alarm system and went upstairs to his office to check his email. He scanned through the list of messages. Nothing regarding the Culp case. And nothing from Loren.

He clicked on the icon of the international clock at the bottom of the computer screen and selected Paris. It was mid-afternoon there. Maybe Loren would be home from class by now. Should he call her? He glanced at her picture on the desk and decided to take a chance. He punched in her number on the desk phone's autodialer. No answer. When her answering machine came on, he left a brief message saying he was thinking about coming to Paris for a visit. Maybe as soon as his current case was finished. Would she be free?

He was just hanging up when he heard Rudd's knock on the door. He went downstairs to let him in. As soon as Steele opened the door, Rudd said, "Let's hit the pool."

"At six AM? No self-respecting woman would be out there at this time of day."

Rudd grinned. "I'm not looking for a self-respecting woman. I'm looking for . . . the other kind."

Steele ignored that comment. "I thought you said you wanted to help on this case. We've got work to do. I need a license number."

"The car the body was found in?"

"That's right. It was a fairly-new Mercedes Turbo Diesel. California plates. I'll write down the number for you."

"Why bother checking it out? It had to be stolen, didn't it?"

"I'm sure it was, but somebody put a tarp in the trunk before they threw the body in there."

Rudd frowned. "They didn't want to get the trunk messed up? That's odd, if the car really was stolen."

"It could mean the thief knew the owner of the car."

"What? You're saying the thief felt sorry for the car's owner? If I put that kind of thing in my story nobody would believe it, not in LA."

"What other reason can you think of for being so careful? Pruett said the interior of the car was also clean."

"Hmm. Okay, so you want me to call the DMV to find out who the owner is. I'm not sure I can ask Kate for another favor."

"Try."

"Well, maybe she'll talk to me. But the last time I was with her, she kind of said she never wanted to see me again."

"Use your charm on her."

"Actually, I may have used too much charm on her last time. Besides, can't you do it yourself online? You know, get on your fancy computer and go to one of those pay-for-info sites?"

"Not so easy to get info on a California plate since they passed the California Citizen's Privacy Act. That ten-thousand dollar fine makes even the online outfits think twice. Besides, that method takes time. I need the info right away."

"So you want me to be the one who gets the big fine?"

"Just make the call, Rudd."

"All right, all right, but she won't be into work for a couple of hours. You could use the time to make me breakfast. I'm starving. And then maybe we could go down to the pool to see if any of those non-self-respecting women are out there."

"I'll put some toast in the toaster. Then we should head for the morgue."

Rudd frowned. "Forget the toast. If I know you, all you've got is that healthy whole wheat stuff. And probably no jam either."

While Rudd went out to see if anyone was at the pool, Steele went up to his office and got back on the computer to check his crime news-alert service. After he put in his password, he searched for the latest reports. There was nothing much of interest during the past twelve hours, only two car chases and a shooting in Pico Rivera. Most of the alerts were about some Hollywood starlet who'd smashed her car into the front of a 7-11 store. The most current alert, only seventeen minutes old, said the starlet claimed to be only stoned on pot, definitely not drunk.

Rudd was soon back from the pool. "Nobody out there except some guy swimming laps. I asked him if he knew any hot girls in this complex, but he ignored me." He leaned over Steele's shoulder to look at the computer screen. "Anything new?"

Steele signed off the computer and stood up. "Nothing about the body at Crueltown. We'd better get going. I want to get to the morgue before they start processing the body."

"Don't you ever slow down?" complained Rudd. "And what about that breakfast? I'm really hungry."

"As I said, there's plenty of wheat toast. Help yourself."

Rudd turned up his nose. "Forget that healthy stuff. Hey, I know, let's stop on the way and get us some donuts."

"Donuts for breakfast?"

"Sure, why not? Breakfast of champions, or anyone with real taste buds."

They started for the door, but Rudd stopped and snapped his fingers. "Hey, that gives me an idea. Remember that old movie 'Breakfast at Tiffanys' where Audrey Hepburn eats her donut while she window-shops at Tiffany's? When I write my story about this case, I'll call it breakfast at the morgue."

On the way to the morgue, Rudd spotted a donut shop and insisted Steele stop.

Steele waited in the car, listening to the police scanner, while Rudd ran in to buy "his favorite," the baker's dozen bag of assorted chocolate-covered and surprise-filled donuts.

The rest of the way downtown, Rudd munched on his donuts and rambled on about a girl he'd met at a plastic bar out in West Hollywood a few nights before. "She had really nice red hair," he said, "and it was almost her real hair color too, I'm sure of it. She had this cute way of tilting her head to the side every time I asked her a question. I'm sure I wrote down her number, but when I got home I went through every pocket and couldn't find it. Hey, Steele, how about we go back out there tonight? Maybe she'll be there again."

Steele shook his head. "Not tonight. How about trying your friend Kate at the DMV now about that license plate number."

Rudd looked up her phone number in his little black book and punched it in on his cell phone. He spoke to someone, then quickly hung up. "She's not there yet. They said she'll be in soon."

When they reached the imposing gray stone county building that housed the morgue, Steele parked in an official business space and led the way to the short flight of stairs that led up to the unloading dock.

As Steele used his sideways method of getting up the stairs, Rudd took Steele's elbow to help him.

Steele pulled his arm away and stopped to look at him. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Rudd quickly jerked his hand back. "Oh, sorry. I forgot. It was just . . . I mean, I know you don't need any help, but you always seem to have trouble with stairs. I thought maybe your legs were hurting you, or your foot, or I mean, where you used to have a foot. I . . . Aw, hell, you know what I mean."

"I can get up stairs fine. It just takes me a little longer than it used to."

Rudd nodded. "Right. Sorry, I wasn't thinking."

Steele made it up the last few steps and went into the building. He hurried as fast as he could down the long hallway to the morgue's intake room. The sound of his uneven steps echoed off the walls reminded him of how his odd gait must look to others: like a cripple. He hated that, but there was nothing he could do about it. Although the prosthetic foot had a flexible joint in the middle, the real problem was with his reconstructed knees: after many surgeries, they had finally become somewhat stable, but they were still both stiff, forcing him into an unnatural walking motion that was quite noticeable.

Rudd stayed close, but kept his hands to himself. "Jeez, Steele, doesn't this place give you the creeps? I used to hang out here on Saturday nights. You know, looking for offbeat stories. But eventually it got to me. After a while you get pretty sick of seeing them roll teenagers in here all shot up like they'd been in a war or something."

