Carte blanche at two a.m. meant putting a BOLO out on Sal Fidella's Corvette as we sped east on the 101.

Milo said, "I get non-AFIS prints that aren't Fidella's, all the more reason to hunt for Marty Mendoza seriously. As in talking to every damn student and teacher at Prep who knew him, maybe flying out personally to San Antonio where I will enjoy tamales and carne asada and drive by his sister's apartment at frequent intervals, myself."

"I am detective, hear me roar."

"Beasts of burden make noise, too."

Nine hours later, he called me. "Top of the morning." Lightness in his voice.

"You found the car?"

"Nope, but I made a new friend."

I met him at noon at the Culver City jail on Duquesne, where a guard named Shirronne Bostic led us to a locked holding room.

Tapping a foot, she shuffled through a key ring.

Milo said, "When did he come in?"

"Last night around ten. Picked up in a hooker sting, pretended no hablo ingles then changed his tune when he got hauled in instead of just a ticket like the last time. Your card was in his pocket along with some bullshit I.D. You were his one call."

"Flattered."

"He for real, Lieutenant?"

"Depends on what he has to say."

"Guess he is real," said Bostic. "You're here."

Inside the holding cell, a middle-aged balding man with a droopy mustache sat on a metal bench, dusky skin jaundiced by cruel light. White stubble dotted his face, his eyes were defeated.

Jumpy eyes and unstable hands, same as when he'd been part of the day-laborer crowd waiting for pickup work near the ice joint. The one who'd claimed a fake address in Beverly Hills.

Officer Bostic said, "He claims to be Hector Ruiz but he also claims to live near movie stars."

"That's my name," said the man.

Milo said, "I'll take it from here, thanks," and Bostic left. "Mr. Ruiz, how're things in B.H.?"

Hector Ruiz said, "The guy in anteater shirt," in barely accented English.

"What about him?"

"I know him." Ruiz rotated his wrists, tugged the side of his mouth into a grotesque demi-smile.

Milo said, "I'm waiting."

"I need to get out."

"Next time you get arrested, make sure it's in L.A. and it'll be a snap."

"Please," said Ruiz.

"Tell me about Anteater."

"Please," Ruiz repeated. "My wife coming from Juarez. She can't know."

"You got arrested for the same thing two weeks ago, Hector."

"That was a ticket," said Ruiz. "This time they take me in."

"That's called being a repeat offender."

"Please. I got no bail money, they gonna keep me here, she coming two days."

"Tough lady?"

Ruiz pressed a palm against a temple. "Oh, man."

"I'm LAPD, Hector. Most I can do is talk to Culver City Vice."

"Why just talk? Do," said Ruiz. "You say you gran patron."

"In L.A."