Luck was on their side. They had been sitting in the blue sedan in its usual spot, both pairs of eyes on the bar, since a little after three, much earlier than they had planned.

They had spent the morning at Parker Center talking with two LAPD homicide detectives. Lieutenants Robert Evans and Philip Garabaldi had listened with interest as Mike related the details of the Brigitte Larson murder and the subsequent arrest, then flight, of suspected killer Jeffrey Lonsdale. Then both he and Steve had brought them up to speed on the events of the past several days, beginning with Renneker's late night phone call that had got the ball rolling again.

Both southern California cops had been impressed, by the presentation of the obviously cold case and by the dedication of their upstate counterparts in tracking Lonsdale down after so many years. And they offered what little advice they could.

But there had been a spate of homicides in the LA County area in the past couple of months, and the division was stretched to its limits. Manpower was at a premium, at least at this stage of the investigation, but they assured their colleagues that if Lonsdale's identify could be proven sufficient to stand up in a court of law, they would do everything in their power to assist in his arrest and transfer upstate.

Mike, well aware of how departments occasionally became swamped beyond capacity, told them he appreciated their offer, and asked for a couple of favours. He told them of the fingerprint card he had with him and asked that, should they be able to obtain an item with Lonsdale's prints on it, would they be able to use the forensic facilities and personnel of the LAPD. And he also asked that if they could find out what name Lonsdale was now using, could they use the LAPD's facilities to uncover as much as they could about his new identity.

Evans made a couple of quick phone calls and all was arranged. Then, thanking them profusely and promising to stay in touch, Mike and Steve headed back to Venice, ready to put Steve's plan into action.

It was shortly before 4:30 when they both spotted the man they believed to be Jeffrey Lonsdale come into view and casually enter Hiraro's. They glanced at each other with matching relieved smiles.

"I'll give him a half hour," Steve said softly.

Mike nodded as he slouched, resting the back of his head against the seat, pulling the ball cap low over his eyes and folding his hands across his stomach. He hadn't gotten much sleep the night before; he couldn't get his thoughts to stop churning. "Wake me when you leave, okay?"

With a chuckle, working his way through a bag of sunflower seeds, the shells on a napkin spread out on the seat beside him, Steve smiled behind the dark glasses. "You got it." He studied his partner for a couple of long beats before turning to look back at the bar. He was happy that he could be there for him, that he could help to bring to a close such a disturbing chapter in his partner's life. He owed Mike so much; if he could help ease a burden even in some small way, it was worth every moment and every inconvenience.

And besides, he thought with a smile as he popped another sunflower seed into his mouth, this could actually turn out to be a very soul-satisfying endeavour. They just needed some good luck… or good karma, as everyone down here would say, he thought with a soft chuckle.

# # # # #

Mike felt a touch on his left forearm and woke with a start, pushing the brim of his baseball cap up. He looked briefly disoriented.

"Sorry," Steve chuckled as he carefully picked up the napkin filled with sunflower seed shells. "It's time for me to go."

After a brief, almost confused pause, Mike sat up straighter, stretching his shoulders and rotating his head back and forth. "Right… sorry… I guess I fell asleep."

Steve opened the door. "You sure did." He began to get out.

"Hey," Mike stopped him. "You remember what you need to do, right?"

Steve turned back, raising his eyebrows behind the sunglasses with a sardonic grin. "I was the one that came up with this little idea, remember?"

"I remember," Mike growled good-naturedly, "I just want you to remember what you told me."

"Don't worry, I remember." Holding the napkin carefully in one hand, he got out of the car and slammed the door. He started down the street casually, well aware of the blue eyes that were following his every move.

Mike slid behind the wheel to get a better look at the bar. He watched as his partner suddenly stopped and, looking briefly over his shoulder back towards the car with a very obvious grin, crossed the sidewalk to a small aluminum garbage can against the stucco wall of store and dropped the napkin into it.

Mike chuckled and shook his head then, the smile lingering, followed the young man with the wavy brown hair and heart-stopping grin as he continued down the street and disappeared through Hiraro's front door.

# # # # #

Steve spotted Lonsdale the second he stepped into the small pub; he was at the far end of the bar, reading a newspaper, a half-empty glass of Guinness near his elbow. He felt his heart trip-hammer in his chest.

He glanced around; there were about a dozen patrons sitting at various tables. He knew it was the calm before the storm, so to speak, and that was why he chose this time.

The bartender, who was at the far end, looked Steve's way and grinned. "Hey, I remember you!" he chuckled as he moved closer. "You were in here on Ladies' Night Wednesday… You were the guy those two blondes couldn't get enough of, weren't ya?"

Steve had started to grin and nod. "Hey, hey, hey," he laughed, hands out as if presenting himself. "What can I say? It was a great night…"

"I bet it was," the bartender laughed appreciably. "What can I get you?"

