Once she saw I was off the phone, Marsha Russo sauntered into my office and sat across from me.
“Breaking news,” she announced.
“Hit me.”
“He’s in the Metropolitan Detention Center on Alameda Street in downtown Los Angeles.”
“I know it well.”
“From which perspective?”
“Funny. How would you feel about setting up an appointment for me?”
“Business or social?”
“What difference would it make?”
“I don’t do social.”
“It’s business.”
“How do I know?”
“Because I want to meet privately with an inmate at the detention center.”
“Male or female?”
“What difference does that make?”
“I wouldn’t want to be involved in any conjugal thing.”
“You know, Marsha, sometimes you can be a royal pain in the ass.”
“I know. It’s in my gene pool.”
“Vlad Smernik.”
“He’s who you want to meet with?”
“Yes. And it has to be private. Outdoors, preferably. No bugs. No hovering supervision. You’ll need to arrange it with Captain Rodger Pike.”
“When for?”
“Tomorrow morning, if possible.”
She stood and lumbered toward the door. “I’m on it.”
I called out to her. “What’s up with the other thing?”
“I’m on it, too.”
“And?”
“I’m weeding stuff out.”
“Meaning?”
“You have no idea how many unsolved homicides there are. I’ve narrowed the search to serials but even at that, it’s a ball breaker.”
“How soon?”
“Soon enough. I’m getting warmer. It’s a good thing I like you, Buddy.”
“Because?”
“It serves as a reminder as to why I’m doing this.”
“Cheese?”
“Excuse me?”
“Would you like some cheese with that whine?”
She stared at me for several moments, then turned to leave. At the door, she chided me over her shoulder, “Not even remotely funny.”