I turned down Admiralty Way with its wide green traffic island and drove along the Silver Strand to a short cul-de-sac lined with low-density condominiums partially hidden behind tropical plantings. Clarion Way. Seven twenty-four was part of a four-unit building at the front of the curve, and even from the street I could see that the units were large and spacious and expensive. Definitely not pop digs. A gated drive led down beneath the building, and a gated walk led along the front of the units. A mail drop was built into the front gate, along with a security phone so that you could call inside to let the residents know you'd come to visit. I circled the cul-de-sac, parked across the street at the curb, and walked back to the mail drop to see if Angela Rossi's name matched the address. No names. I guess the postman was expected to know who lived where.

A thin man with thick glasses and a bulging forehead squinted out at me from behind the gate. 'May I help you?'

I gave him one of my better smiles and tried to look reasonable. 'Do you know if Keith's home?'

He frowned at me. 'Keith?'

I nodded. 'That's right. Keith Adams in seven two four. He said he'd wait for me, but no one answers.'

He shook his head. 'You must have the wrong address. There are only four of us in the building, and no one by that name lives here.'

I dug out my wallet, drew a cash receipt from Hughes Market, and frowned at it. 'It says seven twenty-four Clarion.'

He was shaking his head before I finished. 'Maybe there's another Clarion. I know the woman in seven twenty-four. I don't think she's home now.' The woman.

'You don't think we could be talking about Keith's wife, do you?' I peered through the gate. A boy's red bike was leaning against a planter in the entry to seven two four. A plastic hamper filled with Nerfballs stood behind the bike.

He put his hands on his hips, still shaking the head. 'Oh, no. It's just Angie and her kids.' Angie. You see how it adds up?

I put my wallet away and scratched my head. Klem Kadiddlehopper comes to the big city. 'Has she lived here long? Maybe Keith moved.' Trying to find out how a cop could afford to live here. Trying to find out if she rented or stayed with a friend or had won the place in a lottery.

'Not long. She moved in two years ago.'

'She own it, or does she rent?'

Now he was frowning. Suspicious. 'Why don't you leave your number. Maybe the lady knows something about your friend and will call you.' The detective presses his luck a tad too hard.

'That's okay. I'm pretty sure I've got Keith's number back at the office.'

I thanked him for his time, went back to my car, then drove to a pay phone in a little shopping center at the mouth of the Marina where I called a realtor friend who works in Pacific Palisades. A bright woman's voice said, 'Westside Realty, how may I help you?'

I tried to sound like a G-man. 'Adrienne Carter, please.'

'May I tell her who's calling?'

'Richard Tracy.'

'Please hold.'

Maybe twenty seconds later another woman's voice came on. 'This is Adrienne Carter.'

'I'd like to buy the Hearst Castle. Wanna handle the deal?'

Adrienne Carter laughed. 'Dick Tracy. Oh, please.'

I gave her Angela Rossi's address and asked if she could run an owner-of-record check for me. I told her it was a matter of Utmost urgency and the security of the nation depended on her. She said, 'I'll bet, Dick.' I think I had started something that I was going to regret.

Forty minutes later I made the slow pull up Laurel Canyon into the mountains above Hollywood and the rustic A-frame I have there. It's woodsy where I live, and though I have neighbors, our homes are separated by mature eucalyptus and olive trees that give us shade and lend stability to the steep slopes upon which we live. I bought the place many years ago when it was in disrepair and, over time, have rebuilt and refinished it both alone and with the help of friends.

I parked in the carport, let myself in through the kitchen, and was looking in the refrigerator for something to eat when the cat-door squeaked and the cat who lives with me walked in. I said, 'Hey.'

The cat is large and black and one ear sits kind of cocked to the side from when he was head-shot with a.22. The flat top of his head is laced with scars and his ears are shredded and lumpy. When he was younger he would often bring me bits of squirrel and bird to share, but he's older now and the gifts are not as frequent. Perhaps he's slowing, or perhaps he's just less generous. He snicked across the floor and sat by his bowl. 'Naow.'

'I'm hungry, too. Hang on.'

I took out leftover chicken that I'd baked with garlic and rosemary, and a half can of tuna. I turned the oven to 350, wrapped the chicken and canned new potatoes together in foil, then set it in the oven to heat. I forked the tuna into the cat's bowl, then set the can next to it so he could lick the juice. He prefers the chicken, but the garlic gives him gas, so I've had to draw the line. He doesn't like me for it, but there you go.

It was eighteen minutes after seven, and I was getting ready to take a shower when the phone rang. Adrienne. I said, 'Hi, Adrienne.' Elvis Cole, Too Hip Detective, pretends he can read minds.

Lucy Chenier said, 'Adrienne?' The Too Hip Detective steps in deep doo-doo.

'A realtor friend,' I said. 'I'm expecting her to call with some information I need.'

'Do tell. Well, heaven forbid I should tie up your line.'

I gave her Groucho. 'Can't think of anyone I'd rather have tie me up, heh heh.'

'Oh, you.' I love it when she says 'oh, you.' And then she said, 'Hi, Studly.'

I felt the smile start deep in my chest and grow large like an expanding bubble, and then I was standing in my kitchen with the phone and Lucy Chenier's presence seemed to fill the house with warmth and light. I said, 'I miss you, Luce.'

'I miss you, too.'

'Hmm.'

'Hmm-rnm.' We often have conversations like this.

I had met Lucy Chenier three months earlier when I was working in Louisiana for an actress named Jodi Taylor. Lucy was Jodi Taylor's lawyer and I was Jodi Taylor's detective, and the attraction, as they say, was immediate. We had called each other regularly since then, and two months ago I had flown back to Louisiana to spend a long weekend with Lucy and her eight-year-old son, Ben. Three weeks after that, Lucy and I had met in Cancun for four days of snorkeling and grilled shrimp and sunburns, and it was harder still to say good-byes when she boarded her plane and I boarded mine. Thereafter, the phoning grew more frequent, and the conversation less necessary, and soon we were in a kind of comfortable,'uncomfortable place where the occasional murmur on the other end of the line was enough, but not nearly enough. Over the weeks an increasing part of my day has become the anticipation of the evening's call, when I would sit in my home and Lucy would sit in hers and we would share a few minutes together linked by two thousand miles of fiber-optic satellite relays. It wasn't as nice as actually being with her, but if romance were easy, everyone would do it. I said, 'You may be interested in why I am waiting for Adrienne to call.'

'I'm sure I don't want to know.'

'Do I detect coolness?'

'You detect indifference. They are not the same.'

I said, 'Ha. We'll see if you feel the same after you hear my news.'

She said, 'Let me guess. You've changed your name to Jerry Lee Lewis Cole?' You see what passes for humor in Louisiana?

'I'm working with Jonathan Green.'

There was a moment's silence, and then Lucy Chenier said, 'Is that true, or is this more of the famous Elvis Cole wit?' Not joking, now.

'Hired me today for the Big Green Defense Machine.'

Lucy Chenier made a soft whistling sound, then said, 'Oh, Elvis. That's wonderful.' You see? Impressed. Lucy being impressed made me want to thump my hind leg on the floor and roll over so that she could scratch my belly. She said, 'We used to study his cases in law school.'