Steele didn't reply, but he'd spent enough nights in the morgue to know what Rudd said was true. South Central LA was a lot like a war zone when the gang wars heated up, and quite a few of the gang kid participants in the turf wars ended up at the morgue. It made him think once again about taking that trip abroad. LA was a great place to be in the detective business, but it was also a place you had to get away from now and then.

They found Ed Kelly busy working on a new arrival, a dirty-looking man with a long ragged beard. The body was still clothed, lying on it's back on the stainless steel table. The bright overhead light made the old man on the table look as stark and pale as a fake body from an old monster movie.

Kelly looked up from his task. "Hey, guys, what brings you down here so bright and early?"

"We just love to watch you work," said Rudd.

"Always glad to have admirers. But you might want to stand back a ways from this one. They found him camped out under some cardboard in the river channel. From the smell, I'd say he's been dead for . . . uh, three days, maybe four. I'd better get this one tagged and bagged and into the fridge quick." He used a pair of electric scissors to efficiently cut away the many layers of filthy clothes, revealing the man's bloated belly that sagged to one side. The smell of decaying flesh filled the room.

"Yuck," said Rudd. He turned away and fanned his hand in front of his face.

"We're looking for a body the homicide division sent in this morning," said Steele. "Pruett said I could take a look at him."

"The old guy they found out at Crueltown? The one with the forehead thing?"

"That's him."

"Drawer six." Kelly nodded toward the cold storage room. "I'll try to get to him before lunch."

They found locker six and Steele opened the door. The familiar smell of death came out, mixed with another strong odor.

"Damn," said Rudd, turning away and wrinkling up his nose. "What's that smell?"

"You know what it is," said Steele, "you just don't associate it with this place. Normally you'd like that smell."

Rudd turned back and sniffed the air again. "Burned meat? Steak?"

"That's right. Captain Pruett said the words had been burned into his forehead."

"Oh, Jesus," said Rudd. "You mean his skin got like . . . cooked?"

"Burned human flesh smells pretty much the same as any other animal's burned flesh," said Steele, sliding out the drawer. He folded back the plastic sheet. The two words on the man's forehead were small, but they stood out clearly, one word above the other: "Keep Out." It had been carefully done, impossible to ignore and easy to read even after death had contorted the man's features.

Rudd peered over Steele's shoulder. "Man, look at that, 'Keep Out' burned right into his skin. Looks deep too. Damn, that's horrible. I hope the guy wasn't still alive when they did that."

"Maybe Kelly can tell us about that when he does the autopsy."

Steele took out the two photos Monroe had sent him. Despite the bloating, Steele could tell it was the same man, the same sharply-pointed nose and thick curly eyebrows.

Rudd looked at the photos. "Looks like mug shots. Had your man been in jail?"

"These are probably copies of the photos the casino provides to the Nevada Gaming Commission. They're required of all key gaming personnel."

"So he's a casino boss?"

"Middle-management. He was a member of the count team at the Golden Palace Casino." Steele pulled down the plastic sheet to look at the clothes the body was dressed in. The man's conservative dark suit was fairly new, but not expensive. His white shirt was dirty around the collar, as if he'd worn it some days without having it washed[Zoe1].

"The Golden Palace? Hey, I been to that casino. They've got it all fixed up like a sultan's royal palace."

"No longer. They went into bankruptcy and got bought out. Their web site says the casino and the hotel are both undergoing a complete renovation to modernize it." Steele pulled the plastic sheet further down. There was mud on the man's pant legs, and his shoes and socks were missing. Had he tried to run away from the killers?

"So this guy was the one who got to count the casino's money, all those coins people shove into the slot machines?"

"No, that's done by machine. The count team counts the paper money. The take from the gambling tables."

"Ah, I guess somebody has to count it. Hey, wouldn't that be somethin', handling all that money?"

"I expect it gets pretty boring after a while," said Steele, pulling the sheet back up over the man's chest. "Like sorting dirty pieces of paper, over and over." He moved to the other side of the drawer to look at the side of the man's head. "Come look at this. There's a small bullet hole in his temple."

Rudd came to his side. "A pro hit?"

"Looks like it."

"You're not sure it was pros? Why not?"

"The single shot to the head makes it seem that way, but I'm wondering why pros would leave the body in a car."

"Hey, that's right. They could have dumped the body at Crueltown and then got rid of the car somewhere else."

Steele pushed the drawer closed. "I'd better call my client in Las Vegas. I'm pretty sure this is his man."

They went back out into the examining room.

Kelly was finishing up the prep on the old transient. He looked up at them, wiping his hands on his filthy rubber apron. "Was that your guy?"

"Yes, I think so," said Steele. "My client will come in to identify the body. When do you think you'll be starting the autopsy?"

"In a couple of hours. Hey, what about those words on his forehead? Pretty weird, "It is," agreed Steele, "very."

"Weird is a good word," said Rudd. "Weird sells. My readers are gonna love this one."

Back out in the car, Steele called the casino.

Monroe answered on the first ring. "Yeah?"

"I'm here at the LA county morgue, Mr. Monroe. I think we've found Culp. You said you wanted to identify him personally?"

"Okay, I'll fly down. Text-message me the address of the morgue. I'll meet you there in three hours." He hung up.

"He's coming here," said Steele. "Two hours."

"Okay," said Rudd, "what do we do until then? Hey, I know a great little Italian restaurant near here. How about we go there for a snack? They've got the greatest spaghetti and meatballs you ever had, with all the garlic bread you can eat for free."

"Won't your friend at the DMV be at work by now?"

"Oh, yeah. I'll call her."

While Steele sent Monroe the morgue's address along with the link to a Google map of the location, Rudd called his lady friend on his own cell phone. When he was finished, he turned to Steele, grinning. "What a sweet gal. Wants me to meet her tonight for a drink. And here I thought she was still mad at me about that last time."

"Did you get the information?"

"Yeah. Car's registered to a woman out in Marina del Rey. Pretty swanky address." He tore the sheet out of his little notebook and handed it to Steele.

"Swanky? Now there's a word you don't hear much anymore."

Rudd shrugged. "It's what I think of every time I see a Marina del Rey address. You know, sea breezes, sunsets, gin and tonic out on the veranda"

Steele glanced at the paper. "Jenny Dainty? Is that her real name?"

