‘Question is, did Crow have his own debt that he couldn’t pay, or is he dead so he won’t say anything?’

Vincent said, ‘I’m leaning toward option two. Even if he wasn’t actively involved, he could’ve known who was.’

‘Yes. Except I don’t see how murdering him and leaving his body in a swimming pool is tidying up the issue. I would’ve thought the lowest risk was trusting him to keep a secret, rather than trying to ride out another homicide investigation.’

He’d had the sense yesterday that event proximity changed what he could talk about: like, he should keep things strictly solemn until the murders were a couple of weeks old. But now there didn’t seem to be much chance of making her misty-eyed.

He said, ‘Assuming it was Gutierrez, maybe he just doesn’t care about the risk. Locke seemed to think he’s some kind of Guinness World Record psycho.’

‘You’ve seen him. What did you think?’

‘Andre? I thought he was a psycho, too. You look him in the eye, and there’s something missing.’

‘Right. So he could’ve just killed him for fun, then, couldn’t he?’

‘Always a possibility.’

Erin said, ‘Must be an awful way to do it, breaking someone’s neck. And Crow’s big, right? Whoever took him on would’ve known it was risky.’

‘Yeah. Might’ve ended up as an own goal.’

‘Sorry?’

Vincent said, ‘What we used to call suicide bombers, if they blew up with no victims.’

‘I see.’

They pulled up at the light at Bedford Drive. Five, ten, twenty seconds of not talking. This time the quiet between them felt different—maybe just the fact of having her up front, next to him.

Erin said, ‘He didn’t look his best, did he? Locke, I mean.’

‘I think he was up late, brooding.’

‘Why’s he down here, anyway?’

‘He said he wanted to get his facts straight.’

‘He could’ve just called. And the action as far as he’s concerned is up in Santa Barbara. He’s got two crime scenes less than a day old, and some sort of obsession with finding Gutierrez. So what does he think’s happening down here in LA that’s worth investigating in person?’

‘He knows Wayne Forsyth’s missing. But I guess he could be onto Page, too.’

‘That’s what I wondered. So let’s get to him first.’

Page Swanson’s offices were in a brownish, mirrored-glass highrise of maybe twenty storeys. Vincent drove past and then came back for another look.

He said, ‘How are we getting in, exactly?’

Erin said, ‘That’s your department.’

‘There’ll be a security desk in the lobby. We won’t get in without an appointment. But you could try calling.’

‘Who, Page Swanson?’

‘Yeah. Why not.’

She put her phone on speaker and found the number in her call history.

No answer.