At the Los Angeles Central Police Station, Reggie stared stonily at the camera for the face-front shot and then squared his shoulders and turned right for the profile.

When he had seen photos of wanted felons before on news reports, it had always seemed curious that they could manage to look so sullenly guilty. Now he knew that guilty or not, looking sullen was unavoidable.

The clerkish, uniformed man giving the photography instructions was as matter-of-fact as if Reggie had simply come in for his driving license. That was irritating. Reggie’s own adrenaline was flowing now, more so than when weapons had been drawn at the overpass.

Now he was ushered into a narrow room with darkened glass in one wall and told to stand with his toes to a yellow line. Along with four other individuals in the room, Reggie stood and faced the glass, and then on instruction he did the profile maneuver again.

If the young woman with the dog was on the other side of the glass, she would surely have no difficulty picking him out. Of the four other men standing in the lineup, none resembled him in the slightest; one was wearing a policeman’s shoes, and only one stood within two inches of Reggie’s height. And the bruise inflicted by the bloody dog was still visible on Reggie’s forehead.

After a moment, an instruction came from the other side of the glass:

“Number one, say something.”

None of the men said anything. The voice came again:

“Number one, say, ‘Do you have any Earl Grey tea?’ ”

This did not sound promising. Reggie had not uttered any such words since arriving in Los Angeles—or at any time that he could immediately recall—but Nigel might well have.

He looked to the man at the far left, who looked back and shrugged. Reggie looked at the man wearing the policeman’s shoes, at the far right, who displayed a look of intense frustration but stared straight ahead and said nothing.

The voice again:

“Number one, would you please say—”

“No one bloody knows which of us you have designated as number one,” said Reggie.

This apparently caused some commotion. The intercom crackled, and he was told to step forward and did so. He stared straight ahead at the glass for several seconds and then stepped back again.

It would have been comforting to see the same procedure repeated with the other individuals, but it didn’t happen. Instead, the side door opened, and everyone but Reggie was invited to leave.

Reggie was escorted to a plain room and then introduced to Detective Mendoza—a sixtyish man with white-gray hair—and Detective Reynolds—a dozen or so years younger than Mendoza and some fifty pounds heavier.

Reggie was invited to sit at the table, and Mendoza sat across from him, perusing Reggie’s passport.

“What’s your address, Reggie?” said Mendoza.

“Nine Shad Thames. But I didn’t catch your first name.”

“You here on business or pleasure . . . Mr. Heath?”

Reggie replied that his visit was recreational. Offhand, he couldn’t think of a business reason that would survive scrutiny.

“You should have checked with the tourist bureau,” said Mendoza. “There’s no forms of recreation I know of to be had that close to the river channel. Unless, of course, you were interested in purchasing some form of illegal substance, which is something we tend to frown on locally. Is that what you were doing, Mr. Heath—trying to purchase a little chemical recreation?”

“No.”

Reggie considered whether to say anything about Nigel. On the one hand, he was concerned that Nigel had not shown at the rendezvous. On the other, there were the bloody Smarties—and the nagging fear that Nigel could be in some way connected to the clammy corpse under the overpass. Best to say nothing—and hope that Wembley had not yet contacted the Los Angeles police about either of the Heath brothers.

“You seem uncomfortable, Mr. Heath. Is there any reason why you feel you might need the presence of an attorney?”

“It’s a moot point. I am one.”

Mendoza raised an eyebrow very slightly and sat back in his chair; the other detective just smirked.

Altogether they did not seem as intimidated as one might have hoped.

“That’s fine,” said Mendoza. “Saves you a quarter, if you want to ignore that thing about having a fool for a client. But no one has charged you with anything here. So why don’t you just tell us what happened?”

“I went for a walk and was handcuffed at gunpoint. But I believe you know that.”

“You were found in the presence of what would appear to be a homicide victim,” Mendoza said dryly.

“Charge me with finding a corpse, if you have a law against that. But I know nothing about it.”

“A witness has already identified you by voice.”

“In regard to what?”

Mendoza did not say anything in response; he just leaned back with a show of confidence, folded his hands at the back of his head, and looked appraisingly at Reggie.

Reggie gave the same look in return and after a moment concluded the detectives were bluffing. The lineup must have failed visually, even though the detectives claimed to have a match on the voice.

Of course, even at home, strangers had occasionally confused Reggie’s voice with Nigel’s.

Better to avoid that subject entirely.

“I’ve done nothing,” said Reggie. “You’ve already had me on display, and your supposed witness could not claim to have seen me before in any sort of incriminating circumstance. Otherwise, you’d have placed me under arrest. So I take it I’m free to go.”

He stood and reached across the table for his passport.

Mendoza pulled it back. “If it’s all the same to you, we’ll just hold this here until you’re ready to leave.”

“No, I’ll take it with me.”

“I guess you’re not very familiar with the police procedures in the States, Mr. Heath.”

“I know that you can’t keep that without an order from a magistrate,” said Reggie, hoping it was true here.

“No problem,” said Mendoza, smiling and handing back the passport. “But when you think you’re ready to leave the city, you be sure to give me a call.”