Banks said, "Any ideas about who the buddy might be?"

Milo eyed Swig. "Please go down to your office and wait there, sir."

"Forget it," said Swig. "As director of this facility, I have jurisdiction and I need to know what's going on."

"You will," said Milo. "Soon as we know something, you'll be the first to find out, but in the meantime-"

"In the meantime, I need to be-" Swig's protest was cut short by a beeper. He and all three detectives reached for their belts.

Banks said, "Mine," and scanned the readout. A cell phone materialized and Banks identified himself, listened, said, "When? Where?," wiggled his fingers at De la Torre, and was handed a notepad. Tucking the phone under his chin, he wrote.

The rest of us watched him nod. Emotionless. Clicking off the phone, he said, "When we got your call I told our desk to keep an eye out for any psycho crimes in the vicinity. This isn't exactly in the vicinity, but it's pretty psycho: woman found on the Five near Valencia." He examined his notes. "White female, approximately twenty-five to thirty-five, multiple stab wounds to torso and face, really messy. Coroner says within the last two hours, which could fit if your boy has wheels. Tire tracks nearby said someone did. She wasn't just dumped there-lots of blood: it's almost certain that's where she got done."

"What kind of facial wounds?" said Milo.

"Lips, nose, eyes-the guy at the scene said it was really brutal. That fits, right?"

"Eyes," said Milo.

"My God," said Swig.

"Was she found on the northbound Five?" I said.

"Yes," said Banks.

Everyone stared at me.

"The road to Treadway," I said. "He's going home."

Chapter 34

The last bit of news deflated Swig. He looked small, crushed, a kid with a man's job.

Milo paid him no attention, spent his time on the phone. Talking to the Highway Patrol, informing the sheriffs of the towns neighboring Treadway, warning Bunker Protection. The private firm must have given him problems, because when he got off, he snapped the phone shut so hard I thought he'd break it.

"Okay, let's see what shakes up," he told Banks and De la Torre. To Swig: "Get me George Orson's personnel file."

"It's downstairs in the records room."

"Then that's where we're going."

The records-room treasures were concealed by one of the unmarked doors bordering Swig's office. Tight space, hemmed by black file cabinets. The folder was right where it should have been. Milo examined it as the sheriff's men looked over his shoulder.

Missing photo, but George Orson's physical statistics fit Derrick Crimmins perfectly: six-three, 170, thirty-six years old. The address was the mail drop on Pico near Barrington. No phone number.

"What else exactly did this guy do?" said Banks.

"Series of cons, and he probably killed his dad and mom and brother."