"Kate said that's what it says on the registration."

Steele shook his head. "Only in LA."

On the way out to Marina del Rey, Rudd rattled on about his friend at the DMV, about what a great talker she was, about how you didn't need a key to wind her up.

Steele imagined them together, both talking a mile a minute. If she was as much of a talker as Rudd was, maybe they would spend more of their time talking and less time drinking. It might get Rudd out of the bar-hopping, romance-hoping game, at least for a while.

"Hey," said Rudd, pointing, "there's a burger joint. Let's stop."

"We've got to see this Jenny Dainty and get back to the morgue in three hours. My client is on his way from Vegas."

Rudd let out a low whistle. "How could he get here from Vegas that fast? What's he got, a magic carpet?"

"I expect he has a corporate jet. And he must have had the plane's crew standing by. It makes me wonder why identifying a dead casino employee is so important to him. What's the hurry? Culp isn't going anywhere."

"Hmm. Well, speaking of being in a hurry, are you sure we don't have time to stop for a burger? I could just run in and grab a few. I've hardly had anything to eat all day."

Steele glanced at him. "It wouldn't hurt you to have something healthy to eat once in a while. It wouldn't hurt your waistline either."

Rudd sucked in his breath and looked down at his protruding belly. "Hey, I'm a big guy. You can't expect me to eat the kind of food a skinny person like you eats. I've always been big. It's my hormones. I hardly eat a thing and I still put on weight."

Steele didn't comment. Maybe if Rudd really did get hooked up with the lady from the DMV she'd take pity on him and cook him some real food once in awhile.

He handed his smartphone to Rudd. "Let's check out this Jenny Dainty. Try Googling her."

Rudd typed for a moment and then waited. "Hey, I got some hits. Aha, should have known. She's an actress. She plays somebody on that soap opera 'Loves of Our Lives.' Let me see what else I can find out about her." He typed in something. "Oops, wait a minute. She's not on that show anymore. This soap-opera fan site says they killed her off. Just recently. Her character was supposed to have been mistakenly poisoned instead of her best friend who was fooling around with a Saudi prince." He held the phone up in front of Steele to show him the picture of the actress lying in a golden casket. "Pretty cute girl, eh? So our Miss Jenny Dainty is probably out of work. Hey, maybe she was in on it."

Steele glanced at him. "A soap-opera actress?"

"Well, maybe she, uh, got somebody to steal her car so she could collect the insurance."

"Not likely an actress would know how to do that, but let's see what she has to say about it. If she's out of work, it could mean somebody noticed her car wasn't being moved very often. Maybe it was just an easy target."

The Marina del Rey address turned out to be a new-looking three-story apartment complex right next to the marina. Steele parked in the underground parking garage and they went around to the front. The front door to the building was locked, but the mailboxes all had intercom buttons.

Rudd found her name on one of the second-floor mailboxes. "Shall I ring her?"

Steele shook his head. "Let's not alert her. I want to see her reaction when we show up at her door." He punched in a third-floor number. When a voice answered, he said, "UPS. Got a package for your neighbor. Nobody home. Buzz me in, could you? I'll just leave it inside the door down here."

When the door buzzed open, they hurried to the elevator and went up to Jenny Dainty's apartment.

She opened the door right away. "Yes?" She looked surprised, but Steele could tell she wasn't scared at the unexpected knock on her door. She was a blonde, about as small and thin as her name would imply, dressed in white shorts and a tight-fitting blue sleeveless top.

Steele showed her his ID.

She glanced at it and then looked at it closer. "Drew Steele? Is that your real name? Like in those old Civil War detective novels?"

"That was my great-great grandfather. Same name."

"No kidding? He was a real person? And you're a detective too?"

"Runs in the family. Did you report your car stolen, Miss Dainty? A Mercedes Turbo Diesel?"

"Oh yes. Did you find it already?" She smiled and seemed relieved.

If she was hiding anything about the car, Steele couldn't detect it. "Yes, but I'm afraid you won't be able to get it back just yet. It was used in a crime."

She frowned. "Uh oh, I was afraid of that. Our garage doesn't have a gate and I was afraid some gang kids might have taken it to . . . to do whatever they do. Drive-bys or something."

"It was something like that," said Steele. "Can we come in?"

"Oh, sure." She stood back and gestured toward a semicircle of four director's chairs that faced a floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the marina. Those chairs and an old glass and chrome coffee table were the only furniture in the room. She obviously wasn't rolling in money. Outside her window, rows of small sailboats bobbed and swayed in the wind.

Rudd stepped forward and took her hand. He did a little bow and said, "John Rudd, ma'am. Nice to meet you."

As Steele moved stiffly toward the chairs, she noticed and said, "Oh, did you hurt your leg?"

"Yes," said Steele, "but it's almost better now."

Once they were seated, Steele said, "We aren't quite sure of the details yet. About how your car was used in this crime, I mean. Did you report it as soon as you noticed it was gone?"

"Let's see, I called it in on . . . Tuesday morning. But it might have been gone the day before. I hadn't been out for a few days."

Rudd picked up a magazine from the coffee table and leafed through it as if he wasn't interested in the conversation.

Steele took out his smartphone and used the stylus to enter a note about the possible date of the theft. Culp's body hadn't deteriorated very much, but the car might have been stolen some time before he had been killed. "And you have no idea who might have taken it?"

She looked surprised. "Why no. I mean, it wasn't gang kids?"

"It might have been. The police are still investigating."

"But . . . aren't you the police?"

"No ma'am. I'm a private investigator. I'm working with the police on this case, for a private client."

"Oh . . . I see."

She looked concerned, but Steele still couldn't detect any attempt at deception. He was sure she didn't know who had stolen her car. But there was something she wasn't saying. "You were going to say something else?"

"Oh no, only . . . well, it might have been my fault."

"Your fault?" Steele waited while she searched for the words.

Rudd was secretly watching her over the top of his magazine.

"It's only that I . . . well, I didn't tell the police this, but I hid a spare key under the front bumper. You know, inside one of those little magnetic metal boxes. I have a bad habit of putting my keys in that little tray between the seats while I gather up my things. Then I get out and forget to pick them up before I close the door. I locked myself out . . . well, several times, and with my apartment key on the same key ring . . . The locksmith who came out to unlock my car charged me quite a lot."

