For a minute, I couldn't remember which set of fake ID's I'd brought. "Hannah Moore."

There was a calculated silence. "What's the rest of it?"

"The rest?"

"You have a middle name?"

"Oh. Sure," I said. "Uhm, Lee."

Her tone of voice turned flat. "I don't believe it."

I felt my heart do a quick flip, but I managed a noncommittal murmur.

"I never met anyone with three pairs of double letters in their name. Two n's in Hannah. Two e's in Lee and the two o's in Moore. Plus, 'Hannah' is a palindrome, spelled the same way forward as it is backward. You ever had your numbers done?"

"Like numerology?"

She nodded. "It's a hobby of mine. I can do a chart for you later... all I need is your date of birth, but I can tell you right now, your soul number's six. Like you're big in domestic harmony, right? People like you, your mission is to spread the idea of the Golden Rule."

I laughed in spite of myself. "Oh, really. How'd you guess?"

A uniformed officer, toting Bibianna's handbag, moved over to the squad car and let himself in, locking eyes with me in the rearview mirror as he slammed the door shut. It was apparently his job to transport us out to the jail. He held the bag up. "This belong to one of you?"

"Me," Bibianna said, rolling her eyes in my direction. It was anybody's guess whether the joint in her bag would come to light or not. She was in deep doo-doo if it did.

He plunked the bag down on the seat beside him. "How you doin' back there?" He was in his late twenties, cleanshaven, his dark hair clipped close. The back of his neck looked vulnerable above the collar of his uniform.

None of this was lost on Bibianna. "We're great, sport. How're you?"

"I'm cool," he said.

"You have a name?"

"Kip Brainard," he said. "You're Diaz, right?"

"Right."

He seemed to smile to himself. He started the car and eased it away from the curb, radioing the dispatcher that he was on his way in with us. There was no more conversation. The rain had begun to sound like a pile of nails being dropped on the car roof, windshield wipers flopping back and forth without much effect, the monotonous calls from the car radio punctuating the silence. We reached the freeway and headed north. The windows were fogging over. In the warmth of the vehicle and the lulling drone of the engine, I nearly nodded off.