Chapter 7.

"What's Spike doing in L.A. ?" Angel harshly demanded over the phone.

"He got busted out of here last night!" exclaimed Riley Finn replied: "By four anarchs named Billy Fordham, Andrew Wells, Warren Mears, and Jonathan Levinson. Those names mean anything to you?"

"No. Why should they?"

"Because, up until last night, they were just four out of the dozens pf photos posted on the Wall of the Missing."

Shortly before Angel had left Sunnydale, a prefabricated stone wall had been erected and covered with Velcro. So that it could be decorated with photographic likenesses of all those presumably killed in the "natural gas explosion" that destroyed Sunnydale High. But, whose bodies had yet to be recovered.

"Are you trying to tell me that these four got vampirized during the Battle of Graduation Day? And, then, spent two months in hiding, plotting Spike's break-out?"

"Can you think of a better reason for their suddenly showing up last night?" countered Riley: "Wielding a hand-held remote control device that can apparently _over-ride_ the programming of an HST microchip?"

"Oh, crap!" muttered Angel.

"Exactly. Initiative HQ has made their capture Priority Number One. And, that's why Dart One is en route to L.A., even as we speak.

At that exact same moment, Russell Winters (suitably covered with sun block) sat in his chair while Lindsey McDonald whispered in his ear.

"I was interested in buying the King O'Clubs as a new business venture," he then recited: "Diversification, as we call it, in high finance."

"That's very good, Mr. Winters," replied Sykes: "Can you say that, again, while your lawyer is drinking a glass of water?"

"With all due respect, Detective?" countered the businessman: "If you seriously believe I had anything to do with Reyes' death, then you're the dummy, here. Not me!"

Sykes looked at McDonald: "It might be smart of you to remind your client that verbal abuse of a cop is a highly citable offense."

"And, verbally abusing my client is a potentially litigious one!" replied the lawyer: "So, why don't you let your cooler-headed partner ask the questions from here on out?"

"Okay,then," said Dobbs: "Tell us, Mr. Winters. Where were you at the time of Reyes' death?"

"Out of the country, on some time-sensitive negotiations."

"Negotiations with whom, and concerning what?"

"The purchase of a certain champion racehorse, for breeding purposes, from a certain oil sheik in Dubai."

"And, would this oil sheik be able to confirm your story?"

"I could speed-dial him on my cell phone, right now, if you want. That is; if you don't mind him being grumpy about it. Seeing as it's the middle of the night there!"

The questions and answers went back and forth like that for five more minutes. Yet, it quickly became obvious that Winters was not going to co-operate anymore than he already had. So, reluctantly, Sykes and Dobbs told him and McDonald that they were free to go.

"Don't plan on making any other business trips out of the country, though," Sykes admonished: "We'll definitely have more questions for you. Real soon!"

Meanwhile, George Francisco and Kate Lockley were down in the morgue, talking to medical examiner Dr. Lois Allen.

"There was no gunshot residue on the mouth. So I can most definitely rule that out as the cause of death. As to what really did kill him? I found some strange DNA traces around the exit wound. One of my assistants (a Discovery Channel buff) made a half-joke about the radula of a giant oyster drill. So, just to shut him up, I sent a few samples over to Dr. Frankel at the UCLA Medical Center."

"Ah, yes!" exclaimed George: "I know Dr. Frankel very well. What did she say? Or, is she still analyzing those samples?"

"Actually, I just got the preliminary results back, from her, five minutes ago. And, the DNA is definitely _not_ from any gastropod on land or sea. In fact, it's more typical of a land-based mammal! What kind of mammal, however, is still a mystery to her. So, she's going to have even further genetic testing done."

"As that's going to take some time," observed Kate: "Why don't we go talk to Duncan Shane over at the King O'Clubs? Maybe he can tell us how Reyes' killer got into (and out of) a locked room, without anyone else seeing or hearing anything."

"An excellent suggestion," replied George: "With any luck, we might even get to see him rehearsing one of his slightly under-handed tricks!"

"I think you mean 'sleight-of-hand,' " Kate corrected.

"Precisely!" beamed George (rubbing his hands together in child-like anticipatory glee).

Meanwhile, over at Angel Investigations, Doyle and Jill had begun having autobiographical small talk while waiting for Angel to get off the phone. Doyle was trying to figure out how to edit any conversations about his father when, suddenly, he clutched at the temples of his forehead in agony!

He was having another precognitive vision.

"When Nag the basking cobra hears the careless foot of man,

He will sometimes wriggle sideways and avoid it if he can.

But, his mate makes no such motion where she waits beside the trail.

For the female of the species is more deadly than the male."

"What the frig was that?!" exclaimed the half-naked male Newcomer, looking up.

"An excerpt from a poem written in 1911 by an Earthman named Rudyard Kipling."

"Seriously? That's my boss' name!"

"I know. That's the real reason I invited you back here, last night. I want you to give him a message for me."

"I knew it was too good to be true," the Newcomer groaned: "What's the message?"

" 'Open wide.' "

"O. . .?"

He did not live long enough to echo the complete message in puzzlement.

"Doyle?" Angel shouted, having just returned from the office: "Doyle! What's wrong?"

"There's a Tenctonese, named Warren Peace, at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. His life's in danger. We've got to get to him. Now!"

A minute later, Angel's convertible was speeding in the direction of the Miracle Mile. With Doyle at the wheel. . .and Angel in the trunk.

tbc