Rudd lowered his magazine. "Under the bumper. That's the first place car thieves look. Saves them the trouble of pulling the lock."

She looked down at her bare feet. "Yes, I should of known better."

"No harm done," said Steele. "Your car doesn't seem to have been damaged at all. In fact, the thieves seem to have been very careful with it. By the way, did you have anything in the trunk? Tools? Tarps? Anything like that?"

"No nothing. Thank goodness for that anyhow. There was nothing they could steal."

"Is it possible it was stolen by somebody who knows you?"

She looked surprised. "Knows me? You mean it might have been somebody who . . . like maybe somebody who lives here?"

"You said you hadn't driven it for a few days. Maybe somebody noticed."

"Well, I haven't lived here very long. I know the girl who lives next door, slightly. Her balcony is right next to mine, but other than that I don't really know anybody in this building."

"All right, ma'am, I'll try to find out when they're going to release your car and let you know."

"I hope they don't have to keep it too long. I've been going to auditions, trying to find work."

Rudd lowered his magazine. "You're an actress, aren't you? Haven't I seen you on TV?"

"Well, I was on TV, but only for a little while. It was a short-term part on a morning soap opera. Probably not anything you've ever seen."

Rudd put down the magazine and put a surprised look on his face. "Now wait a minute. Weren't you on 'Loves of our Lives'?"

"You watched that?"

"Sure, never missed it. You were great. I felt terrible when they killed you off."

She looked at him skeptically, as if she wasn't sure if he was kidding her or not. "They did it out of the blue. I'm not sure why. Maybe they wanted somebody older. Now I'm making the rounds of auditions for something else. In fact, I've got one this morning. I hope they bring my car back soon. The cost of taking cabs is killing me."

Rudd stood up smiling. "Well, if you're ready now, we can drop you off. Can't we, Steele?"

Steele nodded.

"Oh, that would be so nice of you. Just let me grab my costume. I'm trying out for a Halloween TV special. For next fall. A witch's assistant."

"I can't imagine anyone as pretty as you could be a witch's assistant, Miss Dainty," said Rudd. He did his odd little bow again.

She smiled at him and touched his hand. "Well, what a nice thing to say, Mr. Rudd. But I'm not even sure what they're looking for. I hope I find something soon. The rent's due. By the way, it makes me feel . . . funny when you call me Miss Dainty. It's like you're talking to my mother or something. Just call me Jenny, okay?" She turned to smile at Steele. "You too, Mr. Steele." She hurried out of the room.

While they waited for her, Rudd opened the sliding glass door and stepped out onto the balcony. He gestured for Steele to come out. "How would this be, Steele? You should move into a place like this. Maybe some girls live here who have a sailboat. We could get to know them. You know, they could take us out sailing."

Steele didn't reply. They stood there leaning against the railing, looking at the hundreds of docked sailboats. The docks were deserted and there was only one boat moving in the channel that led out to the open ocean. "I wonder how often anybody actually takes a sailboat out."

"Yeah," said Rudd, "it must be costing them a fortune to keep 'em docked here waiting for that rare sail."

Steele looked back to be sure Jenny hadn't come into the room. "Speaking of money, hasn't it struck you as a bit surprising that a young unemployed actress could afford a new Mercedes turbo diesel?"

Rudd shrugged. "Maybe, but I don't think she knows anything. It was just chance her car was taken. You know, that key hidden under the bumper thing. Made it an easy grab."

"There's something she's not saying, but I agree she doesn't know who took it. But I'm still bothered by the fact that whoever stole her car took very good care of it, even going to the trouble of putting a tarp under the body. She said she didn't have a tarp in the car. Why would they be so careful with the car if they didn't know the owner?"

"Maybe they used the tarp to carry him. Maybe it was around him before they put him in."

"It didn't look like that. It seemed to have been carefully spread out in the trunk before they threw him in."

Rudd was about to respond when Jenny came back. She was dressed in a low-cut black dress and she was carrying a wide-brimmed black hat. "What do you think?" she asked, giving them a wicked smile as she turned in a circle. "Do I look like a witch?"

"Naw," said Rudd. "You're much too pretty to be a witch."

"Actually, the part is for a witch's apprentice. This is the only black dress I have. Last night I sewed some tassels on the bottom. Do you think it looks anything like a witch's apprentice outfit?"

"Of course it does," said Rudd. "I'm sure you'll get the part. How could they not choose you?"

As Steele drove away from her apartment building, Jenny leaned forward from the back seat to read him an address from her Daytimer. It was in Hollywood, on Gower.

Rudd punched in the address on the GPS.

Jenny showed them the casting call flyer. "See, it says there are three open parts. A witch's apprentice and two goblins. Maybe I should have tried to be a goblin. What do you think, Mr. Steele?"

Steele glanced at the flyer, but Rudd grabbed it and read it. "No, no, you're much too beautiful to be a goblin," he said. " You're a witch's apprentice if I ever saw one."

She laughed. "Well, I don't know about that, Mr. Rudd, but it's sweet of you to say so."

As they drove to the location, Jenny cheerfully told them about all of the parts she'd tried out for in the last few weeks: a nurse on an emergency room TV show, a movie role about a girl who gets chased through the desert by a mummy, even a non-speaking part about a bank teller who gets tied up and gagged while a bank robber tells her all about his sad life. "No luck on any of them," she said with a shrug, "but I haven't heard back yet about the one where I'd get to be chased by the mummy. I think they're still looking for funding."

They arrived at her audition location and she hopped out. She leaned against Steele's window sill. "Thanks again for dropping me off. Should I call you if . . if I think of anything else? About the car, I mean."

Steele handed her his card.

She seemed about to say something else, but then she shrugged and ducked down to wave good-bye to Rudd. "See you, Mr. Rudd." She turned and hurried toward the building.

Rudd leaned across Steele to call after her. "John. You can call me John."

She turned back to wave again, and then went into the building.

"Hey, she's somethin'," said Rudd grinning at Steele. "I sure hope she gets the part. I bet she's a great actress."

Steele pulled back into traffic and headed for the morgue. He wasn't sure about the great actress part, but she did have a quality that might come across well on the screen. "She is more . . . unpretentious than most actresses I've met," he said.

