After that no one talked at all.

I tried to follow each turn, drawing a map in my head, but with all those turns I lost track.

Finally, he stopped and I thought, I'm cooked. He's going to get his drums, find me, take his anger out on me.

I felt around under the plastic, wanting something to swing with, touched cold metal, but it wouldn't come free. Totally cooked.

Open. Slam. Footsteps. That got softer. Disappeared.

I got out from under the plastic. The van smelled like one big joint.

It was parked on a quiet street full of apartments.

I climbed into the front seat, unrolled the window. This could be anywhere. Maybe he'd even taken me back to Hollywood. The air outside was cold, so I crawled in back again, managed to pull the black plastic sheet loose, folded it, tucked it under my arm, returned to the front, and got out.

A new smell.

Salt. A fishy salt.

Once when I was little, Mom took me to the beach, a long bus ride from Watson. I don't know exactly what beach it was and we never went back there, but the sand was smooth and warm and she bought snow-cones for both of us. It was hot and dry and crowded and we stayed there all day, me digging holes in the sand, Mom just sitting there in her bikini listening to the radio. She didn't bring any sunscreen and we both got burned. I'm lighter than her and got it worse, turning blistery, feeling like my whole body was on fire. All the way back on the bus I screamed, Mom telling me to be quiet, but not like she meant it- she was pink as bubble gum, knew the pain was real.

Back in the trailer, she tried to give me wine, but I wouldn't take it, the smell bothered me, and even though I must have been only four or five, I'd seen her drunk, was afraid of alcohol. She tried to force me, pushing the bottle up against my lips and holding one of my hands down, but I just kept twisting my head, pretending my mouth was glued shut, till finally she left me alone and I just lay there, every inch of my body roasting while she finished the wine herself.

Smelling the salt, I remembered all that.

And more: Mom sitting on a towel; her bikini was black. Maybe she was hoping some guy would notice her, but no one did, probably 'cause of me.

So here I was. The beach.

Nowhere to go after that.

35

Still no answer at Greg Balch's office. Petra de- cided to eyeball the place.

At 6 P.M., she drove out of the station lot, picking up Cahuenga at Franklin and taking it over the hill.

Studio City was the Valley, but to her it had always seemed un-Valley-like. North of Ventura Boulevard, the neighborhood was the usual grid of anonymous apartment tracts, but to the south were pretty hills up to Mulholland, winding trails, stilt houses that had survived the quake. The commercial mix along Ventura was a little shabby in spots, some strip-mall development, but also plenty of antique shops, recording studios, sushi bars, jazz clubs, a few gay bars- definitely funkier than the rest of the Valley.

Nothing avant-garde about Player's Management's home base, though. The company occupied a dreary two-story box the color of chocolate milk, set back from the street and fronted by a parking lot. Weeds whiskered through the asphalt, gutters sagged, stucco corners were chipped. H. Carter Ramsey wasn't much of a landlord.

Balch's black Lexus was the only vehicle in the lot. So he was in, not answering the phone- orders from the boss to discourage the media? She peeked inside the car. Empty.

Two tenants took up the ground floor of the chocolate cube, a travel agency sporting the green tree flag of Lebanon and advertising discount flights to the Middle East and a wholesale-to-the-public beauty-supply store. Both closed.

Rusting open steps on the right side climbed to a cement walkway, and three mustard-colored doors were in need of refinishing. Suite A housed Easy Construction, Inc.; B was something called La Darcy Hair Removal; and tucked in back was Player's Management. No windows on the west wall. Oppressive.

She knocked, got no answer, knocked again, and Balch opened.

He was wearing a black zip-up velvet sweat suit with white piping and looked genuinely surprised to see her. Odd. Ramsey had to have called him. Maybe he was an actor, too.

“Hi.” He offered a soft hand. “C'mon in. Detective Conners, was it?”

“Connor.”

He held the door for her. The suite consisted of two low-ceilinged rooms connected by a door, now open. The rear space looked bigger, messy. Piles of paper all over the cheap green carpet; take-out cartons. The front room was furnished with a gold couch and a scruffy oak desk piled with yet more paper. Flagrantly grained fake rosewood walls were covered with photographs, mostly black-and-whites, the kind you saw at every dry cleaner's in town- big airbrushed smiles of stars and has-beens, dubious autographs.

But only one celeb in these. Ramsey as cowboy, police officer, soldier, Roman centurion. An especially ludicrous shot of young H. Cart decked out like some kind of space alien- plastic body suit armored by exaggerated pecs, rubbery-looking antennae protruding from his puffy sixties mop-top. No mustache; wide, white, hire-me smile. A passing resemblance to Sean Connery. The guy had been a looker.

A color photo at the top showed Ramsey decades later dressed in a nifty sport jacket, turtleneck, looking flinty, striking an action pose with a 9mm. Dack Price: The Adjustor. She should probably watch the damn show.

She was about to enter the back office when she noticed something that confirmed her guess about Balch as performer. At the bottom of the wall, half hidden by the desk. Low man in the exhibit- not a coincidence, she was willing to bet.

Balch in his twenties. He'd been decent-looking, too. A good fifty pounds lighter, sun-blond, nicely defined muscles, like a hero in one of those beach movies she used to watch for laughs- Tab Hunter or Troy Donahue.

But even in his youth, the business manager had worn a dull, subservient smile that robbed him of star quality.

“Antiques,” said Balch, sounding self-conscious. “You know you're old when you don't recognize yourself anymore.”

“So you acted, too.”

“Not really. I should take that stuff down.” The sweats were tight around his paunch, baggy at the seat. New white sneakers. Now that she had a good look, she could see that his thin, waxy hair was a mixture of blond and white. Pink scalp peeked through.

“Can I get you some coffee?” He indicated the rear office, stood by the door, waiting for her to enter.

“No thanks.” She stepped in. Finally a couple of windows, but they were covered by chenille drapes the color of old newspaper. No natural lighting, and the single desk lamp Balch had on didn't do much to pierce the gloom.

The clutter was monumental- papers on the floor, chairs crowding another cheap desk, bigger, L-shaped. Ledgers, tax manuals, corporate prospectuses, government forms. On the shorter arm of the desk was a white plastic coffeemaker spotted with brown. Kentucky Fried Chicken box in a corner, grease stains on the underside of the open lid. A glimpse of breaded fowl.

Total slob. Maybe that's why Ramsey maintained him in low-rent circumstances. Or maybe that was the essence of their relationship.

All those years playing lackey. Could she wedge the guy? He did live in Rolling Hills Estates, very pricey. So Ramsey paid well for loyalty.

Balch cleared an armchair for her, tossing papers into a corner, and sat behind the desk, hands laced on his belly. “So how's it going? The investigation.”

“It's going.” Petra smiled. “Do you have any information that might help me, Mr. Balch?”

“Me? Wish I did, I still can't get over it.” His lower jaw shifted from side to side. “Lisa was… a nice girl. Little hot-tempered, but basically a great person.”