“You’re an idiot,” he told himself, then went in search of a cheap, clean motel.

Jonas Hayes swore under his breath. He was tired. Dead tired. He’d spent too many hours the previous day trying to hammer out details for the custody of Maren, his daughter, then hadn’t slept a wink before pulling a full shift. And now he had Rick Bentz calling him.

“Hell,” he muttered. There were a lot of reasons he didn’t want to return the call. He waited until his shift was over and he was in his car miles away from the department before he dialed the cell number Bentz had left.

On the third ring, Bentz answered. “Rick Bentz.”

“The death-defying Rick Bentz, who lives through a lightning strike?” he joked, though truth to tell there wasn’t anything remotely humorous about Bentz calling.

“Not exactly accurate, but close enough. Bad news travels fast.”

“Gossip has no bounds. These days with the Internet, cell phones with cameras, traffic lights with cameras, security cameras everywhere, you have no privacy. You can’t take a leak in New Orleans without someone putting it up on YouTube for all of us out here to view.”

“Is that right?” Bentz said. “Then how the hell don’t we get the suspects on film?”

“We do. A lot of times. At least the stupid ones. That is, when we get lucky.”

“So you got dinner plans? I’m in town and I’ll buy.”

Hayes saw it coming. Big as life. And he didn’t like it one bit. “Sounds like you need a favor.”

“Maybe.”

“No maybes about it. That’s why you rose from the dead, Bentz. Admit it.”

“We’ll talk about rising from the dead over steaks. How about Roy’s if it’s still around?”

Roy’s had once been a hip, happening place, an homage to the days of the great westerns. “It’s around and seedier than ever. But the food’s still good and happy hour drinks are five bucks.”

“That’s a bargain?”

“In Hollywood? Yeah. But tonight won’t work. I’m already booked. Is the offer still good tomorrow?”

“Sure. I’ll meet you there…say, around seven?”

“That’ll work. Tomorrow at seven. See ya there.”

Hayes hung up, opened the console between the two front seats of his old 4Runner and found a bottle of Rolaids he kept in the glove box. His heartburn was acting up and the call from Bentz didn’t help. Hayes poured out a few and popped them into his mouth, downing them with the remainder of this morning’s coffee, the dregs of which had settled into the bottom of his travel cup. The taste was bitter, but tolerable. He slid his shades onto his nose, glanced in his rearview, checking traffic, then eased onto the street.

If Rick Bentz was in L.A., something was coming down.

Something that wasn’t good.