Rudd shrugged. "Yeah, well, that's good, isn't it? Maybe she should look for . . . I don't know, maybe a girl-next-door part. She'd be good at that. I'd love to see her in a movie. We could say we met her before she made it big."

Steele drove on in silence, but Rudd wasn't willing to let it go. He looked at Steele. "Well, what do you think? Interested? You should be. She took to you right away. It was obvious by the way she looked at you. But I'm not surprised. You look like the movie hero type, tall, blonde, and you've got what they call those rugged good looks. Have you ever thought about going into the movies? That scar on your chin could be a problem, but I think it gives you . . . character. I bet she'd go out with you if you asked her. You should call her up. That's what I think. Maybe she has a friend."

Steele didn't resply, but he had to agree that Jenny did seem like a likable young woman. And she was, as Rudd had suggested, very attractive. Maybe too attractive, and too personable, not to be hooked up with somebody.

When they got back to the morgue, they found Kelly already working on Culp's body. Kelly glanced up as Steele and Rudd came in. He waved them over. "Hi, guys, welcome to my afternoon slice and dice session. Ya know, I get all sorts of weird things in here, but this is a first. Never seen words burned into a stiff's forehead before. Any idea what it means? Keep out of what?"

"Yeah," said Rudd, leaning over the body to look closer at the two words, "and who is it that's supposed to keep out of . . . wherever it is?"

"Maybe it's warning everybody to keep out," said Kelly. "Captain Pruett said they found this one out at Crueltown. Maybe it's just a warning for everybody to stay away from there, including the cops."

Steele doubted the message was for the police. It was well known that the police were not allowed to go inside Crueltown so there was no need to warn them to stay out. But Rudd had a good point: who was the message intended for? Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to put that message on Culp's forehead. Maybe the message was not so much to warn people away, but to call attention to this particular body, to make sure it didn't get overlooked as just another dead transient.

Under the powerful lights of the examining table, Steele could see why the two words were so clear: the flesh at the edges of wounds had been burned black, outlining the letters. "How was it done?" he asked. "Can you tell?"

Kelly used a magnifying glass to examine each of the letters. "Not sure. Maybe a wood-burning tool, or a soldering iron. Very carefully done. Very clear."

Rudd said, "Maybe they practiced first."

Kelly looked surprised. "Christ, let's hope not. I don't want to see any more like him coming in here."

"Was he already dead when it was done?" asked Steele.

"Don't think so. See the discoloration around the edges of the letters? It's the body's response to the tissue damage."

"Jesus," said Rudd, "still alive and somebody does that to you." He shuddered. "I don't even want to think about it."

"Is that him?" They all turned around to see who had spoken. It was a broad-shouldered man standing in the shadows by the door. He was wearing a dark, expensive-looking suit, but no tie.

Steele went to him. "Mr. Monroe?"

"Yeah. You must be Steele." He leaned to look around Steele. "Is that Culp on the table?"

Steele turned back to Kelly. "I asked Mr. Monroe to come here to see if he could make a positive identification of the body. Is that all right?"

Kelly shrugged. "Sure."

Monroe went to the examining table and took a quick look. "That's him alright. But what the hell is that on his forehead?"

"Words," offered Rudd. "Burned in. It says 'Keep Out.'"

Monroe looked at Rudd for a long moment. "I can see what it says." He turned back to Steele. "But what's it supposed to mean?"

"It doesn't mean anything to you?" asked Steele.

"Me? Why the hell would it mean anything to me? Keep out of what?"

"We don't know," said Steele. "Apparently, somebody used his body to send a message. You don't think it could be a message for you? Or for someone at the casino?"

"I can't imagine who. What kind of person would do that to a body? Just to send a message?"

"It was done while he was still alive," said Rudd. "Kelly said so."

Monroe stared at him. Then he shook his head and took Steele by the arm to lead him away from the examining table. "This is too bizarre, Steele. Culp was just an old guy who did his job and didn't make trouble. I doubt he even got noticed by most people. And now this? Murdered, with words burned onto him? What's it all about?"

"I don't know," said Steele. "We were hoping you could tell us." Steele watched Monroe's reaction. He seemed genuinely surprised and upset. If the message was meant for someone at the casino, Monroe didn't know who or why.

Monroe shook his head and glanced back toward the body on the examining table. "It's so weird to see something like that on Culp's forehead. You have to imagine what he was like. About as straight-laced as they come. Been with the casino for years and years. Nobody would have ever expected him to steal, let alone get murdered. Okay, maybe he was doing something nobody knew about, but to end up dead like this? With his body used for a message board? It doesn't make sense."

"Maybe we should step outside," suggested Steele. He led Monroe out into the hallway and away from the morgue door before speaking. "Frankly, Mr. Monroe, this man's murder could be less complicated than it seems. Culp might have needed money badly. That's usually what leads a man to steal from his employer. He might have been in some kind of trouble."

"His wife says no debts."

"Maybe he had medical problems."

"Not according to his wife, if we can believe her."

"Do you believe her?"

"No reason not to. We can't find anything funny on either one of them. They had a normal-sized mortgage on their so-so house, but other than that, no big bills that we can find out about. No criminal contacts either."

"Did he gamble?"

"Nope. We keep a close eye on that kind of thing. Far as we know, he didn't gamble at all, except for a small-time employee's poker game. A weekly thing, nickel-and-dime stuff"

"Could he have had a drug problem?"

"Culp? Not a chance."

"I want you think about what you saw in there, Mr. Monroe. Think about that message on his forehead. Could it be related in any way to something going on at the casino?"

"I don't see how. Why do you say that?"

"When someone disappears and is found dead, the murder is almost always related to the disappearance. Let's start at the beginning. Something caused him to suddenly disappear. You say he was stealing money from the casino. Therefore, it's logical to assume he left because he was about to be found out."

"Yeah, we'd pretty much pinned down the shortages to the morning count. His shift."

"So that's why he disappeared."

"Okay, but why did he end up dead?"

"It was probably related to the money. Others may have been involved in the theft."

"So you think they had a falling out."

"Not an uncommon occurrence when stolen money is involved."

"Okay, then, that's your job. Find out about that, and find out who killed him."

"My job is finished, Mr. Monroe. I was hired to find him."

"Yeah, but there's obviously more to this now. Aren't you curious? I am. Those words on his forehead are gonna keep me awake nights."

