“Great.”

Sharing the tab… that was good.

39

As predicted,it took me a week to check out the names on Brill’s fingerprint hit list. At the time a bronze Nova was gunning me down, Bobby Cantrell was in Folsom Penitentiary, and Benny Rodriguez and Cristofer Anez were in Lompoc Federal Prison. Tomas Marin had moved to Texas, where he worked construction in Houston, and Mabibi Ralson was indeed dead.

Mike Robinson was thirty-eight years old and employed with an insurance firm. He was the original owner of the Nova and traded it in for a new GM Saturn in 1996. Ted Bass worked as a film editor and hadno ideahow his prints were found in the Nova or evenwhyhis prints were in the police system. He lived in West Hollywood and was with his lover at a dinner party the night in question.

Mohammed Nelson developed pictures in a MotoPhoto lab in South Central. He was six-four and hostile and claimed he didn’t remember where he had been the night that someone tried to take me out-very reasonable because several days had passed since the shooting. I could have prodded him with cop attitude, but since I was on my own, I chose to be a nuisance instead. Guys will do anything to get rid of a nagging woman. He finally figured out that during the time period in question, he had been at a party where black-market pharmaceuticals had been passed freely from person to person. I was able to confirm his presence at the party.

I presented the list to Justice complete with times, dates, and alibis. He was thrilled, suggesting that we should talk about the case one more time, just to nail down all the details. There was no mention of my apartment as the meeting place. It was Bellini’s for lunch-safe, appropriate, and in the open.

Since my suspects had checked out clean, our biggest hope lay in snagging Joseph Fedek and Leonard Chatlin, both with records of misdemeanor possessions and drunk-and-disorderlies. At the time of the mug shots, Fedek had a shaved head and an eyebrow pierce. Leonard Chatlin was clean shaven and very pimply. Sarah had had pretty decent recall for something that had happened so long ago.

The problem lay in LAPD’s inability to locate Fedek and Chatlin. But because both were scumbags, and in general, scumbags didn’t learn from experience, I knew that there was a very good chance that they’d be picked up again on another offenseifthey still were in L.A.

I also made a call to County Jail. After being transferred from one extension to another, one department to another, I finally was able to confirm, by checking the visitors’ list, that Joseph Fedek had paid a call to his stepbrother Germando El Paso a week before my shooting. Nothing but circumstantial evidence, but it told me what I suspected. El Paso had offered me up to Fedek.

Using Justice Brill as the contact name, I put out the word with other LAPD substations and West Hollywood Sheriff. If anything comes in-even something as meager as loitering or a DUI-on Joseph “Juice” Fedek or Leonard Chatlin,pleasedon’t let him go without contacting Detective Brill or-in an emergency-Officer Cynthia Decker. I figured I’d go round-robin, calling each division about once a week. Any more than that and I’d be considered a pest.

Now it was a waiting game.

A week passed before things finally settled down. Koby and I squeezed in an elegant dinner at one of my favorite spots. Musso & Frank was among the oldest and best restaurants in Hollywood. Built to look like a hunting lodge with high-beamed ceilings and lots of wood, it was one of those places that had a bar scene, without being tacky, and everything imaginable on the menu. The management boasted the best sand dabs in town (the truth) and famous martinis. I was on my second cocktail when Koby casually mentioned that a guy, two tables to my left, kept staring at me.

I didn’t turn around. I flicked my hair back and sipped my drink. “What does he look like?”

“Harmless. Middle-aged, graying hair. Jacket and tie. Looks like a lawyer.”

“Alone?”

“No. He’s with a woman, probably his wife. Also two other couples: They’re both white.”

“The guy’s black?” I asked him.

“Yes. I don’t mention that?”

“No.”

Koby smiled. “The men are in suits, women in nice dresses. There is nothing wrong except that he keeps looking over here.”

I put my napkin down. “I’ll make a trip to the bathroom.”

With the humidity down pretty low, I was having a very good hair day, my shoulder-length tresses filled with body and none of the frizz. I wore a sleeveless fire engine-red dress that had a loose crossover bodice and plunging neckline. Because Koby was six-one-and-a-half in bare feet, whenever we went someplace nice, I wore heels that put me close to six even. When I stood up, he gawked at me and swallowed hard.

“Maybe he eyes you because you are so beautiful.” He exhaled and shook his head. “Sometimes I must pinch myself.”

I bent over, giving him a view, then kissed the top of his head. “I’ll do that for you. Excuse me.”

I took the opportunity to reapply my makeup. I liked looking good for him. Upon returning, I had a full view of the table-three 50-plus couples, and yes, the men did look like lawyers. In fact, they probably were. I knew for certain that the lone black man was.

Raymond Paxton-David Tyler’s conservator.

I had called him three times in the past several weeks and all I ever got was voice mail. The first two times, I just wanted to know if he had heard from David. The third time, I told him I was looking for David in my off-hours. I gave him names of shelters I had been to, explaining that I didn’t want him to plow old ground, should he happen to be looking for David as well.

Not even the courtesy of a follow-up call from a secretary. Not that he was required to answer me, but it would have been polite. He saw me heading toward his table and stood up, excusing himself before I could intrude on his party. We met halfway between our tables and found a corner at the busy bar. I sat; he didn’t. I expected hostility. Instead, I got an immediate apology.

“I’m sure you’ve been busy.” I kept my face expressionless, although I maintained eye contact. Typical cop stare. I didn’t know if we got it from TV or vice versa. Paxton wore khaki pants, white shirt, red tie, and blue blazer. Very preppy. I wondered if he had attended an Ivy.

He said, “It takes two minutes to make a phone call. I didn’t call back because I didn’t trust you.”

My shrug was noncommittal.

“I couldn’t figure out what your game plan was,” he told me. “I still don’t know.”

“I’m looking for David Tyler.”

“Yes, but why?”

I actually gave the inquiry some thought. “I don’t know, Mr. Paxton. I suppose it’s because in life I’ve been given a great deal and he’s been given a raw deal.”

Paxton looked down. “His trust fund is significant. The first couple of months he was gone, I hired a private detective, you know.”

“I didn’t know. You never told me.”

“The man was a con artist.”

“That’s too bad.”

“My own fault. I didn’t do my homework. Since you seem to be on some sort of mission with David, I could give you money for your time and expenses. But you’ll have to make it official. I’ll need a written report of your progress.”

I held up my hands. “Maybe money for gas… wear and tear on the car. Other than that, I’m fine. How about giving some money to the baby instead?”

“I can’t do that unless I have medical evidence that the child is David’s offspring. Otherwise I could be sued later on. But there are… things I could arrange. Why don’t you have the mother of this child hire a lawyer? It would be easier if I spoke legalese with him… or her.”

“All right. I will.” I held out my hand. “Thank you.”