"I'll have a Guinness," he said, pointing at the one near Lonsdale, who had glanced up when the banter started. They made brief eye contact.

"You got it," the bartender said, turning away.

Steve slid onto the nearest stool, at the other end of the bar from the reason he was there. He pulled an ashtray closer then took a pack of Marlboros and a book of matches out of his back pocket and set them on the bar. He smiled to himself in anticipation of the reaction he knew he would get from his partner when he crawled back into the car later, smelling of stale cigarette smoke. He hoped he could blame it on the bar, but he knew he wouldn't be able to fool the older man. But, to be perfectly honest, though he never smoked around Mike, it was a habit he just couldn't quit.

He had just lit his first when the bartender approached and put the tall glass of ale with the perfectly poured head on the coaster in front of him. "There you go."

Steve nodded. "Thanks," he mouthed around the cigarette. He inhaled deeply and held the smoke for a couple of seconds before releasing it through his nose. He tapped the tiny ash into the glass ashtray, staring at it, knowing this was exactly the time to make his move.

"Listen, ah," he said to the bartender who had turned away and was resetting a few bottles on the shelves; he turned, eyebrows raised. "Listen," Steve continued, "a while back I met this guy up north where I live…" He gestured feebly towards what he hoped was north, with a self-deprecating chuckle.

The bartender smiled and took a step closer. "Oh, yeah, where's that?"

Feigning embarrassment, Steve rolled his eyes. "I'm sure you've never heard of it… Modesto?" On the bartenders blank stare, he continued, "The home of Ernest and Julio Gallo…?"

"The wine guys?"

"The same," Steve chuckled with a nod. "Anyway, I happened to mention I was coming down this way, you know, to check out the, ah… the beach… and the women…" He cleared his throat. "So, ah, this guy, he told me about this amazing Filipino restaurant he said was down near the beach around here. And I was out walking around all afternoon and I can't find it. Have you heard of it? I think it's called My Anda or something like that…?"

The bartender shook his head, frowning. "No… no, I haven't heard of it but I, ah, I don't eat at that kinda place. I'm more a meat and potatoes guy. But hang on a second, I know someone that might be able to help you." He turned towards the end of the bar. "Hey, Danny!"

Lonsdale's head came up.

The bartender moved halfway down the bar. "This guy here's looking for a Filipino restaurant near here. You know of one?" The bartender looked back at Steve, a grin spitting his face. "Danny here used to live in the Philippines."

The blood suddenly rushed to Steve's head and he could barely hear what the bartender was saying. Trying not to tip his hand, he swiveled on the stool to face the far end of the bar. "No shit?"

Lonsdale smiled amiably and nodded. "Not for long, just a couple a years."

"Oh man, I've always wanted to go. I hear it's beautiful there."

"It is."

Taking a chance, Steve put the cigarette in his mouth, picked up the ashtray and his beer and slid off the stool. He approached Lonsdale with raised eyebrows and nodded at a stool two away. "Do you mind?" he asked around the cigarette.

"Not at all," Lonsdale gestured at the stool.

With a grin and an appreciative nod, Steve set the ashtray and glass down then sat. He took the cigarette out of his mouth. "So, ah, you know of this Filipino restaurant around here?"

"Well, there's a couple. One of them is pretty good but the other one is great. But you have the name wrong. It's Meryenda. It's a bastardization of the Tagalog word for snacks."

"Meryenda," Steve said slowly a couple of times, rolling the name over and over on his tongue. "I gotta remember that, thanks. I'll have dinner there tomorrow night." He nodded to himself, repeating the name as if trying to commit it to memory. "Ah, anything you'd recommend?"

"Well, their adobo is great, and so is their kaldereta."

Steve let his eyes glaze over slightly and he shook his head with a chuckle, as if overwhelmed. "I, ah, I gotta write this down." He patted his pockets as if looking for a pen and paper and, finding nothing, looked up at the bartender. "Hey, ah …" He looked at Lonsdale with a shrug. "I don't know his name," he said under his breath and Lonsdale smiled.

"It's Doug."

"Thanks. Doug!"

The bartender looked up.

"Sorry, ah, do you have a piece of paper and a pen I could borrow. I want to write down the address of this restaurant." He shrugged helplessly.

"Sure," Doug grinned, looking under the counter then coming towards them to slap a small pad and a golf pencil on the bar. "Will that do?"

Steve looked up and grinned. "Perfect. Thanks." He picked up the pencil and brought the pad closer. "Now what was it you said…?" he began slowly, as he wrote 'Filipino restaurant' at the top of the page. Then, with a casualness he really didn't feel, he looked up and smiled. "My name's Steve Keller," he said, holding out his right hand.

Lonsdale grinned. "Danny… Danny Harrison," he responded with a nod, taking Steve's hand and squeezing.