Angel Tomaso had not been my witness. Crimmens had located and interviewed him two days after Yvonne Bennett's murder, but I didn't begin working on the case until almost ten weeks later. The prosecution had been required to share their witness list with Levy under the rules of discovery, along with all the necessary contact information for those witnesses. I came to these pages as I copied the file, and found a handwritten note I had made with a different name and number for Tomaso.

When Crimmens first identified Tomaso as a witness, Tomaso was living with his girlfriend in Silver Lake. By the time I contacted him at the coffee shop ten weeks later, Tomaso had split with his girlfriend and was bunking in Los Feliz with a friend of his named Jack Eisley. Though Tomaso's work and cell phone numbers were good at the time, I had interviewed him at Eisley's apartment and still had Eisley's address and number. I finished copying the file, separated the original from the copy, then brought Eisley's number to my desk.

Three years after the fact, the odds were slim, but I called Eisley's number. His phone rang five times, then was answered by a recording.

This is Jack. Leave it after the beep.

Mr. Eisley, this is Elvis Cole. You might remember me from three years ago when I came to see Angel Tomaso. I'm trying to locate Angel, but I don't have a current number. Could you give me a call back, please?

I left my cell and office numbers.

Progress.

Maybe.

Doing something left me feeling better about things, though not a whole lot. I was heading for the door with Levy's copy of the file when the phone rang. Maybe it was the lateness of the hour, but the ringing seemed unnaturally loud.

I returned to the desk.

The phone rang again.

I hesitated, then felt stupid for waiting.

Elvis Cole Detective Agency.

Silence.

Hello?

All I heard was breathing.

Hello?

The caller hung up.

I waited for the phone to ring again, but the silence remained. I went home to watch the news.

Chapter 7

THE SUN was lowering as I traced the winding streets off Mulholland Drive toward home. I live in a house held fast to the steep slopes overlooking Los Angeles. It is a small house on the lip of a canyon I share with coyotes and hawks, skunks and black-tailed deer, and opossums and rattlesnakes. More rural than not, coming home has always felt like leaving the city, even though some things cannot be left behind.

My house did not come with a yard the way flatland houses have yards. It came with a deck that hangs over the canyon and a nameless cat who bites. I like the deck and the cat a lot, and the way the lowering sun will paint the ridges and ravines in a palette of purple and brass. The termites, I can do without.