The operator said, “Oh, Doctor, I didn’t think you’d answer, was just leaving you the message so you could get it tomorrow morning.”

“Might as well tell me.”

“It was the police,” she said. “I know you work with them but it wasn’t that lieutenant who’s always calling you, this was someone else. He said it wasn’t an emergency.”

“What’s his name?”

“Let’s see … a Detective Bamburger? Just like Hamburger with a ‘B.’ From Valley Division.”

I thanked her, switched back to manual, and punched the number.

“Bamburger, Homicide.”

“This is Alex Delaware.”

“Who? Oh. Didn’t expect you to call back so soon, Mr. Delaware.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Oh,” said Bamburger. “Says here Ph.D.—that’s a doctor, right? Sorry, Doctor Delaware. Anyway, reason I phoned is this business card of yours that I’m looking at right now was found at the scene of a crime and I wanted to check a few things with you.”

“Who got killed?”

A beat. “Says here you’re a psychologist.”

“I am. I’m also an LAPD consultant and I happen to be working on a multiple murder case with Lieutenant Milo Sturgis from West L.A. Division. He’s sitting right here, if you’d rather talk to him—”

“You know,” said Bamburger, “that sounds like a good idea.”

I nudged Milo’s arm. He snorted, gulped air, rolled away and faced the passenger door. A second prod, harder, got his eyes fluttering. “Huh?”

I gave him a moment to regain focus, told him about Bamburger.

He said, “Don’t know him …” Then: “What the—”

Sitting up straight, he snatched the phone. “Sturgis.”

He listened to Bamburger, turned to me. “You know someone named Alvin Brown?”

“Nope.”

“He says no.” Back to me: “Black male, thirty-one, runs a tattoo shop in North Hollywood—oh, shit.”

My turn to jolt into hyper-alertness. “A shop called Zanzibar?”

Milo verified that.

I said, “Oh, shit, indeed. Brown called himself Tigretto. He inked Frankie DiMargio. With Williams at her side.”

Milo returned to Bamburger. “You’re not going to believe this, Lloyd.”

The cop-to-cop exchange that followed took up a good chunk of the ride and I was transitioning to the 405 by the time he handed the phone back to me.

I said, “When do they think Brown got shot?”

“Sometime last night. Williams goes in and out, in full view of surveillance, doing his murder thing.”

“Didn’t notice the shop hours when I was there. Is it open late?”