"I am curious, but in my work I see a lot of curious things. This is a murder case now. It is no longer about the disappearance of an employee. At this point, my further involvement might be seen by the police as interference in an ongoing criminal case."

"The hell with that. What they don't know won't hurt 'em. Listen, Steele, this is important to me . . . to us. We have to know why Culp was here in LA, and why he was killed."

"Who is us?"

"Uh, corporate."

"You're saying your superiors want to me continue to investigate? They told you that before you flew down here?"

"Yeah, they want to know more about what Culp was up to. Don't know why. Maybe they're afraid somebody is trying to cause the casino trouble."

"Somebody?"

Monroe shook a cigarette out of a crumpled pack. "I don't know. They tell me what to do and I follow orders. They said to get you to stay with this, so that's what I'm hiring you to do."

"You can't smoke in a public building in California, Mr. Monroe. If I was to continue my investigation, I would need to know more about what you are referring to. Have there been threats against the casino?"

Monroe tried to stuff the cigarette back into the pack, broke it, and threw it to the floor. "Not that I know of. All I know is this whole thing has the higher-ups real nervous."

"That type of in-depth investigation you are referring to could take time."

Monroe, leaned close and lightly tapped Steel's chest with his fist. "Listen, Steele, I'll let you in on a little secret. It sounds to me like money is no object."

"Sounds to you?"

"Fact is, the big-shots from corporate won't even tell me what they're worried about. I'll try to get you more info when I can. Why don't you just take their money and do the best you can? They said I'm authorized to double your normal fee, no matter how much it is. Hell, why don't we triple it? They can afford it. And when they hear about those two words on Culp's forehead, they'll pay. I'm sure of it."

"You told me you were the head of security, but now you're saying you are only a middle man."

"Of course I'm a middle man. Even the top bosses at a casino are middlemen when you get bought out by somebody new."

"I read you'd been bought out. Was it a Las Vegas company?"

"No, an Atlantic City outfit called the Omnivexx Corporation. Don't know much about them, but most everybody at the casino is grateful they bought the place out of bankruptcy. They seem willing to put some money into it to bring it back to what it used to be. They left middle management pretty much in place, but they sent a couple of overseers to make the most important decisions. We're pretty much expected to do whatever they tell us to do. It beats me why the overseers think Culp's disappearance is such a big deal. As far as anybody knew, Culp was just an old guy who'd been around the casino for a long time. I'm told he started out as a slot keyman thirty-some years ago, back when the Golden Palace was one of the hottest properties on the strip. He worked his way up from the bottom and got put on the morning count team a couple of years ago. He kept his nose clean and did what he was told. We made him count supervisor last summer when another old guy retired."

Steele thought about what Monroe was saying. If Culp was such a low-profile employee, why would the new managers from the buyout corporation be so concerned about his disappearance? "Tell me this, Mr. Monroe, you said the overseers from the Omnivexx Corporation thought Culp's disappearance was a big deal, to use your words. Did they ask about him before they found out he had been murdered?"

"You bet. They called me as soon as word got out he hadn't showed up for work."

"How did they find out about it?"

"Not sure. But rumors fly around a casino pretty quick. When Culp didn't show up for his shift, my second-in-command called me immediately. Maybe he told other people too."

"Did Culp report to you?"

"That's right. All count teams are considered security so they're under me. The state doesn't want them supervised by the gambling bosses. You can probably guess why."

"They don't want any possibility of collusion between gaming and accounting."

"Exactly. The state wants to make sure the count is right so they get their full cut."

Steele was still troubled about why a New Jersey corporation would be so concerned about one middle-management employee. Maybe Culp was more than he appeared to be. "Tell me this, Mr. Monroe, could Culp have been involved in something bigger? Maybe he had a secret life."

"That would really surprise me. You can't imagine how boring Culp was. No disrespect to the dead intended."

Steele nodded and continued. "If a person disappears voluntarily, it's because they are in some kind of trouble. But when a person is murdered, is usually involves strong emotions, love, hate, fear, disappointment, resentment. That kind of thing. But this does not appear to be that kind of murder. The way he was killed was more . . . systematic. It might have been a professional killing."

That seemed to catch Monroe off guard. "A pro killing? Culp? You've got to be kidding. Man, if he was leading that kind of mysterious other life, he sure the hell knew how to keep it a secret. Everybody at the casino just saw him as a nice old guy."

"Stealing from an employer is often an indication the thief was in desperate trouble. Take a moment to think about it, Mr. Monroe. What kind of trouble could he have been in?"

But Monroe didn't take any time to think. He shook his head. "No idea at all. I've been in casino security for nineteen years and I can usually spot the bad apples. Culp looked to me like your regular, run-of-the mill middle manager. Like I said, a low-profile guy. Mostly he kept to himself. I can guarantee you he'd never once been in trouble as long as he'd been at the casino. I dug out his supervisor's evaluations as soon as he disappeared. Spotless. Everybody liked him, said he did his job well. And I contacted my friends at the Las Vegas police department too. They checked their records thoroughly. Nothing there either."

"Nevertheless, Mr. Monroe, there had to be something going on. If he was stealing, something motivated him to do it. And something made him leave Las Vegas and come to LA. Find that out and you'll probably find out why he was murdered."

"Sounds like you're getting curious now, aren't you, Steele. You're going to take the job, right? Triple fees, like I said."

Steele thought about it. Triple fees. It would be a very lucrative case. He didn't really need the money, but the fact that they were willing to pay so much simply for information was enough to arouse his curiosity. Besides, that trip to Paris would be expensive. This case might provide just about enough money to pay for a side trip to the Riviera, even if Loren wanted to stay in one of the best hotels on the Promenade des Anglais. "My expenses might be high on this one. I have no clear starting point."

"Hell, money's no issue for them. Just keep good records and fax your expenses to me. I'll email you the fax number."

"All right. I'll see what I can do."

Monroe smoothed down the front of Steele's tweed jacket, as if he had mussed it. "Great. I was told you're the very best, so do your best. If you have any questions, you have my number."

"All right. Let's start with the day Culp disappeared. Did anything unusual happen that day?"

"Not as far as I know. They say he put in his shift and just left, like normal. The next day, when Culp didn't show up, they called me and I asked around to find out if anybody'd seen him. Nobody had, but one of the other people on the count team said his wife had called the night before wondering where he was. So I called his house real quick and found out he never came home that night. His wife was real worried. She said she'd been calling everybody she knew to try to find him."

