I said, “He snarfed that right before he graced us with his reluctant insights on eye color. His appetite peaked because he was aroused by the game.”

“Letting us know the cowboy wasn’t Kristal’s daddy. Thinking he’s being subtle.”

“It was a dual thrill: He gets to be the hero of the story, granting you vital information. And he heightens the focus on Malley.”

“All that frighty-dighty about mean old Barnett, but right off he’s telling us Malley’s antisocial, covered his tracks.”

“That could’ve been more than a diversion strategy,” I said. “Attributing his own behavior to Malley, consciously or otherwise.”

“He’s covered some tracks of his own.”

“The lies didn’t start with his seminary application. The image he pushes is Fun Guy with a Sensitive, Spiritual Side. While you were ordering he told me he was a well-behaved kid, brought up in the church. Be interesting to know what his childhood was really like.”

He stashed the bags in the case. “Time for some serious digging. Be nice if it’s more productive than my research on Malley. Can’t find any insurance policies on Lara or Kristal, the cowboy seems to be using his real name and social security number, has no arrest record, no military record, no real estate ownership. I was able to trace his birth records to Alamogordo, New Mexico, but the local law doesn’t remember him and there are no Malleys living there now. Maybe I’m missing something, there are all these new computer tricks the department doesn’t have . . .”

He snatched his phone from the table, punched in a number, and asked for Sue Kramer.

Two seconds later: “Nancy Drew? It’s Joe Hardy. Listen, I don’t know what your schedule’s like but . . . did it? Excellent . . . listen, Sue, all those things you private hotshots can do that I can’t . . . the high-tech stuff . . . yeah, exactly, I need a couple guys looked into . . . him and also the spiritual adviser— Daney . . . let’s just say he’s become interesting . . . the usual and anything else you can think of . . . sooner’s better than later, I’ll pay you personally . . . no, no, send me a full bill . . . I mean it, Sue . . . okay, fine, but send something . . . thanks, have a nice day, hope the winds are good.”

Clicking off, he said, “Her B.H. surveillance just ended. She spotted the Korean widow going into the apartment, found the lady praying at some kind of shrine, crying how much she loved hubby, why’d he have to go kill himself. So the suicide stands and Sue’ll start digging tomorrow when she gets back from a little R and R.”

“The winds,” I said. “Sailing?” Thinking about his brief fling as a P.I., during a suspension from LAPD. The rise in income. The plague of tedium. When the department took him back, he had raced home like a trained pigeon.