Milo pressed her for more on Gavin’s sex life and the family, but once she’d gotten past the basic hatred, there was nothing. He steered the conversation to Gavin’s tabloid fantasies.

“That,” she said, “is another thing he was impressed with- my work in the industry. He kept asking me to hook him up with some celebrity parties, so he could observe.” She laughed. “As if I’d help him dig dirt on my friends.”

“What was his angle?”

“Unearthing filth and selling it to the tabs. He saw it as his journalistic debut, he was going to make his mark as a journalist. I told him the tabs were trash and full of lies, but he wouldn’t hear it. He claimed they were more honest than the establishment press because they were open about their goals.”

“Filth.”

She nodded. “After the accident, Gavin saw the world as one big ball of filth.”

I said, “Did he make any progress toward being a journalist?”

“Like take a course or get an internship?” said Paxton. “Not to my knowledge. I’d doubt it. He really wasn’t in any shape to go back to school or hold down a job. Too flighty- he was drifting. Dropping out, sleeping in till noon, turning his room into a pigsty. I can’t blame him, I’m sure his brain was messed up. But Sheila didn’t even try to set limits. And Jerry, of course, was always gone.”

“Gavin did go into therapy.”

“Because the courts forced him to.”

“Did he tell you who his therapist was?”

“Jerry did. Dr. Koppel. Like it was some big deal.” She frowned.

“You know her?”

“I’ve heard her on the radio, and I have to say I’m not impressed. All she does is preach morality to idiots who phone in. Why not just go to church?”

Using the present tense. Milo and I looked at each other.

She said, “What?”

“Dr. Koppel was murdered.”

Paxton’s face went white. “What? When?”

“Couple of days ago.”

“My God- why don’t I know that- was it on the news?”

“There was an article in yesterday’s paper.”

“I never read the paper,” she said. “Except Calendar. Murdered, omigod. Are you saying it had something to do with Gavin?”

“No, ma’am.”

“But she- could it be coincidence?”

“Your sister didn’t seem impressed by that.”

“My sister’s crazy. Do you have any idea who killed her?”

Milo shook his head.

“Horrible, horrible,” she said. “You think there’s a chance it couldn’t be related to Gavin?”

“We don’t know, ma’am.”

“Oh, boy.” Paxton stayed serious for a while. Ate her biscotti and grinned. Back to coquettish. “Now you’re playing hard to get, Lieutenant.”

“Not really, ma’am.”

“Well… I hope this has been helpful. I’ve got to go.”

“One more question, ma’am. Do you remember that picture I showed you of the girl who died with Gavin?”

“Yes, of course. And I told you I’d never seen her before, and that was true.”

“Gavin talked to you about wanting to find a new girl. He told other people he’d succeeded.”

“What other people?”

“Let’s leave it at other people.”

“Mr. Inscrutable Detective,” said Paxton. She brushed her knee against Milo’s. “A new girl, huh? In Gavin’s mind that could’ve meant anything. Someone he decided to pursue, whether or not she wanted it. Someone he’d seen on TV.”

“The girl I showed you was real,” said Milo. “And she was in Gavin’s car, up on Mulholland, late at night.”

“Okay,” she said, annoyed. “So he found someone. Everyone finds someone eventually. Look what happened to her.”

She made sure Milo picked up the tab and flounced away on backless shoes.

“What a piece of work,” said Milo. “What a family. So what was her reason for talking to us? Dissing the Quicks?”

“She despises them,” I said, “but that doesn’t discount her information.”

“Gavin’s inappropriate sexual behavior? Yeah, he’s sounding nuttier by the day.”

“If she’s right about Jerome Quick, Gavin had a role model. Gavin may have started off with a certain view of women, and the accident weakened his inhibitions further. What intrigues me is the blonde. Gavin had problems approaching women, came on way too strong. Yet an attractive young woman was willing to get intimate with him. A young woman in five-hundred-dollar shoes whom no one’s reported missing.”

“A pro,” he said. “Got to be.”

“Severe frustration could lead a boy to buy sex. A Beverly Hills boy might have a decent budget. Especially with a father who sanctioned it. I know she hasn’t shown up in any Vice files, but a relative rookie lucky enough not to get busted wouldn’t. If she worked on her own, there’d be no one to miss her. If she worked for someone else, they might not want to go on record.”

“A father who sanctioned it,” he said. “Dad slips Gavin serious dough to get seriously laid?”

“And maybe,” I said, “Dad knew where to send him.”

Jerome Quick’s metals-trading firm was a few miles east of Beverly Hills, on Wilshire near La Brea, on the third floor of a shopworn four-story building wedged between taller structures.

A sign in the empty lobby listed several units for lease. Most of the tenants were businesses with names that told you little about what they did. Quick’s office was on the second floor, midway down a poorly lit linoleum-floored hall. A savory but discomforting odor- beef stew just past its prime- permeated the walls.

Quick didn’t keep much of an office: A small, mostly empty reception area fronted an office marked PRIVATE. The carpeting was brown, stomped glossy, the walls cheap woodite paneling. The receptionist sat behind a cheap woodite desk. She was young and thin, pretty but hard-looking, with randomly chopped hair tinted electric blue at the tips. Her makeup was thick and grayish, her lipstick, anoxic gray-blue. Curving bright azure nails were an inch long. She wore a tight white sweater over leather-look black vinyl pants and chewed gum. In front of her was a copy of Buzz Magazine. The lack of other periodicals or chairs and her surprise at our presence said visitors were infrequent.

The sight of Milo’s badge raised a penciled eyebrow, but the pulse in her neck was slow and steady.

She said, “Mr. Quick’s out of town,” in a surprisingly sultry voice.

“Where?” said Milo.

She wiggled her shoulders. “San Diego.”

“He travel a lot?”

“All the time.”

“Nice and quiet for you.”

“Uh-huh.” The blue nails tapped the magazine. No computer or typewriter in sight.

Milo said, “You’re not surprised the police want to talk to him.”

She shrugged. “Sure I am.”

“Is it the first time the police have wanted to talk to him?”

“I’ve only been working here for a couple of months.”

“Cops been here before?” said Milo.

“Nope.”

Milo showed her the photo of the blonde. She blinked hard, turned away.

“You know her?”

“Is she dead?”

“Very.”

“Don’t know her.”

“She’s the girl who died with Gavin Quick.”

“Oh.”

“You do know about Gavin.”

“Yeah. Of course.”

“Sad,” said Milo.

“I didn’t really know him,” she said. “Very sad.” She turned the corners of her mouth down. Trying to mean it. Her brown eyes were flat. “Who did it?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out, Ms…”

“Angie.”

“Gavin come in here?”

“Once in a while.”

“How often, Angie?”

“Not often.”

Milo unbuttoned his jacket and edged closer to her desk. “How long have you been working here?”

“Three and a half months.”

“In three and half months, how many times did you see Gavin Quick?”

“Hmm… maybe three times. Could be four, but probably three.”