I closed the glass doors, sat on my couch, and thought about what I might say when I was inducted into the Detective's Hall of Fame. Perhaps they would bill me as Elvis Cole, World's Fastest Detective. Wouldn't Jennifer Sheridan be pleased. She could say I knew him when. At six minutes after one, Jennifer Sheridan would be sitting in Marty Beale's outer office, not expecting a phone call in which the detective that she had hired only moments before would crush her heart with one fell blow, service with a smile, thank you, ma'am, and the bill is in the mail. Of course, since I had made such a big deal to Jennifer Sheridan about her lack of proof, she might inquire as to mine, and I had none. I had only Mark Thurman's word, and maybe he had lied. People do.

I put aside my thoughts of the Hall of Fame and called a guy I know named Rusty Swetaggen. For twenty-four years he drove a black-and-white in and around the city of Los Angeles, then his wife's father died and he inherited a pretty nice restaurant in Venice, about four blocks from the beach. He likes it better than being a cop. He said, "Rusty's."

I made hissing and cracking noises into the phone. "I'm calling from the new car phone. Pretty good, huh?"

Rusty Swetaggen said, "Bullshit, you got a car phone." Then he yelled at someone in the background. "It's the big-time op, making like he's got a car phone." Someone said something and then he came back on the line. "Emma says hey."

"Hey back. I need to find out about an officer and I don't want him to know."

"This guy active duty?"

"Yeah. His name is Mark Thurman. He works a REACT team out of the Seventy-seventh."

Rusty didn't say anything. I guess he was writing. Then he said, "Is this guy dirty?" He didn't like asking. You could hear it in his voice. You ride the black-and-white for twenty-four years and you don't like asking.

"I want to find out. Can you do this for me?"

"Sure, Elvis. I'd do anything for you. You know that."

"I know. I'll be by in a couple of hours. That okay?"

"Fine."

Rusty Swetaggen hung up, and then I hung up.

I took the shoulder holster out of my bottom left drawer and put it on. It's a nice brushed-leather Bianchi rig that cost a fortune, but it's comfortable, and it's made for the Dan Wesson .38 revolver that I carry. Stylish detectives often carry automatics, but I have never been a slave to fashion.

I took the Dan Wesson out of its drawer and seated it into the shoulder holster and then I covered the works with a light gray cotton sport coat. It looks great over my black-and-maroon Hawaiian beach shirt, and is ideal for hiding firearms in L. A.'s summer weather. I took the Watkins, Okum, Beale stationery out of my desk, put it in the inside pocket of the sport coat, then called the deli and asked them if they still had my turkey and Swiss on baguette. They did.