Private L.A. (Private 6)

“Snort will do,” Kloppenberg said, taking the bottle from her after she’d poured a fifth and sixth finger of the whiskey.

“Any luck on identifying the shooter?” I asked as Sci got a glass.

“No,” he said. “Which is why I’m here.”

Yet another knock came at my door. Mo-bot entered, yawning, but looked at Sci pouring, said, “Gimme one of those.”

“Another strikeout?” Sci asked, pouring her a glass.

“Total wall,” she said. “Even dental records.”

“One of you want to tell me what you’re talking about?” I asked.

Sci handed Mo-bot her drink and plopped down beside her on the couch, said, “So we had beautiful fingerprints, all the DNA material anyone could need, dental pics, you name it, and nothing.”

“Well, something,” Mo-bot said. “But what it is isn’t exactly clear.”

“You sound like you’ve been drinking already,?

? Justine observed with a slight slur.

Mo-bot sipped her whiskey, sighed with pleasure, and then explained that when they’d run the fingerprints and dental records of the dead homicidal drag queen through various law enforcement databases around the world, they’d gotten a positive match.

“And?” I said.

“And nothing,” Sci said.

“Whaddya mean, nothing?” Justine asked.

“It’s like the database freezes and doesn’t let us go forward,” Mo-bot said.

“You’re being blocked?” I asked.

“I wouldn’t say blocked,” Sci said. “More like frozen.”

Mo-bot nodded. “It’s like there’s still an echo or a ghost of that guy’s fingerprints in the system that’s being recognized, but everything else about him has been scrubbed clean.”

“Is that possible?”

“Well, totally corrupted, at least,” Sci said.

“What database did you freeze in?” I asked.

Kloppenberg pursed his lips, said, “US Department of Defense personnel records. Past ten years.”

I slapped my leg. “I said this felt like military guys from the get-go.”

“But which military guys?” Justine asked loudly, the slur stronger. “Bud Rankin was an ex-marine. He would have known how to figure it out. And, you know, why aren’t we raising a toast to poor Bud Rankin?”

She’d had too much already. But I nodded, said, “To Bud. An old soul who will be missed.”

“Hear, hear,” they all muttered, and downed their drinks.

“When this is over we’ll have a proper memorial for Bud,” I said.

Justine reached again for the bottle. I slid it away from her, said, “Why don’t I get you home for some much-needed rest?”

She raised her finger at me, trying to focus, trying to argue, but then licked her lips and nodded. I put the empty glass on my desk and turned back to her, seeing the amusement on Sci’s and Mo-bot’s faces.