"The idiot followed through, didn't he? Like I said, Crimmins is good at reading people. Or maybe he didn't care- was finished with the 'Vette."

"Just like that? He walks away from a car? And why would he be finished with it?"

"Because tonight marks a new stage in his life," I said. "And money's not his thing, it never was. The moment he has any, he lets it slip through his fingers. He grew up with fast toys, easy come, easy go. Easy to replace, too. He steals movie equipment, boosting another car's no big deal. The Jeep's not registered under any of the names we know about, either. For all we know, he's got a fleet stashed somewhere."

"Supercriminal. Daredevil Avenger."

"Let's face it, Milo, you don't have to be a genius to get away with felonies in L.A."

He growled, raced to Sunset, turned right. I closed my eyes and sat back, knowing exactly where he was headed. Moments later, I felt the car swerve, opened my eyes to see a freeway signpost. The 101 North. Very little traffic this late, and the I-5 interchange was only minutes away. He pushed the unmarked up to ninety, a hundred.

"Susanna Galvez," he said. "That Hatzler woman told you Derrick and his brother had a thing for Mexican girls."

"Nostalgia," I said. "Exactly. This whole thing's about reliving the good old days."

Chapter 38

The spot where Heidi Ott had been executed wasn't hard to find.

The rosy incandescence of Highway Patrol flares was visible half a mile away, starbursts fallen to the horizon.

As we got closer, a tapering row of red cones cordoned off the right-hand lane. Milo drove between them, showed his badge to a uniformed officer, received a wary appraisal. Two CHP cruisers, a CHP bike, and a sleek, nonregulation Harley-Davidson were parked on the turnoff.

The officer said, "Okay."

"Mike Whitworth?"

"There." A thumb indicated a huge man in his thirties standing near an embankment. Several arc lights cast focused glare on a taped-off area. The white body outline was at the far edge of the turnoff, inches from the merging of asphalt and dirt embankment. Full-scale version of the morgue gift-shop logo; life imitates art.

Whitworth stood just outside the cones. Young and in good shape, but he looked tired. His ruddy baby-face was centered by a small, blond mustache. His hair was buzzed so short the color was hard to determine. He wore a peanut-butter-colored leather jacket, white shirt, dark tie, gray slacks, and black boots, and he carried a motorcycle helmet.

Milo introduced himself.

Whitworth shook his hand, then mine. He pointed at the ground. Several ruby blotches, the largest over a foot wide. "We found some bone bits and cartilage, too. Probably part of her nose bone. We get gore all the time, plenty of bad stuff in garbage bags, but this kind of damage ..." He shook his head.