“Oh, man, indeed. For three years he goes through DBs’ pockets, now he’s one.”

“How’s the investigation going?”

“Sheriff assigned a couple of rookies and they’re calling it robbery gone bad—hey, how about a quid pro? You solve Bobby and we grant you autopsies on demand for the next five years, even when the body doesn’t merit it?” Dropping her voice. “Wish I wasn’t kidding. Bye, Lieutenant.”

He hung up, stretched his neck, produced crackle and pop. “Welcome to my world.”

I said, “Maybe I can cheer you up. Sranil.”

“What’s that?”

“An oil-rich island near Indonesia.”

“Never heard of it. And …”

“The government is one of Masterson’s clients—major medical center still on the drawing board. Given how intimidated everyone seems by the gag agreement and the rumors of DSD being Middle Eastern, I went searching for petro-VIPs who’d lived in L.A. within the last ten years, co-referenced with Masterson. No Arabs came up but Asian royalty did: Prince Tariq of Sranil, aka Teddy. By Forbes’s last count his older brother, the sultan, is worth twelve billion. The country’s Muslim, so maybe that’s the source of the confusion. According to the blogosphere, Teddy came here five years ago to go to law school, got called back to Sranil around two years ago. That fits the Borodi construction schedule perfectly.”

“Why was he called back?”

“The prevailing wisdom is he partied too much, spent too much of his brother’s money. And guess what: The sultan’s name is Daoud—he’s the sixth of seven Daouds in the royal line—and his palace’s official name is Dar Salaam Daoud.”

“DSD … got a full official name for Teddy?”

I pulled out my notes. “Tariq Bandar Asman Ku’amah Majur.”

He swiveled, logged onto the department’s database. “Like he’s gonna be in here—well looky here! Still on the books for … I’m counting twenty-six parkers and three speeders. Most are on the Strip … here’s one in B.H.—North Beverly Drive … another on Rodeo … Dayton … the shopping district… five different vehicles … Ferrari, Lamborghini, Rolls … wonder why he didn’t weasel out of it using diplomatic immunity.”

“Maybe he didn’t want to bother. Or he got booted back home before the traffic nazis came after him.”

“Too many toys, huh? Sultan controls the purse strings?”

“Seems to, and there could be a personality conflict. The sultan’s devout, shows relative restraint for someone that wealthy.”

“Only a dozen Rolls-Royces?”

“Three, according to the royal website,” I said. “And two are classics he inherited from his grandfather. But we’re not talking the simple life. The royal palace is something out of a storybook—think Taj Majal on steroids.”

“That mean a turret?”