The winds blow fiercest at sundown in a last furious rush to the sea, and now the trees filling the canyon below me whipped and shivered. Grey eucalyptus; scrub oak and walnuts; olive trees that looked like dusky green beach balls. Their branches rattled like antlers, and their brittle leaves fluttered like rice paper. I listened and drank. Maybe Marx and his task force were right about Tomaso. Tomaso had seemed like a bright, conscientious kid who wanted to help, but maybe he had tried too hard to be helpful. Change his answer by half an hour, and everything changed. Make a mistake by thirty minutes, and suddenly Lionel Byrd had the time to kill Yvonne Bennett, drive back to Hollywood, and stop for a fast one before heading home. Nothing like a double shot of Jack after crushing a woman's skull.

I was still listening to the trees when the phone rang, and a quiet female voice came from two thousand miles away.

Is this the World's Greatest Detective?

I immediately felt better. I felt warm, and at peace.

It was. How're you doing?

Lucy said, Was?

Long story.

I think I know part of it. Joe called.

Pike called you?

He said you could use an ear.

Did Joe really call?

Tell me about Lionel Byrd.

The canyon grew dark as I told her. As the outside darkness deepened, the houses dotting the banks and ridges of the canyon glowed with flickering lights.

When I finished, she said, So what do you think?

It's just the thought of it, I guess. Sometimes you can't duck the blame even when you do everything straight up and by the book.

Do you believe Byrd killed those seven people?

Looks that way, but I don't know. The facts appear to be on their side.

It might look that way, but do you believe it?

I hesitated, thinking back through everything Lindo and Starkey had told me, and also everything I had learned three years ago on my own.

No. Maybe I should, but I don't. I know Byrd. Not the way someone who knows him would know him, but I put everything I had into reconstructing his life on the night Yvonne Bennett was murdered. That night, I owned him. I had him by the places he went, the people he met, what he said to them, and how he said it. I knew how loud he talked, how little he tipped, where he sat, and how long he stayed before moving on. An A-list predator would have blended into the background, but Byrd was loud, crude, obvious, and drunk. I knew him on that night better than anyone, and I do not believe he killed Yvonne Bennett. Maybe he knew the murderer, I guess that's possible, but he did not kill Yvonne Bennett. I do not believe it. I can't.

Listen to me. Are you listening?

Yes.