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“So much goin’ on I didn’t remember.”

“You know I’m gonna tie your man Lamming to those murders. You don’t have ta worry about that.”

“I know you will.”

There was a short span of silence on Glad’s side, then: “Yer not plannin’ somethin’ irrevocable, now, are ya, boyo?”

Glad using big words meant that he was getting serious.

“Not at all,” I said as sincerely as I could manage. “I just need to make sure that B is safe.”

“See ya at the end of the week?”

“Absolutely.”

I parked my dull brown Saab on the south side of Santa Monica Boulevard, at the corner of North Gardner, almost directly across the street from the house that was Star Shield’s headquarters. If anyone asked, I was studying a map of Los Angeles, a lost tourist trying to find the Grove shopping mall. I would tell any cop wanting to know why I was there that I couldn’t figure out the GPS and I’d been driving in circles for hours.

The Welrod was in the trunk, in a recess under the carpeting back there.

I needed to find Malto Lamming. I needed to kill that man. And if Kenneth Rouche was with him, I’d kill him too. And if Rouche wasn’t there, I’d call Melquarth Frost to join me on a hunting expedition. No sugarcoating, no promise from a corrupt cop, no wishful thinking could deter me from these intentions.

After a while I put away the map and then used the Bluetooth connection from my phone to have a little speaker read more of Dead Souls. The words washed over me, but I wasn’t listening. Not at all.

I’d been sitting there for nearly two hours when the first police cruiser parked in front of Star Shield. Two uniforms got out and went up the four front-porch stairs and then past the front door.

This wasn’t surprising. Paulie Jr. was involved with LA’s underworld. He was a blackmailer and maybe worse. I was sure that the police dropped by on a regular basis. As a matter of fact, instead of investigating the transplanted New Yorker, those cops might have been working for him, doing moonlighting security for the service.

It was when the second and third cruisers arrived that I began to suspect that something was up.

When the ambulance got there, siren crying, I knew that someone had had the same idea that I did.

There were six patrol cars and maybe three unmarked detectives’ cars huddled around the building when a man appeared who I recognized. He talked to a couple of uniforms outside and then made his way into the house.

I was feeling a vague sense of guilt. I hadn’t done anything wrong, but that didn’t matter. I had decided to commit murder and, as my grandfather used to say, my head wasn’t screwed on right. I should have driven away, but that alternative didn’t fit my suit of clothes on that particular afternoon.

I was headed for the Star Shield house when I encountered the first obstruction.

“Sorry, sir,” a copper-skinned, maybe India Indian patrolman said, holding up a hand as a buttress against my trespass. “This is an active crime scene.”

“I’d like to speak to Detective Carlton Van Arc, please. My name is Joe Oliver.”

“Um,” the policeman grunted. “He’s busy, sir. You’ll have to get in touch with him at his office.”

“Could you go tell him that I have information he needs?”

There we were, a reddish brown man and a brownish Black man, haggling over words that might well overflow into what they call a physical altercation. The young officer’s right hand hung low, near his service weapon. This turned out to be a good thing because another officer noticed the signs and came over to join the party.

This was a white man cop. He had all the requisite attributes: blond hair, light eyes, and skin kissed all over by the relentless California sun.

“Officer Lal,” he said. “Is there a problem?”

“This man is demanding to speak to Detective Van Arc.”

“I did not demand,” I said. “I just asked if I could speak to him.”

“Shut up,” the white cop said, pointing at me with his left hand.

“No.”