CHAPTER 30

Heather came by and eyed Wascomb’s uneaten food. “Do you want a doggy bag?”

“No, thanks.”

She followed Wascomb’s slow walk out the door. “He barely touched his food. Is he okay?”

“He’s fine.”

“Is he your dad?”

“No,” I said. I handed her the total plus ten bucks. “Keep the change.” Big smile.

“Were you working yesterday?”

“Here?” she said. “I think so. Yeah, yesterday I was here.”

“Working two jobs?”

“Three. Here, KFC after five, and then Thursday and Friday nights I babysit for an emergency room doctor at Glendale Memorial.”

“Tough schedule.”

“That’s what my dad says. He keeps bugging me to quit something and have some fun.” She stuck her tongue out. “I’m saving up for fashion school.”

“Good for you,” I said. “Yesterday morning, around nine, did you notice a couple who came in for breakfast? She had long blond hair; he was tall and wore a leather cowboy hat.”

“Them,” she said. “Sure. I served them. I remember him because he reminded me of this actor my dad used to like. Peter… Peter something.”

“Fonda?”

“That’s it. There’s this real old movie my dad watches over and over. It’s got Jack Nicholson in it but he’s a lot younger and skinnier.”

“Easy Rider.”

“Uh huh. Jack and some other guy and the other guy- Peter- they’re like biker hippies.” She giggled. “Peter’s kind of a cutie if you go for that retro hippie thing. That’s what that guy- the guy with the hat- reminded me of.”

“Retro.”

“Lost in the sixties. His hair was like down his back and his shirt had snaps on it. Which gave me an idea for a dress. Cowboy Punk thing.”

“Original.”

“Thanks. How come you’re asking about them?”

“I work with the police.”

Her eyes got huge. “You’re a cop?”

“Consultant.”

“Wow,” she said. “They did something nasty?”

“They’re just people we’re interested in.”

“Like witnesses?”

“Something like that. Is there anything you remember about them?”

“Not really. They didn’t talk much.”

“To each other?”

“To each other or me. I’m a real motormouth, like you can’t tell. I’m always talking to the customers, it makes them feel you’re interested in them and it pays off in the tips department. Didn’t work with those two, they just sat there, like they were having a fight.”

“They eat?”

“They ordered but only he ate. Bacon and eggs. She asked for a sweet roll and milk but she didn’t touch it- like that old guy you were with. I figured there wouldn’t be much payoff and I was right. Ten percent tip, which is old. She paid.”

“Overhear any conversation?”

“There wasn’t any that I saw.”

“Have they been here before?”

“Once before,” she said. “Last week. Lauren served them. It was dinnertime and I was going off shift.”

“When last week?”

“Let’s see.” She pressed a finger to her lower lip. “Lauren works Tuesdays and Thursdays and Fridays and it wasn’t Friday because I’m off Friday and it wasn’t Tuesday because she called in sick Tuesday because her boyfriend got tickets to the Jason Mraz concert.” She stopped for breath. “Had to be Thursday.”

“Around what time?”

“Five-ish. Wow, so this is like an investigation?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You can’t tell me what they did?”

“Sorry, Heather.”

“Cool, I understand.”

“So they’ve only been here twice.”

“That’s all I saw.”

“How long have you been working here?”

“Three years, off and on.”

“How’d they act on Thursday?”

“The same. That’s how I remember. Lauren said they didn’t talk, just sat. He ate, she didn’t.”

“Ten percent tip.”

“Eight percent, actually.” She grinned. “I guess it’s my charm.”

I thanked her and gave her another ten.

“Oh, wow, you don’t have to,” she said, but she made no effort to return the money. “If you want I can keep an eye out and if they come in again I’ll call you.”

“I was just going to ask.” I handed her my card.

“Psychologist,” she said. “Like crazy criminals, Hannibal Lecter stuff?”

“It’s not always that exciting.”

“My sister went to a psychologist. She was pretty screwed up, had some real bad friends.”

“Did it help her?”

“Not really. But at least she moved out and I don’t have to listen to a bunch of yelling.”

“Guess you’d call that partial success,” I said.

“Yeah,” she said absently. As she drifted back to the register, I saw her re-count her money.

I got back on the 134 West, checked for messages when traffic slowed.

One from Olivia Brickerman. I exited the freeway on Laurel Canyon, drove to Ventura Boulevard, found a spot across the street from an adult motel, and called her office.

“Your Mr. and Mrs. Daney are pretty good at the paper game,” she said. “They total about seven grand a month fostering. They’ve been taking in kids for just over seven years, haven’t made any attempt to hide the fact that they’re exceeding the limit by two wards. That tells me they’re vets who know the system’s broke. Mrs. Daney has also applied for certification as an educational therapist, which would entitle her to additional treatment money. Generally, that requires some sort of teaching credential but there’s been some loosening of the regs due to shortages of providers. This help?”

“Very much. How badly is the system broken?”

“The geniuses in the state legislature just turned down a request for more caseworkers and the counties are already severely shorthanded. Meaning no one checks anything. A couple more things about the Daneys: They always foster teenagers with learning disabilities. What I found really interesting is that all their wards have been females. Which is unusual, there’s no shortage of boys in the system.”

“Can foster parents pick and choose age and sex?” I said.

“There’s supposed to be mutual consent between the agency and the caregiver. In the best interests of the child.”

“So you can ask for a girl.”

“Alex,” she said, “right now, if you’re white and middle class and don’t have a criminal record, you can ask for just about anything and get it.”

I thanked her and asked for a list of the Daneys’ wards.

She said, “All I’ve been able to find is the last few years. I’ll fax it to you soon as I get off. Regards to Allison. I hope I wasn’t too cheeky with the Snow White stuff.”

“Not at all,” I said. “Brilliance has its privileges.”

“You flatter me, darling.”

The only Martin Boestling I found listed in the phone book was a “confectionery dealer” on Fairfax Avenue. Unlikely, but it was an easy drive over Laurel Canyon.

The Nut House turned out to be a double storefront a block north of the Farmer’s Market/Grove complex. The Parking in Rear sign kept its promise and I found a space next to a green van with the store’s name, address, and website under a giant cashew that resembled an eyeless grub. A locked screen door covered an open delivery arch. I rang the bell and a heavy, kerchiefed woman in her sixties peered out, turned the bolt, and trod back wordlessly toward the front of the store.

The space was one big room lined with bins of candy, coffee, tea, rainbow-hued desiccated things, equally garish jellied morsels, and nuts. At least a dozen varieties of almonds. A sign said No Peanuts Here, Allergic People Don’t Worry.

The shoppers, all female, strolled the aisles and scooped goodies into green bags rolled from overhead spools. The green-aproned man at the register was mid-fifties, round-shouldered, and stocky with dark wavy hair. His face looked as if it had argued with a wall and lost. His hands were outsized and blocky and he bantered easily with two women checking out. In the Internet photo I’d found, he’d been tuxedoed, arm in arm with Sydney Weider. She’d changed a lot. Martin Boestling hadn’t.