“I need to speak to Detective Duran. There’s no guard on her. The mother said they pulled the uniforms early this morning. I talked to the hospital security guys on the way out but they’re useless. Empty uniforms.”

“Will Duran listen to you? I’ve got a bad feeling.”

Ted nodded agreement. He did not like this situation at all. “I did manage one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“I was able to get the video Kenzie shot at the restaurant last night. I’ve got Councilman Pak, Cheryl, Little Reisner, all of them. Once Duran sees it, he’ll have to take this seriously.”

“Meanwhile, we need some place to hole up where we won’t wake up being clubbed.”

“I have an idea about that.” Ted looked at Mohammed, who appeared frazzled and in need of a break. “How’re you holding up?”

“Rock and roll,” he replied.

“Mohammed thinks we’re high maintenance,” Lester muttered.

“He’s got a point,” Ted said. “Take us to Corona. I’m looking for a guy who might help us.”

-51-

-51-

“If it’s comfort you’re looking for, I won’t be much help.” The Preacher eyed Lester warily. The sling, the stitches, and the bruises on his face added up to a troublesome package. Ted noticed that he was also a bit red-eyed, which could have been the vodka or, almost as likely, the effect of having slept only sparingly on a hard pew for the past two nights.

Ted had found their man delivering his message to a smirking group of Hispanic teenagers outside a Dominican deli. The Preacher made a brief show of annoyance at being interrupted, but it was obvious to all concerned that the gang of youths—both male and female—were much more interested in one another than anything the grey-bearded man in the ankle-length overcoat might have to say.

“I don’t need turndown service and a chocolate on the pillow,” Ted said. “I need anonymity. A mattress and a shower would be nice. And a roof.”

“I’ll take a pillow,” Lester said.

“McKenzie thought you could help,” Ted said.

If there had been any reluctance on the Preacher’s part, it crumbled at the mention of Ms. Zielinski. “Come along, then,” the Preacher said. “Manny Singh may have something for you.”

The entrepreneurial Mr. Singh led them up a flight of rickety stairs that seemed to have been tacked on to the rear wall of his market as an afterthought. They passed a featureless door marked fire exit only on the second floor and continued up to the top.

The aromas of cardamom, garlic, and mint enveloped them. Caramelized onion and slow-cooked lamb provided a bassline. Something sweet—warm honey, perhaps—drifted in as counterpoint. Ted’s mouth watered.