Payne had probably confessed his ass off to every priest and minister and rabbi in town. Frederick started shaking, and the buzzing returned -

Frederick deleted the message.

He breathed hard, drawing in ragged and hideous breaths until it occurred to him that Payne might have told his confessor where he was going and what he was going to do. Father Wills might know.

Frederick decided to ask.

Chapter 12

D uring the nine days Herbert Faustina resided in the Home Away Suites, he made forty-six phone calls, but none were to any number I recognized. He had not phoned my office. The bill listed each number dialed and the duration of the call because the motel charged by the minute. Of the forty-six numbers dialed, Faustina had called 411 an even dozen times. Pike and I divided the remaining thirty-four numbers between us, then began dialing to see who answered, me on the house line and Pike on his cell. The first two calls Faustina made were to the information operator. A woman with a steady voice answered on the third.

"Los Angeles Police, West L. A. Station. May I help you?"

I was surprised, and wasn't sure what to say.

"This is the police. May I help you?"

"Is there an Officer Faustina?"

"I don't see that name on the roll."

"Do you recognize that name, Faustina?"

"Who is this?"

I apologized and hung up. Faustina had spoken to the West L. A. Station for six minutes, which was long enough to be transferred through every unit in the building. He might have asked to speak with me, and, when I wasn't there, asked for J. Edgar Hoover. Anyone loopy enough to believe he was my father would want Hoover on the case.

I glanced over at Joe.

"He called West L. A. Station. How about that?"

Pike said, "Uh."

A man with a gruff voice answered the next number.

"Police, Southeast."

When I hung up, Pike was waiting.

"Another station?"

"Yeah. He called Southeast."

"He also called Newton."

Herbert Faustina had spoken with Southeast for eleven minutes, and Newton for eight. The next three numbers brought me to Pacific, the 77th, and Hollenbeck.

When I leaned back, Pike had still more.

"Devonshire, Foothill, and North Hollywood."

Three more of LAPD's eighteen patrol areas.

"Okay, this is strange. Why would he call all these police stations?"

"The newspapers described you as a detective. Maybe he thought you were a police detective, and called the stations trying to find you."

"Possible."

Pike shrugged and returned to his phone.

"Or not."

The next number connected me to a Rite Aid pharmacy, and the ninth with the Auto Club. The tenth number brought me to LAPD's Hollywood Station, but the eleventh was different. A man with the hushed voice of a late-night disk jockey answered on the first ring.

"Golden Escorts, discreet and professional."