“You okay?”

“Back to work tomorrow, the leisure thing was driving me out of my mind. Problem is, once I get to the office, there’s nothing to do. No new cases, period – let alone an interesting one.”

“How do you know?”

“I e-mailed the captain yesterday.”

I said, “Quiet time in West L.A. ”

“Calm before the storm, or worse.”

“What would be worse?”

“No storm.”

He insisted on paying and was reaching for his billfold when his cell squawked. I used the opportunity to hand the waiter my credit card.

“Sneaky.” He clicked in, listened. “Okay, Sean, why not? But if a real crime happens, all bets are off.”

As we left, I said, “Sean’s got a fake crime?”

“Car theft in Brentwood. Recovered car theft.” Like many homicide detectives, he considers anything less than the loss of human life on a par with jaywalking.

“Why’d he call you?”

“He thinks it might be more because there’s blood on one of the seats.”

“That sounds like more.”

“Not buckets, Alex. Maybe a spoonful.”

“Whose?”

“That’s the big hoohah mystery. Nervy kid wants my expertise. No one told him I’m a free bird until tomorrow.”

I kept my mouth shut. When he’s like that, irony is wasted.

Sean Binchy was waiting in front of a vanilla-colored house, wearing his usual dark suit, blue shirt and tie, spit-polished Doc Martens. He’s a young, gangly, redheaded Detective I, a former ska-punk bassist who’d found Jesus and the LAPD simultaneously. He’d been mentored by Milo, whisked away by the brass and transferred to Robbery, then moved to Auto Theft. Rumor said all that movement had something to do with his “lack of creativity.”

The house behind him was one of those imposing, bland, grand dream-projects starting to dominate L.A. ’s luxury districts.