“You happen on the name of Alonzo Griggs,” Melvin said, holding up his left thumb. “He’s been suspected of midlevel bank robberies and heists throughout Southern California.” That brought out the point finger of the same hand. “Now your client shows up dead and you’re the one that found him.” The fuck-you finger accompanied that little sarcasm. “You wanna tell me right now where this Dee Dee is buried?”

Melvin Suggs was the best cop I had ever met. He was dogged, courageous, and as honest as a man steeped in crime can afford to be. He worked for the most racist police department I had ever encountered (and that’s saying something for a southern boy) but still managed to do what was right more than fifty percent of the time. Any lie I told him was likely to come out sooner or later.

“Look, Mel. Craig Kilian came to me almost a week ago with a story about having gone camping out at Blood Grove.”

“Where’s that?”

I told him everything up to, but not including, Eddie Brock’s visitations and Lola’s real name. Melvin let me go on as his oatmeal congealed.

“But the Alonzo that the kid told you about was shot,” Suggs said. “There wasn’t a knife wound on him.”

“I know.”

“Why didn’t you come to me?”

“Blood Grove ain’t your jurisdiction.”

“There had been a murder.”

“I didn’t know that. The kid said that when he woke up in the morning there was no body, not even any blood. All I had was the questionable testimony of a shell-shocked vet. What the fuck would you do with that?”

“If there was a murder I would have acted.”

“And the first body I found I called your man.”

“You didn’t tell Anatole you were looking for that man already.”

“Like you said, the man I found was shot. As far as I knew this was a completely other Alonzo and a heck of a coincidence.” The ice under my feet was getting a little thin.

Suggs sat back and stared at me. I was absolutely sure that he was thinking about ordering a slab of ham.

“Talk to me about the heist,” he said at last.

“The first I’ve heard of it is here at this table.”

“How do you expect me to convince anyone of that?”

“You know me, Mel. I’m good at what I do. If I thought that there was one shred of evidence, much less a stack of hundred-dollar bills lyin’ around, do you think I would have left it for the LAPD to find? And then call them to come find it?”

That was the first smile I got out of him.

“So what have you come up with?” he asked.

“I told you.”

“You told me the facts as they happened—maybe. What I’m askin’ is what do you think they mean?”