“Oh, yeah.” The light turned green. He hung up chuckling. She was the first woman who’d been able to give as well as she got, and he loved that about her. As the police band crackled and the wipers slapped the rain from the windshield, he drove through the city to the station. Easing into an available parking slot, he cut the engine. Turning his collar against the downpour, he raced into the building and up the stairs.

The squad room was quiet, only a few detectives were still working, most having already called it a day. Montoya sat at his desk, fired up his computer, and searched his e-mail for the documents he’d requested.

Sure enough, a few answers had come in, answers he hoped would help Bentz. He checked the wall clock: 8:47, not even 7 P.M. on the West Coast. He dialed quickly and Bentz picked up on the third ring.

“Bentz.”

“Yeah, I know.” They both had caller ID. “How’s it going?”

“Not good. Shana McIntyre was murdered.”

“I heard.”

“Yeah, well, the LAPD isn’t happy.” Bentz’s voice was tense.

“No one is. Look, I might have some information for you. I’ll send it via e-mail, but thought you might want to hear it directly.”

“Shoot.”

“The long and the short of it is that Elliot, our resident computer whiz, went to town with the information you gave me on the parking pass, partial license plate numbers, and car description.”

“Did he get any hits?”

“Bingo. The god of all things technical just sent me the information. Says he sifted through federal, state, and private records to find it.”

“Lay it on me.”

Montoya scanned the monitor. “So the silver Chevy that’s been dogging you could be a vehicle once owned by an employee of Saint Augustine’s Hospital. Her name was Ramona Salazar.”

“Was?”

“Yeah, that’s the kicker. She died about a year ago.”

A beat. Then Bentz asked, “What happened to the car?”

“Still registered to her.”

“Got an address?”

“Yeah, but it’s the old one where she lived when she was still alive. The car could have been sold, but whoever bought it never bothered registering it.”

“I wonder why.”

“Me too. Someone might be using her ID, or some family member could be driving the vehicle even though it’s still in her name.”

“I’ll find out.”

“Good. And I’ve got some info on a few astrologers named Phyllis, nothing concrete. There’s a Phyllis Mandabi who reads tarot cards in Long Beach,” Montoya said, checking his notes. “And there was an astrologer who practiced in Hollywood about fifteen years ago—Phyllis Terrapin. She left there for Tucson, got married, and doesn’t have her shingle, if that’s what you want to call it, out any longer.”

“Got it.”