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flurry of questions. “Scottsdale PD will sort it all out.” I had a theory about the “revelation,” though. Ernst had impressed me as a man with a highly developed sense of self-importance, not above resorting to trickery and outright lies to increase his screen time in Escape Across the Desert. One of the sound men on the set told me that Ernst had even demanded screen silence from the German-speaking actor who portrayed him as a young U-boat captain, insisting that the only “Kapitan zur See Erik Ernst” voice heard in the film be his own. The actor had been furious, Ernst adamant, leaving Warren to negotiate his way through a minefield of egos.
    Warren appeared satisfied with my non-answer. “Let’s hope Scottsdale PD is better than LAPD, then. By the way, I couldn’t help but notice the dust-up this morning between you and Captain Kryzinski. Is that the bad relationship you were talking about?”
    I laughed. “Me and Kryzinski? Hardly. He’s my ex-boss from my days on the force. Since I opened up shop as a PI he’s helped me with some of my cases and I’ve helped him with some of his. There’s no doubt in my mind that he’ll find Ernst’s killer.”
    Which shows how badly I’d misread Kryzinski.
    ***
    While watching the local news as I dressed for work the next morning, I saw two Scottsdale PD detectives shoving a handcuffed Rada Tesema into their car. Although the grim-faced detectives refused comment and Tesema was too frightened to speak, the blond-on-blond newscaster filled in the blanks.
    â€œYet another Hollywood tragedy unfolded yesterday, only this time in Scottsdale, where the filming of Oscar-winning documentarian Warren Quinn’s new project had to be shut down for the morning when it was discovered that one of its principals had been murdered during the night.” She took a deep breath, then continued. “Erik Ernst, who during World War II was held prisoner at the German POW camp in Papago Park and took part in the famous 1944 Christmas Eve escape, was found dead in his home yesterday morning. After a brief investigation, Scottsdale detectives arrested Rada Tesema, an Ethiopian national who served as Mr. Ernst’s care-giver. More at five.”
    She pasted a smile on her face. “In other news, little Holly Granger got the shock of her life when her Labrador Retriever, Slick, came home with…” I clicked off the TV.
    Brief investigation, indeed. What about the mysterious woman who brawled with Ernst in the middle of the night? Uneasy, I threw my clothes on and ran downstairs to the office, where Jimmy was already running more background checks for Southwest MicroSystems.
    â€œThe police made an arrest in the Ernst case.”
    When he turned around, I noticed how tired he looked. “Let me guess. The Ethiopian.” At my nod, he gave me a cynical smile. “The more things change, the more they remain the same.”
    Recently, Jimmy’s own cousin had narrowly escaped being tried for murder, so he could hardly be blamed for viewing the justice system with a jaundiced eye. I felt the same way, and wondered why the police hadn’t followed up on Ernst’s late-night visitor. Or perhaps they had, and found no connection to the crime. Ernst could have been a dirty old man and his visitor merely catering to his needs. As for the shouting the neighbor heard, sex could be a noisy number for some folks.
    For the next couple of hours, Jimmy and I concentrated on our separate tasks, avoiding any mention of his imminent departure. I finalized the paperwork on several cases and began sending out invoices. Despite the glamorous image of television PIs, most of a real private detective’s days verged on dull, entailing everything from skip-tracing deadbeats to background checks on errant or prospective spouses. For instance, Beth Osman, a wealthy Scottsdale widow descended from one of Arizona’s