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talking to the United States Attorney’s Office.”
    “We’ve been there. Like talking to a fucking wall,” says Padgett.
    Ortiz shoots him a look to kill. The sergeant’s expression is that of a man who wishes he could inhale his words and swallow them.
    The feds aren’t sharing information.
    I look up at Harry. We have suddenly learned more than they have.
    Bull neck, biceps, and all, Padgett is going to get his ass kicked when Ortiz gets him outside.
    “Have you ever heard of a woman named Laura?” says Ortiz.
    “In what connection?”
    “I don’t know. Maybe a business associate. Perhaps a friend of Mr. Rush?”
    “Just Laura, no last name?” I say.
    “No. Just Laura.”
    I think for a moment. The envelope in Nick’s pocket with the name written on it, with the four thousand in cash inside. This would set the embers of curiosity glowing at Homicide downtown. But the way Ortiz asks the question allows me to sidestep it without lying.
    “You say a woman named Laura? Sorry I don’t. Can’t help you.”
    “You’re just overflowing with information,” says Padgett.
    “If there’s anything else, can we get back in touch with you?” says Ortiz.
    “You’ve got my card.”
    Ortiz gets on his feet and they head for the door. Padgett is out ahead of him. At the moment I suspect he’d rather stay here, maybe hide under my desk.
    “There is one more thing,” says Ortiz. He’s almost to the door, turned, looking at me. “Did you know that Mr. Rush and Mr. Metz were in business together?”
    He can tell by the vacant expression on my face, whether true or not, that this thought has never crossed my mind.
    I shake my head.
    He looks at a piece of paper he has been palming in his hand. “Something called Jamaile Enterprises?” There’s a little uptilt in his voice as he says the word “enterprises.” He looks at me, waiting for a reply.
    “Nothing? Nothing?” he says.
    I am speechless.
    “I was just wondering,” he says, “whether Mr. Rush, being a friend, might have mentioned it to you.”

CHAPTER FIVE
    T hough I cannot recall Nick ever having darkened the door of any church, his funeral is held at the old Mission San Luis Rey, a few miles from the coast near Oceanside.
    It has been ornately choreographed with three gleaming black funeral trucks hauling enough floral arrangements to look like the Rose Parade behind Nick’s flag-draped coffin in the hearse. No one has explained to me what the flag is doing on the coffin, since Nick was never a veteran, though he was clearly shot in the line of duty. No doubt this is a touch demanded by Dana, who will have it folded and handed to her at the gravesite.
    It is a large and hushed crowd that gathers under the hand-hewn beams of the old Spanish baroque church, its thick adobe walls magnifying every cough and the shuffling of shoes on the Spanish tile floor.
    We go through the calisthenics of a Catholic service, from the pews to the kneelers and up on our feet again as the priest intones a final blessing over the coffin, sprinkles itwith holy water, and swings a giant brass incense burner from a chain as it issues clouds of gray smoke.
    The information from the cops has been running through my head like a ticker tape since our meeting—the name Jamaile Enterprises and the assertion that Metz and Nick were in business together.
    It is possible they were simply trying to get a rise. If Ortiz and his partner failed in that regard, they did manage to plant a seed that is now sprouting suspicion. The question being: If Nick knew Metz from some prior dealings, why wouldn’t he tell me? I have thought about little else for the past two nights. I have no hard answer, and this is troubling. Was Jamaile a criminal enterprise? It is possible, though knowing Nick he would never be so thick as to put his own name on the documents of formation—unless perhaps he discovered the nature of the business after the fact. This would explain why he wanted to shed Metz as a