I parked beneath a jacaranda tree across from Ivy's building, then headed for her apartment. Ivy lived in Apartment 4, which was the bottom unit at the back of the courtyard. I rang the bell twice and knocked, but she wasn't home. Perfect.

Ivy wasn't much of a lead, but she was the only lead I had, so I returned to my car. Twenty-two minutes later, a dusty Ford Neon appeared and parked on the opposite curb. A tall young woman with serious eyes and straight hair climbed out. She had the broad shoulders and defined legs of an athlete and was wearing running shorts, a thin T, and blue Saucony running shoes, as if she had been for a run. The little heart on her forearm stood out like a strawberry.

I followed her into the courtyard, hurrying to catch up.

Ivy Casik!

She jumped sideways as if I had shouted Boo, and seemed about to run.

Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you.

She glanced at the other apartments as if she might start calling for help.

You scared the hell out of me.

Sorry.

I held out a card.

Elvis Cole. I'd like to ask you about Lionel Byrd, the man you knew as Lonnie Jones.

She backed away, still searching the apartments for help.

Who are you?

I'm a private investigator. Just look at my card.

Anyone can get a card.

I spread my arms.

I could show you my gun.

She hesitated, but seemed to grow calmer. I put away the card and held out my license.

Licensed by the State of California, see? I'm sorry I scared you.

You're a policeman?

Private, but the police will want to talk to you. I would have called before I came, but I didn't have your number.

She studied the license as if it was difficult to read.

You are Ivy Casik, aren't you?

She glanced up, but seemed to be getting used to me.

Why are you here?

About Lionel Byrd, the man you knew as Lonnie Jones.

Yes?

I couldn't tell from her answer if she recognized his name or not. The people at Laurel Market told me you knew him. A clerk named Charles. Did you read the newspaper this morning?

Charles.

Yes. Do you have any idea what I'm talking about? You knew the man as Lonnie Jones?

She seemed to think about it, then hooked her hair behind her ear. I'm sorry. This is all so weird. That guy in the paper, he was really Lonnie?

I understand. Kinda creeps you out, doesn't it?

Yeah. You want to come in? It's easier than standing out here.

Her apartment was small and clean, with only a single couch and coffee table in the living room, and a small circular table near the kitchenette. The furniture was new, and had the efficient lines of furnishings that had probably come with the apartment. The kitchenette was immaculate. So were the floors and the table. The only thing out of place was a newspaper, open to the story about Byrd.