“Officially it closes at seven. What it looks like is Mr. Brown came in after hours to do a tattoo and ended up shot in the back of the head. On the surface, a robbery gone bad, the register was cleaned out, but right away Bamburger had his doubts, why would someone operating a cash-business in a so-so area leave the register full overnight? The scene had a staged quality to it—a few drawers opened but no serious scrounging, plus a healthy Baggie of weed and some pills were left behind. The murder was one shot from behind, no binding or submission. Your basic surprise execution. Sound familiar?”

I said, “Brown was aware of Williams, knew he was dangerous. He promised to let me know if Williams showed up again.”

“So Williams set up the appointment using another name. Or Busty Bertha did. She comes in, sits in the chair, in walks Romeo and boom.”

My stomach knotted. “I hope my card wasn’t what got Brown killed.”

“That was the case it wouldn’t a been found in his pant pocket. Williams and his girlfriend concentrated on killing and staging, no reason to frisk the victim.”

“So why make a new victim?”

“Same as Corey,” he said. “Tying up loose ends, they’ve got to be planning a serious escape.”

I said, “Wonder if any tattooing actually got done. You find new skinwork on either of them and match it to a bloody stencil, you’ve got nice evidence.”

He redialed Bamburger, got the answer quickly.

“A stencil was left on the chair. But no bloody tissues, no bottles of ink nearby, so looks like it didn’t actually get used. And guess what the design was: miniature horn of plenty, kind of girlie. Sparkly rays, twinkly little stars, a whole bunch of nature’s bounty tumbling out.”

“More culinary art,” I said. “He considered branding his new friend, decided not to risk it, but killed the messenger anyway.”

Both of us reluctant to tag the friend as Meredith Santos. Because she’d served her country, was, by all accounts, a class act.

Not that either of us was willing to trust our instincts.

I drove, hands riveted to the wheel.

Milo stared out the windshield and went mute but didn’t fall back asleep. When I pulled up to the West L.A. station, he got out without a word.

CHAPTER

38

I slept poorly, watched the sun rise as my brain channel-surfed between fatigue and restlessness.

Thinking of John Jensen Williams. Knowing he could be anywhere. Everywhere.

Instant mood-disorder mix, just add failure.

When I got to Milo’s office at eleven a.m. he acknowledged me with a two-finger salute and kept typing.

NCIC on the screen, followed by a statewide site that concentrated on recent felonies. Running Meredith Santos through all the databases, still not knowing if she was a victim, an offender, or both.