“Well,” he said, “the best I can do for surveillance is a couple of additional drive-bys per shift by sector cars. I know ’cause I’ve already asked, great minds and all that … maybe I’ll do an all-nighter … God, I’m hungry, how long will it take you to defrost a steak? Or a roast? Or half a cow?”

His phone chirped Ravel’s “Bolero.” He picked up, flashed a V. “That’s great, sir, I apprec—” The victory sign wilted as he listened for a long time.

He put the phone down and drank more water at the sink.

I said, “His Godliness ranting?”

“Lower the volume, it woulda been a rant. ‘Well, Sturgis, looks like your fucking victim is gonna be a fucking reality star for fifteen fucking minutes so get a decent fucking photo of her fucking dead face because you’ve got one fucking shot at this. And you better fucking be able to do something with it because I just swallowed a whole lot of fucking bullshit from a fucking piece-of-shit politician who’s got fucking White House connections.’ ”

I said, “When will the photo run?”

“Tonight at six. If I get my fucking ass in gear.” He smiled. “I believe I will.”

Ten-second flash at the tail end of the news. Three hours later, Milo phoned, exuberant. “Her name’s Adriana Betts and she’s originally from Boise. A cousin from Downey saw it and recognized her, called Adriana’s sister back in Idaho, the sister called me, emailed a photo. She’s flying down tomorrow, I booked Interrogation B at the Butler Avenue Hilton.”

“Did the sister have anything interesting to say about Adriana?”

“Wonderful person, not an enemy in the world, how could this happen, why do bad things happen to good people.”

That got me thinking about Jimmy Asherwood and I was hit with a strange, aching sympathy for a man I’d never known.

“Alex? You there?”

“Pardon?”

“I asked if you can make it tomorrow for the sister and you didn’t answer. Three p.m.”

“Yes,” I said.

“My favorite word.”

CHAPTER
19

No DNA was needed to link Helene Johanson’s chromosomes to those of Adriana Betts.

Four years older than Adriana, Helene had a pleasant, square face, solid build, and chestnut hair that made her a near-twin to her sister. Watching her step into the interview room was unsettling: a dead woman come to life.

The match didn’t extend to style. Adriana had been found wearing a loose dress and budget shoes, both tagged by the coroner as “Walmart, made in China.” Helene’s preferences ran to designer jeans with rhinestone accents, a formfitting black ribbed top under a fringed caramel suede jacket, snakeskin cowboy boots. Her nails were polished rose-pink. The diamond studs in her ears looked real. So did the Lady Rolex on her left wrist and the Gucci bag from which she pulled out a silk, lace-edged handkerchief.