"So it wasn't normal behavior for him? He was not the type to stay out all night?"

"Apparently not. I asked his wife the same thing and she said he always came straight home from work."

"Did you ask her if any of his clothes were missing?"

Monroe scratched the back of his neck. "Didn't think of that. Do you want me to call her back and ask her? Or maybe you should talk to her."

"I will. Just a few more questions. When she found out he was missing, do you know if his wife called the police?"

"She didn't. I asked her that right away. She said she wasn't ready to do that yet. She wanted to give him a little time. She hoped he'd turn up soon."

"That might mean she knew why he disappeared, even if she didn't know where he was."

"Maybe, but I'm pretty sure she didn't know in advance he was gonna take off. She was really upset about it."

"Maybe she was upset for some other reason. You said you contacted Las Vegas police. What did they say?"

"They said they couldn't act until somebody filed a missing-persons report. As far as I know, she never filed one. Next thing I knew, you were calling to say you'd already found him. Dead."

"And when you told the people from Omnivexx that I'd found him, they said to keep me on the case?"

"Yeah. I got a call from the top guy. He said they'd checked you out and I should fly down here and convince you to stay on the job. And now that I've done that, I'd better get back to the casino."

"Before you go, Mr. Monroe, have you ever heard of the place they call Crueltown?"

"Crueltown? What's that?"

"It's where they found the body. It's out by the LA harbor."

Monroe raised his eyebrows. "Crueltown? Okay, I'll bite. Why do they call it that?"

"If you knew the place, you'd understand how it got that name. It's a couple of square miles of low-lying polluted land that nobody wants to claim. It used to be a small oil refinery, but they went bankrupt and left a swampy mess. The feds said it had to be cleaned up before anybody else could occupy the land, but the estimated cleanup cost was in the millions. For a while, an outfit called the Mobile Home Recycling Corporation took it over, promising to do something about the pollution. They used it as a place to temporarily park worn-out mobile homes, a convenient drop-off location until the old wrecks could be fixed up enough to make the trip down to Mexico for resale. But they never did any cleanup and eventually OSCA found out they were mostly using it as a dumping ground. They shut them down and the trailer-recycling company immediately declared bankruptcy to avoid prosecution."

"So that's Crueltown? Why cruel?"

"Because of the people who hide in there. A lot of crime goes on inside Crueltown. Drugs and prostitution. And a lot of transients land there, mostly illegals from across the border. The old trailers are gradually sinking into the muck, but that doesn't stop people from living in them. A few years after the trailer-recycling company left, the local authorities noticed quite a few people coming and going so they put up a tall chain-link fence around the whole place and posted keep-out signs. Of course that didn't keep them out. They just cut holes in the fence. A free place to live in LA draws people like flies to garbage. Smells pretty much like garbage in there too."

"No sewers, I suppose."

"Not even any electricity or running water. In the last few years, it's become known as a place to set up drug deals. The word on the street is that some big-time dealers are operating out of there now, people with Mexican connections."

"So why don't the cops shut it down?"

"That's also tied to the toxic-waste designation. The city of Wilmington found out how much the clean up would cost and declared Crueltown to be just barely outside their city limits. They even went so far as to move their official town border a half-mile away, just in case. Then the city councils of the other surrounding cities voted unanimously that the area was definitely not within their city limits either. But just in case somebody could prove it was, they all voted to forfeit the property to the LA Harbor Commission. The Harbor Commission said no way, and that's when the court battles began. The cities have all ordered their police to stay away just to make sure their city doesn't get forced into some kind of legal jurisdiction over it."

"I get it," said Monroe. "You end up with unknown numbers of homeless squatters and dopers and other criminals in there. No rent, no landlord, and no police. Crueltown probably doesn't do much for the tourist business in that area."

"That part of the harbor district is seldom visited by anybody. The whole area is low-lying and swampy. And it's downwind of the refineries so that area is always smoky and smells like burnt oil. Sometimes it gets hard to breathe out there."

"Sounds like this Crueltown is a pretty scary place."

"It is."

"You've been in there?"

"Twice. The last time I was lucky to make it back out alive. A kidnapping case."

Monroe gestured toward the door to the morgue. "So, do you think that's what the words, 'Keep Out,' refer to? Keep out of Crueltown?"

"That would be the obvious interpretation. Maybe too obvious."

"Well, if you end up having to go inside that place it sounds like you may earn your triple fees. But I guess that's what you get paid for. Let's hope it works out better than that job you did in Iraq."

That brought Steele up short. "What do you know about that?"

"All I know is what one of the bosses from Omnivexx said. I told you they'd checked you out. He said you had top credentials as an investigator and did some kind of private contractor work for the U.S. Embassy over there. In Baghdad."

"Do you know the source of their information?"

"They didn't say. Why, is it supposed to be a secret or something?"

"Not really." Steele tried to say it casually, but it was supposed to be secret. Top secret. How could a casino corporation have even learned he was in Iraq, let alone that he had been a private contractor in Baghdad?

"They said you got wounded by one of those roadside bombs. IEDs, isn't that what they call them? I noticed you've got a deep scar on your chin and you walk with a limp. What happened over there?"

Steele involuntarily started to reach up to touch the still-painful scar, but stopped himself. "It's nothing to worry about. My injuries have pretty much healed. I think I'd better start my investigation in Las Vegas. I want to try to find out why Culp started stealing the casino's money in the first place. I'll drive over later today."

"Good idea. I'll hold a suite for you. Come to my office when you get there." Monroe glanced at his watch. "Got to get back. See you later today." He hurried away down the echoing hallway.

Steele watched him go, wondering if Monroe's corporate bosses were telling him everything they knew about Culp's disappearance. Paying a high-priced LA detective to follow up on a murder of a casino employee didn't seem like something big corporations would normally do. What made them think Culp would head for LA? And why had they been so interested in the disappearance of one middle-management employee in the first place? A Las Vegas Strip casino would have thousands of employees. Was it something about this particular employee? Or were they just nervous about the possibility of employees stealing? It couldn't just be the money they'd lost. Maybe they were worried Culp was involved in some kind of an inside conspiracy. If so, why hadn't they hired a Las Vegas detective to investigate? Or used their own security department? Didn't they trust them? And why would they tell Monroe they were willing to pay a Los Angeles detective more than his already-high fees to find Culp's killers? A lot of things about this case didn't add up.

