" 'Might,' 'maybe'-this is still about Richard?"

"Maybe," said Milo.

"Sorry, no Crimmins either, but people come in without reservations, we don't know their names."

"We're talking eight, nine months ago. Would you remember every name-even with an excellent memory?"

Lew looked hurt. "You want me to check the reservation books, I'm happy to do it, but I can tell you right now, weird names like that I'd definitely remember." He closed his eyes. "Tall and skinny, huh? Richard's customer?"

"Could be."

"I am thinking of one guy, never gave me a name, just waltzed in expecting to be seated-but no girl, just him. I remember him clearly because he caused problems. Monopolized Richard's time to the point where the other customers weren't getting their food. They start complaining to the bus-boys, the busboys gripe to me, I have to deal with it. Another reason I remember was it was the only time I had any kind of problem with Richard. Not that he gave me any lip-it wasn't his problem, it was the guy's, just kept gabbing to Richard and Richard didn't know what to do. He'd just been working here for a few weeks. We drum into 'em, The customer's always right, so this musta put Richard in a situation, know what I mean? So I have to deal with it, doing my best to be polite, but the guy is not polite about it. Gives me the look, like who am I to tell him, know what I mean?"

"Did Richard say what the guy was talking to him about?"

"No, but the guy did. Something like, 'Hey, I could be his meal ticket, you think he wants to work here for the rest of his life?' Richard's off at another table, looking at me out of the corner of his eye, letting me know this isn't his idea. I offered the guy some comp wine, but he just said something nasty, threw down money, and left. Barely covered the check, not much left over for Richard. Caesar salad, veal parmigiana, German chocolate cake."

"So tell me," said Milo, "what song was the piano playing?"

Lew grinned. "Probably 'You Talk Too Much.' " He shrugged. "I'm just lucky, always had a memory, never bother with that elderberry stuff, Ginkgo biloba, any a that. Tell the truth, sometimes it's not fun. I got two ex-wives I wouldn't mind forgetting." His laugh was phlegmy. "You got pictures of this Wark guy, I can tell you right away if it's the same one."

"Not yet," said Milo. "Can you describe him?"

"Six-two, maybe -three, skinny, those all-black clothes like they do now, the so-calleds. My day, that was going to a funeral."

"Hair?"

"Long, dark. Not curly, though. Straight down-like a wig. Come to think of it, it probably was a wig. Big nose, little eyes, skinny little mouth. Not a good-looking guy. Hungry like, know what I mean? And tan-like he baked himself under a lamp."

"How many times did he come in here?"

"Just that once. One thing that might help, I saw his car. Corvette. Not a new one-the style with the big swoop in front? Bright yellow. Like a taxicab. I saw it because after he left, I cracked the door, made sure he was really leaving. You're saying he had something to do with Richard getting killed? Sonofabiteh."

"Don't know," said Milo, finishing his drink. "You've been very helpful. I appreciate it. Is there anyone else working tonight who might remember the guy?"

Lew ran his finger around his wineglass. The sauterne was brassy gold. He hadn't touched it. "Maybe Angelo-I'll check. Want a refill?"

"No, thanks. You didn't happen to get a look at the Corvette's license plate? Even a few numbers."

"Ha," said the maitre d'. "You're one a those cockeyed optimists, huh? Like in the song-think I'll go tell Doris to play that."

Chapter 25

Angelo was a short, bald waiter of the same vintage as Lew, rushing flush-faced between two large tables. When the maitre d' beckoned him away, his frown turned a pencil mustache into an inverted V and he approached us, muttering under his breath. Milo had talked to him, too, months ago, but he recalled the interview only vaguely. The troublemaker in black evoked nothing from him but a shrug.

"This is concerning Richard," said Lew.

"Richard was a nice kid," said Angelo.

Milo said, "Is there anything else you can tell us about him?"

"Nice kid," Angelo repeated. "Said he was gonna be a movie star-gotta get back, everyone's bitching about not enough mushrooms in the sauce."

"I'll talk to the kitchen," said Lew.

"Good idea." Angelo left.

Lew said, "Sorry 'bout that, his wife's sick. Give me your card and I'll call you when I have a chance to look at those books."

Driving back to the city, I said, "Maybe the meeting at the Oak Barrel was Richard's audition. Richard answers the casting ad, Wark says let me meet you where you work. See you in your natural habitat. Like a hunter sighting prey. It would also eliminate the need for Wark to have a formal casting location."

"Pretty gullible of Richard."

"He wanted to be a star."

He sighed. "Curly wig, straight wig-this is starting to feel nasty. Now all we have to do is find Mr. W, have a nice little chat."

"You've got a car now. A yellow Corvette isn't exactly inconspicuous."

"DMV doesn't list colors, only make, model, and year. Still, it's a start, if the 'Vette wasn't stolen. Or never registered… Big fenders-probably a seventies model." He sat up a bit. "A 'Vette could also explain why Richard was stashed in his own car.' Vettes don't have trunks."

"Someone else to think about," I said. "The blond girlfriend. She fits the second-driver theory. She waits nearby until Wark's ditched Richard's VW, picks Wark up, they drive away. Untraceable. No reason to connect the two of them with Richard."

"Every producer needs a bimbo, right? Her I don't even have a fake name for." Taking out a cigar, he opened the window, coughed, and thought better of it. He closed his eyes, and his fleshy features settled into what might have passed for stupor. I stayed on Riverside, going west. By Cold-water Canyon, he still hadn't spoken. But his eyes opened and he looked troubled.

"Something doesn't fit?" I said.

"It's not that," he said. "It's the movie angle. All these years sweeping the stables and I finally break into showbiz."

I didn't hear from him in the morning and Robin and I went for breakfast down by the beach in Santa Monica. By eleven, she was back in the shop with Spike and I was taking a call from the obnoxious Encino attorney. I listened to one paragraph of oily spiel, then told him I wasn't interested in working with him. He sounded hurt, then he turned nasty, finally slammed down the phone, which provided a bit of good cheer.

Two seconds later, my service phoned. "While you were on the line, Doctor, a Mrs. Racano called from Fort Myers Beach, Florida."

Florida made me think of the Crimmins boating accident.

Then the name clicked in: Dr. Harry Racano, Claire's major professor. I'd called Case Western two days ago, asking about him. I copied down the number and phoned. A crisp-voiced woman answered.

"Mrs. Racano?"

"This is Eileen."

"It's Dr. Alex Delaware from Los Angeles. Thanks for calling."

"Yes," she said guardedly. "Mary Ellen at Case told me you called about Claire Argent. What in God's name happened to her?"

"She was abducted and murdered," I said. "So far, no one knows why. I was asked to consult on the case."

"Why did you think Harry could help you?"

"We're trying to learn whatever we can about Claire. Your husband's name showed up on one of her papers. Faculty advisers can get to know their students pretty well."

"Harry was Claire's dissertation chairman. They were both interested in alcoholism. We had Claire at the house from time to time. Sweet girl. Very quiet. I can't believe she's been murdered."