"Which means… " It struck him. "Which means he probably couldn't operate a vehicle." He took a deep breath. "So he probably walked to the drugstore, since taking a bus would have been too visible."

"Very good, Spier. He lives within walking distance. We now have an area pinned down. Is this drunken-walking thing permanent?"

"No. If he backs off the pills, it'll resolve. His coordination could be significantly improved within twenty-four hours."

"Okay, so it is possible that he may be more mobile in the future. What else?"

"Well, he stole food too, so that probably means he's low on money."

"Good. He was laid off three months ago, and he doesn't strike me as a meticulous financial planner. So he's probably overdue on rent." Ed smiled and tossed a piece of popcorn in his mouth. "Pissed-off landlords like to talk."

"So how do we go about that?"

"We?" Ed shook his head. "Oh no. This is the stuff I can't get involved in. Grunt work. Door-to-door. It's too visible. I'd suggest you turn all this info over to Yale so he and his boys can start following up on it. You'll just have to trust him." He smiled playfully. "Time to unleash the hounds."

Chapter 55

THE full moon cast the palm fronds' shadows against the wall at the base of David's bed. He watched them dip and bow like distorted puppets. A horn blared up on Sunset, followed by the squeal of brakes. David listened for a crash, but there was none. Clearly, the earplugs weren't helping, so he removed them and set them by the alarm clock on his nightstand. It was 10:27 P.M.

He'd paged Yale over ten minutes ago.

He reached for the phone, dialed 411, and asked to be put through to the listing. He was surprised when he got an answer. "Healton's Drugs. Help you?"

"Yes, how late are you open?"

"Midnight."

"Can you-"

"And not a minute later. Got that? Doors lock the instant the second hand clicks."

"Yes," David said. "I understand. Can you give me your address please?"

After heaving a weighty sigh, she complied, and David jotted down the address on a notepad. A run-down part of Venice, close to the intersection of 5th and Broadway. And a few blocks away from the Pearson Home for the Developmentally Disabled.

A hefty coincidence.

The drive took less than fifteen minutes. David slowed as he neared the drugstore, taking in his surroundings. He passed several weedy lots where buildings had been torn down. In one, a group of men huddled around a burning mattress. It became increasingly evident why the police's response time to this area was so slow.

David pulled into the Healton's parking lot. Though the front of the store was well lit, he had some misgivings about leaving his Mercedes unattended. He took his cell phone with him rather than leaving it in the car.

Fourth of July drawings still decorated the building's large windows-flags and firecrackers depicted with thick, messy paint. The window Clyde had broken was backed with plywood and covered with garbage bags that sucked in the wind. The inside smelled of Clorox and Band-Aids. The tabloids at the unmanned checkout counter screamed out in vivid colors: westwood acid thrower still on loose after dr. death aids his escape! Beside it loomed a photograph of David entering the hospital, taken at paparazzi distance.

Aside from a few food aisles to the right, the drugstore featured health, cleaning, and home improvement products. David happened on a pair of heavy-duty earplugs and grabbed them, figuring he'd give them a try. He walked up the aisles until he arrived at the row of lye products. Drano, Red Devil Drain Opener, Liquid Plumr, and, there at the bottom, DrainEze. Industrial strength, the label advertised.

The harsh female voice startled him. "We're closing up. If you're gonna buy something, bring it to the register."

David turned to find an elderly woman in a hand-knit sweater, her face wrinkled and smeared with makeup. She smelled distinctly of baby powder.

"Hello, ma'am. I was hoping you could-"

"Don't you 'hello ma'am' me. I'm trying to close up now. Buy what you're gonna buy or else get out."

Pulling a copy of the police composite from his pocket, David followed her surprisingly fast hobble up to the cash registers in the front. "I'd really appreciate it if you could take a look at-"

He halted. Through the front windows clouded with the smeared decorative paint, he made out movement around his car. A shadow seemed to orient itself toward David and freeze, as if aware of David's gaze. Then the figure flashed away into the night.

David stepped out through the doors, and the old woman was there instantly behind him, locking him out. A man, stocky like Clyde, was walking up the deserted street, hands shoved into the pockets of a torn jacket, loose shoelaces trailing. Fleeing, yet trying to remain inconspicuous. He did not look back. David jogged a few paces to keep him in sight.