THIS GAME IS GETTING OLD. SAY THANK YOU? MY "unknown" messenger has just announced that he is the one who shot Alan. The message is written out, no text-speak. Could definitely have come from Foley. He doesn't strike me as cool enough to know how to compose a message the way anyone under thirty would. But he's made a serious mistake. How does he think he can get away with the shooting?

Any reservation I may have had about the veracity of Max's claim vanishes. Foley is in league with Martinez but he's on my trail now, which means he's not on Max's. But being so blatant about it is puzzling. What does he hope to accomplish with this cat-and-mouse game? And he's just killed a man and not come forward to acknowledge it. How is he going to spin that?

The cop comes back to the car and opens the door, an invitation to step out. He dutifully notes that it's my name, address, phone and license numbers on the gun permit. I'm just about to ask him for a ride into town when another car pulls into the lot.

It's not a police car, but a dark, late-model Chevy with tinted windows. The cop starts toward it, undoubtedly ready to order it out of the park, but the driver's door opens and a familiar figure steps out.

"It's all right," I tell the cop. "I think it's my ride."

A uniformed Ortiz approaches. "SDPD," he says, holding out a hand. "If it's okay, I'll take Ms. Strong home."

The cop looks puzzled but shakes Ortiz' outstretched hand and doesn't object. As we walk toward the car, I open my mouth to ask Ortiz how he knew to come after me.

I never get the chance. He opens the back door and motions me inside.

"Get in, Anna."

The voice comes from the backseat. A familiar voice. I lean down to look in.

It's Williams.

And he's pissed.