“Yes, he is, Mr. Smollett. Easy here is my research partner.”

“Researching what?” Officer Sy asked. He could have crushed diamonds with the weight of that question.

“That’s privileged information, officer,” Jackson said in a condescending tone.

I wished he wouldn’t be so brave with a gun being leveled at me.

“Sy,” the other cop said. “Put the gun down, man.”

That was a life-on-the-line moment. Sy wanted to put me down. His whole world had been dashed by Smollett calling Jackson sir. He was further vexed by his partner, who was saying, Put your gun down because I can’t have your back in this.

The Civil War had ended more than a century before but the remnants could still be felt, still killed over on any street corner in the country.

Sy gazed deeply into my eyes. I tried my best to look like just some other guy. A few seconds ticked by and then the officer of the law lowered his gun.

The twenty-seventh floor of the P9 building was a huge library. When we walked in a hundred lights sprang to life. There were literally thousands of books on the shelves. The odd thing about them was that they were all the same size, in the same dark green bindings.

“You got every property in LA County in these?” I asked Jackson.

“Every property, property owner, and tax history of every parcel in the entire United States,” my friend corrected.

“How’s that even possible?”

“Seven maids with seven mops,” he replied.

He searched down the volume I needed. I, in turn, looked up a series of lots at the eastern end of the San Fernando Valley.

47

47

Lot AL3-47 occupied a lowland field about a mile and a half beyond the cabin where Craig Kilian stabbed Reynolds Ketch. As advertised, the bunker-like storage facility contained hand tools used for the cultivation of orange trees.

P9’s library was good enough to guide me, but it wasn’t perfect. I took the same footpath that led to the cabin and then kept going toward the shed. Arriving at the unit, I saw that there was a long dirt path leading there from the far side of the Blood Grove plantation. Parked at the end of the path was a bright red four-door Buick Electra.

My hand went automatically to the high-velocity .22 in my pocket and I crouched down into the tall grasses I’d trudged through. I could see the structure; therefore, logic had it, whoever owned that car might have seen me.

For at least ten minutes I stayed still, my palm sweating against the butt of the small-caliber gun. Nothing stirred. The unit was still and mute.