“I went back to the paper. I just had a funny feeling. All our source material is missing. We kept it in a locked file. Empty.”

“Who had access?”

“Just the members of the team. They're all solid. The only way someone could get them to open the files is if they had a gun at their head. Oh, God,” Cohen said as the implication of his statement sank in.

Zavala could sense that he was losing Cohen. “Tell me what happened next,” he said.

Cohen took a deep breath and let it out. “Okay. Sorry. Next I checked the computer disks. Nothing. You needed a password to get into them. Everybody on the team was aware of it. We backed everything up at the end of each working day. We took turns. Sandy Wheeler, one of the reporters, took the disks home with her today. I got a message saying some guy was following her. She was in a parking lot near her condo. We were supposed to have dinner tonight, go over some material for the first installment of the story. I called when I heard her message. There was no one home. I came over. Sandy had given me a key. The grocery bag was on the table. The wine was still in it. She always puts her wine into the rack. She's compulsive about that.”

“There's no sign of her?”

“Nothing. I got the hell out of there as soon as I could.”

A thought came to Zavala. “What about the other reporters on your team?”

“I tried to call them. No answer. What should I do?”

Cohen probably saved his own life by going to Sandy's apartment and then leaving quickly. Those who were rolling up the investigative team had already been there, but they might check back.

“Where are you calling from? I hear music in the back ground.”

“I'm in a leather bar near Sandy's condo.” Cohen nervously laughed through his fear. “I ducked in here when I thought someone was following me and wanted to be in a public place.”

“Anyone follow you inside?”

“I don't think so. This is pretty much a biker crowd. They'd stand out.”

“Can you call me back in five minutes?” Joe asked.

“Yeah, but make it fast. There's a tall transvestite giving me the eye.”

Zavala looked up the number Gomez had given him. Gomez answered the phone on the third try. Zavala brushed off the usual greetings.

“I'm in L.A.,” he said. “I've got someone who needs to be out of circulation. Can you help? No questions now, but I promise to fill you in as soon as I can.”

“Does this happen to have anything to do with the business you were involved in down here?”

“That and more. Sorry to be so mysterious. Can you help?”

Pause. Then Gomez's voice came back, all business. “We maintain a safe house in Inglewood. There's a caretaker there. I'll call and let him know to expect a package.” He gave Zavala directions to the safe house.