Steele went back inside the morgue. Kelly was giving Rudd a lecture about how to properly examine stomach contents. Rudd was looking a little pale.

Using a long pair of forceps, Kelly held up a bloody piece of sagging plastic. "Hey, come here, Steele. Whatta ya think this is?"

"Looks like a condom."

"Right on. But now tell me what it might be doing in this guy's stomach."

"Some kind of gay thing?" guessed Rudd.

"Gay thing?" Kelly laughed. "Whatta ya think he got carried away and swallowed it?" He shook the thing in Rudd's face.

Rudd ducked away. "Damn it, Kelly, keep that away from me."

Kelly turned back to Steele. "Well, you got a guess?"

"Drug trafficking," said Steele.

Kelly nodded. "Bingo. A way to carry drugs across the Mexican border. " He pushed his glasses up on top of his head and looked closely at the condom. "And it's busted. You know what that means."

"Overdose."

"Right. I find these things all the time." He went back to probing inside the body. "I'll tell you guys a funny story. When I first started in this business, when I was just an innocent young intern, they told me there was a condom-eating fad going on. That's why we kept on finding condoms in the stiffs' stomachs. Finally, somebody took pity on me and let me in on the secret. It was the condoms in their stomachs that was killin' 'em. Mules, they call 'em. Kids carrying condoms full of heroin in their stomachs to sneak the stuff across the Mexican border. Damn thing springs a leak and oops, kid falls over dead at the airport, or on a bus. We open up the stomach and find a deflated condom."

Steele leaned over the open cavity of Culp's stomach as Kelly probed around. "I doubt this man died of a drug overdose, but will you be checking to see if there were drugs in his system?"

"Yeah. I'll ask for a toxicology report. I agree that it doesn't look like the typical drug overdose thing. He's been beat up pretty bad and, that's a bullet hole in the side of his head."

"Small caliber?" asked Steele.

"I haven't got to diggin' it out yet, but it probably was. Looks like a pro job. Those guys take pride in doing it quick and easy. No mess."

Rudd came back to stand next to Steele. "So, you gonna get that bullet out of his head next?"

"Yeah. Soon as I bag up the stomach and bowel contents. You want to stick around for that?"

Rudd shook his head and backed away with his hand over his mouth.

"When you're done, can I get a copy of your report?" asked Steele.

"You know better than that," said Kelly. "I could lose my job."

"I could get you a ticket to a Lakers game. They're playing Phoenix tomorrow."

Kelly didn't answer. He was focusing on his work.

"Have you ever sat down close to the court? How about second row? Right behind Nicholson."

Kelly looked up. "You must have a pretty nice expense account on this case."

Steele waited.

"Well, I might accidentally leave a copy lying around here tonight. It happens."

"If you could accidentally email it to me, I'll have them hold the tickets at the box office for you."

Kelly shrugged. "It could happen." He used the scalpel to make a long curving slice to open up the man's intestines and the room immediately filled up with the odor.

"Christ! Can't we get out of here now?" said Rudd from the doorway.

Steele followed Rudd out into the hallway.

Rudd waved his hand in front of his face. "Geez, the smell in there. How does he get used to it? He acts like he's cutting up something for lunch."

"He's been doing it for a lot of years," said Steele. He headed for the parking lot with Rudd close behind. They got back into Steele's car, but before he could pull out of the parking place, they had to wait for one of the large black police morgue vans to finish backing up to the loading dock.

"So, what do you think?" asked Rudd. "What was that thing doing in his stomach anyhow?"

"It's possible somebody forced it down his throat knowing it would be found in an autopsy."

Rudd let out a low whistle. "Really? Why would they do that?"

"Hard to say. The simplest answer would be to make the police think he was a drug carrier."

"I get it. So they'd think he died from a burst drug balloon."

"I suspect they might notice the bullet hole in his head first."

"Oh, that's right. So why did they bother with the fake drug balloon?"

"Maybe they wanted somebody to think he was mixed up in some kind of drug business."

"Somebody? You mean the police?"

"Maybe the police. Maybe somebody else."

"Ah, so you think it was another message. First the words burned into his forehead, and then a second message hidden in his gut."

"I'm just speculating. It could mean something else altogether."

"Man, that is weird," said Rudd. "Using the poor guy's body to send messages."

Steele backed out of the parking space and headed for the street. Rudd was right, it was weird, but more important, it didn't fit the pattern. Professional killers prided themselves on their neatness. Using a dead man to send messages was not their usual M.O. Maybe there was a drug connection. That would lead back to Crueltown, the most notorious drug haven in LA. Maybe there was something going on in there. Something big. The last time he'd been inside Crueltown, it was to try to find the mayor's daughter. That one turned out to be drug-related. Some of Furtado's men had tried to ransom her to get back a huge cache of heroin that had been confiscated by the LA police. At first they tried the usual method to get it back: bribing the police. When that didn't work, they got desperate and kidnapped the girl. The mayor hired Steele to try to find the girl and he did, inside Crueltown. But she was already dead. He managed to trick Furtado into meeting him to pick up the fake ransom money and Furtado ended up being convicted and put way for life for his role in the girl's murder. Later, the rest of the gang had been rounded up. So who was operating inside Crueltown now? A different drug ring? Culp's body had been found next to the Crueltown fence, but that could be just a diversion. Or was it another message?

"What are you thinking about?" asked Rudd.

"Just trying to put it all together. The killers used Culp's body to send two messages, the words on his forehead and the condom in his stomach. Why two messages?"

"Yeah, why would they send messages to say the murder has something to do with drugs, but stay away? Maybe there's some kind of drug war going on inside Crueltown."

"Maybe."

Rudd snapped his fingers. "Yeah, I bet that's it. It's a drug war. One gang kills the guy and uses his body to send a message to the competition."

"But what would a man like Culp have to do with drug gangs?" said Steele.

"Anybody can get hooked on drugs. He was probably an addict. That's why he stole the money. He gets in over his head because of his drug habit, and pow, his drug dealer offs him."

"Not likely. Monroe said Culp lived a very straight life."

"It happens to the best of 'em," said Rudd with a shrug. "So, what do we do next?"

"I want to start in Las Vegas. I need to find out if he really stole the casino's money, and if he did, how and why.

-- Continued in Chapter 10 --

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