Perfect, Bentz thought as he used his cane to help lower himself into a booth with a table straight out of the fifties: Slick green plastic top rimmed with chrome, matching napkin holder, and bottles of ketchup and mustard at the ready. He scanned a faded menu, ordered from a tall woman with a pile of red hair adding three inches to her height, then spread the newspapers on the table.

While reading the most recent accounts of the Springer girls’ murders he dived into his “All-American-All-Day-Breaker” which consisted of two eggs, five sausage links, a heap of hash browns, and a mountain of toast. His coffee cup was never empty, though he had to ask for ice water.

The food was substantial and filling, if not gourmet.

Once he’d forked up the last bit of potatoes, he flipped the newspaper closed and caught a glimpse of an ad that stopped him short. It was for a thrift shop, a Catholic thrift shop, and the symbol in the corner of the page, a cross with the letter A attached, was sickeningly familiar.

It was the same symbol from the sticker on the Impala he’d seen at San Juan Capistrano. A symbol for St. Augustine’s.

He stared at the information for a second, then asked the waitress if they offered wi-fi service here. She looked at him as if he were nuts, so he paid quickly, then drove to a nearby coffee shop where he knew there was free Internet access.

After ordering another cup of coffee he really didn’t need, he sat in a worn couch and fired up his laptop.

Over the sounds of soft jazz, grinding coffee, and the hiss of the steamer, he connected to the Internet where he searched for any mention of St. Augustine’s hospital or clinic in the L.A. area. For the first time since coming to L.A., he felt a ray of hope that he might have a way to discover who was tormenting him.

He found a parish in West L.A. on Figueroa Street, a school in Culver City, and several other institutions, but no hospital or clinic.

The fact that one of the schools was on Figueroa and the other in Culver City bothered him. Jennifer had lived with him in Culver City and supposedly, according to her friend Shana McIntyre, had met with James in a little motel somewhere near the USC campus on Figueroa St. It was the same major street where he’d thought he’d seen her at the bus stop.

Possible? Had he seen her? He clicked his pen, wondering.

There were too many connections. Too many coincidences. Too many possibilities.

Doggedly he kept at it, searching the Internet until he came to the mention of St. Augustine’s Hospital, which had closed five years earlier. Bingo! He stared at the information for a second, then jotted down the address, and was out the door.