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“What’s the plan, Joe?”

“There’s three different possibilities,” I said. “First there’s Greta. She was drugged and almost raped. A doctor can attest to the drugging part. The police can testify to the condition she was in.”

“Yeah,” Glad agreed, “but Lamming was unconscious too—and he had that fakakta story about crooks breakin’ in on ’em.”

“Greta didn’t see any crooks,” Caledonia said.

Glad poked out his lower lip, countering, “She was drinkin’ already. Melton could pay her off. A good lawyer might stop that at probable cause. You can bet that there’s no evidence left at Lamming’s house, and without the proof he could say that she drugged him. You need something that could scare him.”

“Then there’s David Blass,” I suggested. “Dollars to doughnuts he was killed by Kenneth Rouche. Rouche is Malto’s enforcer, and he likes to get his hands dirty.”

“You have proof?”

“You should’a seen the place, Glad. Pints of blood had been spilled. That kid was seriously tortured. There has to be some prints, some DNA, something.”

“Oh my God.” That was Caledonia. “That’s sick.”

“’Tis,” Gladstone said with a nod. “And we’ll have to depend on Carlton’s people going through the evidence. I wouldn’t rely on that.”

“Okay. Finally, we have Dalia Shorts, now going by Aurilia Fox. Malto drugged her, raped her, and confessed to her that he killed Helma Ortiz and Benny Lamont.”

“Who’s that?” Caledonia asked.

“A lady of the night and her fancy man who wanted to strike out on their own,” I said with as much delicacy as I could muster.

“The two people buried out in Sheepshead Bay,” Gladstone averred. “You’re sayin’ that Miss Fox witnessed the murders?”

“No. But she knew where the bodies were buried, and she also knows details of things he did to the woman. Things that will still be evident all these years later.”

“So?” Caledonia asked. “Can’t Melton’s lawyers say that she was the killer or that someone else was and she’s just trying to incriminate him?”

“I don’t think it’ll ever get that far,” I said.

“Why not?”

“Because, if I can get the incriminating evidence to Malto and then offer to kill her, we can set him up for paying for a killing.”

“But you’re going to him,” Glad countered.

“Only with details about the crime. He’ll be the one to suggest the murder. He’ll be the one to cross my hands with cash.”

“Why wouldn’t he get Rouche to kill her?” Caledonia asked.

“Because I won’t tell him where she is. I’m the only one who knows.”

“That’s risky, Joe,” Glad warned.

“It is. But I didn’t kill him when I had the chance, and I should have.”

“Yes,” Caledonia endorsed. “You should have.”

“So that’s it,” Glad concluded. “Joe gets in touch with Malto, tells him that he has proof from Dalia that he killed the pimp and his woman, tells him that he knows where this Dalia’s at. Malto wants to buy a map to her but Joe says no, and the only other choice Melton has is to hire Joe for the job. It’s dicey.”

On the drive back to Venice Beach I called Oliya.

“Hey, boss,” she greeted.

“I’m gonna have you take Leaf to someplace safe tomorrow evening.”