I left my car parked out front and walked the half block to the courthouse, where I tried the superior court clerk's office, scanning the dockets for some sign of Ms. Diaz. Not there. Too bad. It would have cheered me up enormously to learn she had a felony conviction lurking in her background. By now, without ever having laid eyes on the woman, I was operating on the assumption that she was up to no good. I wanted her address and I couldn't believe there wasn't a paper trail somewhere. I pulled up negative results from municipal court records, nothing from voter registration. I checked with the DA's office, where a pal of mine assured me Bibianna wasn't passing bad paper or late with any child support payments. Well, shoot. I'd just about exhausted the sources I could think of.

I picked up my car and hit the freeway, heading for the county sheriff's department. I parked in the small lot out front and pushed through the glass doors into a small reception area, where I signed my name in the logbook. I walked down the hall a short distance to a cubbyhole marked "Records and Warrants." The civilian clerk on duty didn't seem like a promising source of confidential information. I judged her to be in her early thirties, roughly my age, with a frizzy pyramid of tightly kinked blond hair and way too much gum for the size of her teeth. She caught me surveying her dental misfortunes and pulled her lips together selfconsciously. I checked for a name tag, but she wasn't wearing one.

"Can you run a computer check and see if this woman has ever been arrested in Santa Teresa?" I reached for the pad of scratch paper on the counter and jotted down Bibianna's name and her date of birth. I took out my wallet, laid the photostat of my P.I. license next to the note.