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standing closest to the victim.
    “You,” DeWinter hollered at me. “Over there with the others. And watch where you step.”
    “That Grolsch bottle,” I said, as I crossed the terrace. “You should probably have the contents lab-tested.”
    He threw me a look.
    “No shit, Sherlock.”
    DeWinter stood his ground like a mountain, making me go around him while he followed me with his dismissive eyes.
    He softened a bit when Templeton approached with her press credentials. If she’d been male, or not so strikingly attractive, I’m not sure her press card would have made a difference.
    DeWinter actually smiled a little, and lowered his voice a decibel or two. Templeton pointed to me as I took my place with the others.
    “That gentleman is with me.”
    DeWinter regarded me critically.
    “Professionally or socially?”
    “We sometimes work together on stories.”
    “Stay out of the way,” DeWinter said to me, “and we’ll get along.”
    He directed a uniformed cop to begin taking names and information, and scanned our faces.
    “Anyone here occupy the house?”
    Cantwell stepped forward in his baseball outfit, his cleats clacking on the bricks.
    “That would be me.”
    “Name?”
    “Gordon Cantwell.”
    “You know the victim?”
    “He was a student of mine.”
    “What do you teach?”
    “Screenwriting.”
    “Victim’s name?”
    “Raymond Farr.”
    From the back of the pack came an unfamiliar male voice. “His real name is Reza JaFari.”
    Everyone turned at once, like movie extras on cue, as if Dylan Winchester had been there directing us.
    Standing at the edge of the terrace was a gaunt young man with shaggy hair down to his collar and a sparse beard scattered over the lower portions of his face. The hair and whiskers were dark, like his eyes. His look suggested Hispanic, but his face was curiously pale. I immediately saw Jacques in the face and in the slender, slouching body.
    “You knew the victim?” DeWinter demanded.
    The young man nodded. He made his way forward, excusing himself, until he was face to face with DeWinter.
    “Relationship?”
    “Roommates.”
    “Give me an address.”
    While DeWinter scribbled in a small notebook, the young man gave his street and apartment numbers on Fountain Avenue. DeWinter slipped a fresh stick of gum into his mouth and glanced from the roommate to Cantwell and back again.
    “So is he Reza JaFari or is he Raymond Farr?”
    “He’s both,” the roommate said. “He was born Reza JaFari—he’s Iranian. Came here when he was, like, fourteen. Later, he figured Raymond Farr would work better in Hollywood. At least that’s what he told me.”
    “He seems to have confided a lot in you.”
    “Like I said, we’re roommates.”
    “What’s your name, pal?”
    “Daniel Romero.”
    “You came with him?”
    “I dropped him off earlier.”
    “Dropped him off at what time?”
    “Around seven, I guess. Earlier, maybe. He had an appointment to meet somebody.”
    “Who?”
    “Didn’t say. Just said there was a party and he wanted to get here early, before it started. Asked me to come back around nine, give him a ride home.”
    “You’re late.”
    “I went to run my dog over in Runyon Canyon. I fell asleep.”
    “In the park?”
    “In my truck.”
    “Anybody with you?”
    Romero shrugged. “Maggie.”
    “Who’s Maggie?”
    “My dog.”
    “Don’t get cute, Danny.”
    “I guess nobody was with me, then.”
    “Anybody see you?”
    “Maybe. At the park.”
    “After that, when you slept.”
    “I doubt it.”
    “You don’t seem too shaken up, seeing your buddy lying here dead.”
    Romero said nothing, didn’t even flinch. There was a remarkable calmness about him that was almost eerie.
    “I asked you a question, Danny boy.”
    “No, sir. You made a statement.”
    DeWinter didn’t like that, not a bit.
    “You stay here.”
    The big detective crossed to the body and bent slowly down, wheezing as he strained for air with his huge gut trapped