“Friday or Saturday. Super busy.”

“Are any of the owners in today?” asked Nick.

“Not today. They never tell us when they’re coming. They just arrive. But let me get the manager.”

“We’ll just knock on his door, say hello. Okay?” asked Nick.

“That’s cool.”

The office was small, bright, and neat. Radio playing “Soul Kitchen.” Smell of aftershave. Raquel Welch poster from One Million Years B.C. on the bathroom door. Fur bikini on a body like that, thought Nick. Unbelievable.

The manager didn’t understand why he couldn’t help the detectives but the owners of Lorenzo’s could. Said he knew the operations up and down, knew personnel better than any of the investors, knew what was going on and what wasn’t. He wore his hair short and a U.S. flag pin on his coat lapel. Nick thought it was odd that half the men in the country had hair like this and a flag pin while the other half had hair down to their backs and were loaded.

Nick showed him the picture.

“Oh,” he said quietly. “Sure.”

“Sure what?” asked Nick.

“She’s been in. Hard to forget a fox like her.”

The manager sat, flipped through a Rolodex file on his desk, and handed Nick a business card. Nick read it. Heart did a little hop. He handed the card to his partner.

“He’ll put you in touch with the others,” said the manager. “I think there’s five investors total, maybe six. They’re all Journal newspaper guys. Don’t know anything about this business.”

“Enough to give you good reviews,” said Nick.

The manager smiled. “Kind of biased, maybe.”

JONAS DESSINGER

Associate Publisher

Orange County Journal

“This the guy she was with?” asked Lobdell.

The manager shook his head and stood. “Ask him.”

“I asked you.”

“Let’s just ask Jonas,” said Nick.

THEY WERE near the Journal building in Costa Mesa at four. Lobdell had to stop at a convenience store pay phone on the way and call Shirley and talk to Kevin. Lucky’s voice was always soft and serious when he talked to his wife. Then with his son it was loud and brusque. Nick bought a pack of cigarettes, stood under the overhang of a U-Totem market in Orange, and smoked one while he half eavesdropped on Lobdell barking at his son. Saved the rest of the pack for the Wolfman Neemal. Waste of thirty-four cents. Wondered what relation Jonas Dessinger was to Teresa, Andy’s girlfriend. Hoped he and Lucky didn’t have to walk through the newsroom, call attention to themselves, get Andy curious.

Nick watched the cars go up and down Tustin Avenue. Liked the new AMC Barracuda and the Mustang and the Dodge Dart convertible. Figured it would take a lot more overtime for a deputy with a wife and three to afford something like that on top of the Red Rocket, which they needed for the kids. Thought of his father and mother and how they drove the Studebaker until it quit. Right there on Holt Avenue, smoke billowing out of the grille like napalm is how Dad described it. Still waxed and polished, probably. What, hundred and fifty, two hundred thousand miles? Nick figured his mom and dad had plenty of miles left on them and that’s what counted. Wondered at Max’s obsession with the Communists, how he went crazy with it after Clay. Him and Roger Stoltz and their damned meetings and rallies. The booze. And Monika getting quieter and slower, like Max was stealing her energy. Part of her died when Clay did. A blind man could see that.

Lobdell walked from the phone booth, broad shoulders forward, head down in thought. Nick saw disappointment in Lucky’s hard gray eyes as he shook his head and went to the car. Nick couldn’t figure if Lucky was more pissed off or worried.

Jonas Dessinger kept them waiting for half an hour. Nice enough lobby but the receptionist had to give them badges and buzz open the door before they could come in and get on an elevator.

Third floor, office with views of Newport Boulevard and the tracts of Costa Mesa. Good-sized room, sparsely furnished. Framed Journal press club and CNPA awards on the walls. Funny leather and chrome furniture.

Dessinger was early thirties, dark-haired, gray-eyed. Thick mustache. Under six, slender. Tapered suit, a European look, not like those Botany 500s on TV. He had that funny hairstyle, covering the ear tops and a shock hanging down his forehead but short in back. No sideburns. Like he wanted it both ways, thought Nick. Half square, half hep. Like he’d wear half a flag pin.

Nick cast him as Red. Maybe. Pictured him balancing a full-grown woman over his shoulders while he pulled open a padlock, threw it into an orange grove, then slid open a two-hundred-pound door on rollers. Iffy. Maybe whoever it was put her down and picked her back up. Not easy, either.

Dessinger said that Janelle had been his guest at two dinner parties at Lorenzo’s.

Jonas was a bachelor, by the way.

He and Janelle had been friends and lovers.

He had last seen her on the Saturday afternoon before she died, when she’d broken off their relationship after “an almost unbelievable session of lovemaking.”

Jonas looked out a window, smiling privately. Then back to the detectives.

“How old are you?” asked Nick.

“Thirty-four.”

“She was nineteen,” said Nick.

“And that made us consenting adults.”

“Pathetic is what it makes you,” said Lobdell. “Bet you didn’t mention those dates in your fish-wrap newspaper social page, did you?”

“And the point of that would be…”

Nick felt the change then. The altered frequencies of the room as Lobdell’s anger filled it. He could tell that Dessinger had no idea.

Lobdell stood and went to a window. Looked out. Just as well, thought Nick. Let him cool off.

“Where were you last Tuesday? Between noon and midnight, say.”

“Which is the approximate time of death?” asked Dessinger.

“Maybe,” said Nick.

Dessinger leaned forward and flipped back the pages of a desk calendar. “Here in this building, noon to five, minus an hour-and-a-half lunch at the Ancient Mariner. Home to Newport by five-twenty. I live at the Bay Club.”

Of course he does, thought Nick.

“Nap, news, tennis, dinner. Drinks, drinks, drinks. Good nights around one A.M. There were four of us. I hate to drag them into this but-”

“Into what?” asked Nick.

“Janelle.”

“What, Saturday she’s unbelievable but now she’s something stuck to your shoe?” asked Lobdell.

“What does that mean?”

“He’s referring to a certain callousness that comes off you, Jonas,” said Nick. “He thinks you’re an asshole. So do I.”

Dessinger looked at Lobdell, then Nick. Nick saw no worry at all in him.

“Moving right along, here are three numbers to call to corroborate my story.”

He took his time writing. Finally slid a sheet of typing paper across the desk to Nick. Capped his pen and returned it to the breast pocket of his tailored suit in one confident motion.

“Anything else, gentlemen? I’ve got an early dinner date tonight.”

“Poor girl,” said Lobdell.

“Good, then. It’s been a pleasure.”

Dessinger rose and stood behind his desk. Offered a winning smile to Nick as he picked up the paper.

Lobdell shot a hand out with surprising speed, got hold of Dessinger’s left ear, and forced his head to the desk. Dessinger yelped and bent at the middle to keep his ear on, spread his arms out, and chattered his feet like he was dancing a show tune. Lobdell walked him to the edge of the desk, then forced him down. Dessinger’s legs collapsed and his chest hit the carpet with a huff. Lobdell knelt, ear still in one hand.

“What shall I do with him, Nicky?”

“I really don’t know.”

“Take your time.”

“Here.”

Nick drew his ballpoint from his jacket pocket and wrote “ 19” on Dessinger’s forehead. Blew on the numerals.