A call to the state Franchise Tax Board on Dabson came up empty. But a brief chat with a helpful clerk at the county assessor brought a smile to his face.

“Trammel Dabson. Been paying the property tax on Altair Terrace for twenty-one months.”

A dive back into NCIC came up empty.

I said, “‘Trammel’ means ‘to hinder.’”

“Building word power every day.” He phoned Sean to check on the toss of the Brentwood house.

Empty, clean, no cars in the garage.

As he shut his eyes and leaned back, something caught my eye at the edge of a strip mall near Orange Drive.

“Rise and shine.” I pointed.

He jerked upright. “Pull over.”

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER
32

This time Tasha ran.

“Oh, great,” said Milo, as she ducked off Santa Monica onto Orange and veered into an alley.

He jumped out of the car and I circled the block to Mansfield. When I got to the mouth of the alley, Tasha was racing toward me, skinny-legged sprint easily outstripping Milo’s openmouthed lumber.

Shoes in hand, panty hose shredding.

Milo’s arms churned air. His face was crimson.

Tasha looked back at him, picked up speed. Saw me. Looked back again. Stumbled.

She went down hard on her back, purse landing just out of reach from a splayed arm.

As she got to her feet, Milo caught up, sucking air. He flipped her over, did a quick frisk and cuff, snarled a command not to move. Snagging the purse, he dumped the contents. Tissues, condoms, cosmetics, and a packet of Oreos landed on the asphalt. Then a clatter as a pearl-handled straight razor slid out.

Still panting, Milo stomped the weapon hard, ground pearl into dust. Hauled Tasha up hard.

“Idiot,” he said.

She grew limp in his grasp. Her face crumpled. Bits of gravel clung to her pancake veneer.

She began working up a smile.

Milo’s snarl killed that. He put her in the back of the car, used the seat belt for further confinement.

This time he got in front.

Tasha jangled the cuffs. “You can take these off. I won’t run, sir. I promise, sir.”

“Open your mouth again” — pant pant — “and I’ll hogtie you.” To me: “Hollywood station.”

“Sir, that’s not necessary!”

Milo strained so hard for oxygen that his bulk rose off the seat.

I drove.

Tasha said, “Least it’s a nice ride. Love these old Caddy-lackers. What was it, confiscated from some—”

“Shut the hell up.”

“Sorry. Sir.”

“Are you deaf?”

Five blocks from Wilcox Avenue: “Sir, don’t get mad but you’re still breathing hard. You sure you’re okay?”

“Why the hell did you rabbit?”

“I got scared.”

“Did we hurt you the first time?”

“No, but…”

“But what?”

Silence.

Milo said, “God forbid you should miss a trick. Idiot.”

“A girl’s got to make a living.”