"That was Faustina with the crosses, but that wasn't his real name. He got dropped. It's a big deal, man; we've had cops, CSI, even private detectives."

A rush of overlapping voices filled Frederick's head. They sounded like the sea at night. Kramer was saying something, but Frederick didn't hear. He didn't know how long Kramer had been talking before he focused again.

"- here all day yesterday and said they'd be back, but it didn't look anything like that TV show, CSI."

Frederick said, "Payne is dead?"

"Who's Payne?"

"What was the name you called him?"

"Herbert Faustina, with the crosses. Someone murdered him. The cops asked us to put together a list of everyone who spoke with Faustina or came to see him, so you should talk to them."

Frederick had trouble controlling his thoughts. He saw himself walking through the lobby with his shotgun. He pictured himself shooting Kramer in the head, then pointing the muzzle up under his chin and blowing his own face off; all of it seen from outside himself, watching it happen until something Kramer was saying brought him back.

"- the one guy, he was pretending to be a cop, but I recognized him right away. Remember that mercenary thing last fall with all the shootings in Santa Monica? It was him. He comes in here pretending to be a cop like no one would know."

"He was looking for Payne?"

"Faustina. He got here even before the cops, and they didn't like it. The one cop, I could tell he was pissed off. He asked as many questions about Cole as he asked about Faustina."

"What was his name?"

"Pardy, something like that."

"Not the policeman - the one he was asking about."

"That was Cole, as in Elvis. I bet he changed his name from something else. Remember the shootings? He hammered some guys before Halloween last year. Remember?"

Frederick left the box, and went out to his truck. A low sigh hissed between his teeth. It started deep inside him and made a noise like a soft whistle, but the pressure that drove it didn't lessen. It seemed to build - like he had swallowed the air hose at the station, the one he used to put air in tires, and he was being filled with cold gas. His eyes filled and his chin quivered, and he bawled, sobbing until he hiccuped. He felt alone and frightened, and he wanted Payne here RIGHT NOW so badly his stomach clenched like a fist. He slapped at the steering wheel and the seats, and blubbered and spit, blowing snot and tears; he kicked at the floorboards, and swung hard at the dash, and wrapped his arms over his head, and wailed. After a while, he felt better. He looked down at himself. His shirt was in shreds, and his chest and belly were bleeding. He realized he had torn at himself, but had no memory of it.