"Of course," she said, "but we have minimal search criteria. I'm sure there are a lot of Jane Everetts out there in the right age range, and we don't even have it narrowed down to a city. With Charlie at least I knew we were looking at law enforcement in California."

"So what do I need?"

"Someone with powerful correlation and analytics software, a shit-ton of bandwidth, a data-mining engine, and warrant power over classified hospital records."

"Hospital records for the birth."

"Right. The birth and the maternity stay. You need someone with official clearances and serious hardware for that kind of rundown."

"You can't call in another favor at LAPD?"

"They froze me out. I guess the inquiries the assistant chief made on my behalf touched a nerve. He sealed me off-no threat there-but there's not going to be any more prying in the department. At least not on my behalf. And given your relationships with law enforcement, that doesn't leave you a lot of options. At least not a lot of options you'd want to risk."

The wind whipped my face. I said, "This isn't just about Frank anymore."

"No," she said, "I guess not."

When I went back inside, Homer was lying across the counter, trying to sleep. I didn't mind the quiet. For a half hour or so, I sat and breathed the silence. Finally headlights swept through the window. The Range Rover. It kept going.

Homer woke up and watched me with sleek, dark eyes. He followed me obediently outside, and we walked up several blocks, through a park, climbed over a fence. Induma was pulled over, waiting. The Range Rover's window whirred down, and Induma glanced over at me.

"This is Homer," I said.

"Hi, Homer."

Homer twirled one hand, queen mother style, and gave a half bow.

I said, "We're gonna need him."

Chapter 32

Induma dropped me two blocks away and waited with Homer in the Range Rover. Wearing the rucksack, I scaled the back fence of Callie's house and crossed the patio.

I rapped on the rear door, and a moment later Steve tugged it open. The sight of him made my stomach clutch. The left side of his face was ballooned from where I'd hit him, a shiny saddle of red riding the yellow-black swell beneath.

My mouth opened, but no sound came out.

"Oh, great. Get your ass inside."

From the other room, Callie called out, "Is it him?"

Steve yanked me inside. He said, "Not a word in front of Em." He waited to walk behind me so he could keep me in sight. Callie and Emily were sitting at the table in front of their plates. My mom's had been polished with bread-an old Callie habit-but Emily's looked barely picked at. A tray of torn-up lasagna sat on a pig-shaped trivet I'd made my mom in high-school shop class.

Callie stood up, excited or agitated or probably both. "Nicky."

Emily said, "Great. Now can I be excused?"

Steve said, "Fine."

She slouched over to the refrigerator, cracked open a Pepsi, then glared at me. "What? You want one?"

"Sure, thanks."

She carried a can over and thumped it against my shoulder.

Steve said, "I've lived with you how many years? You've never once gotten me a soda."

Emily said, "You're not as helpless," and walked upstairs.

Callie said, "I told you she likes you. Sit down. Have you eaten?"

"Sure," Steve said. "Make yourself at home. We have a guest room upstairs, too, you want to move in for a few months."

Callie looked at him sharply, but I said, "No, he's right. I' ve brought you guys nothing but trouble."

"We're finally in agreement," Steve said.

Emily's door closed upstairs, hard. Callie's voice dropped. "You need to see something. It might be bad."

Steve: "Might be?"

They led me into the living room. The curtains were drawn. Steve fussed over four remote controls until Callie went and clicked two buttons. The TV blinked to life, and then, thanks to Tivo, she was fast-forwarding through commercials. She glanced toward the kitchen and frowned. "Em!"

A clunky black boot with an embossed skull protruded slightly from the doorjamb. And then, five or so feet above it, a scowling face. "Be grateful I'm too stupid to pick up on the fact that anything weird's going on."

"Upstairs, now" Steve said. "Go listen to Fall Down Boy or whatever."

"God, you are epically clueless."

The goth boots put out some worthy stomping on the stairwell. Callie said, "Three… two… one…," and cringed. A moment later a door slammed so hard the floor vibrated. Then Callie thumbed the remote.

A local newscaster pointed his craggy face at us. "In West L.A. today, federal agents staged a raid on an apartment, identified as operating headquarters for the group responsible for the failed attack on the San Onofre Nuclear Power Plant. One suspect was killed. A second escaped."

I took a halting step back and sat, hard, on the couch.