"So where do we go from here?"

"I'll see if I can turn up anything more on him. Then I guess the logical thing is to try to find those Sand Dollar people and see if they remember anything about Karen."

He looked through the trees at the restaurant. No cars in the lot and only a few lights were on.

"I went in there tonight looking for Doris Reingold, but she's off for a couple of days… The thing that bothers me about Barnard's investigation is if Karen was hired by the Sheas to work the Sanctum party, why wouldn't anyone at the Dollar have mentioned it?"

"You think someone told Barnard and he left it out intentionally?"

"Who knows? Like you said, maybe he was just an incompetent boob and didn't ask the right questions. Or he got answers and didn't think they were important."

"Malibu Sheriffs interviewed the same people," I said. "If Karen was working the party, why wasn't it in their reports?"

"Maybe she never was at the party. Or could be the sheriffs found out she was and didn't think it was important either."

"The last place she was seen wasn't important?"

"Her serving hors d'oeuvres to five hundred people isn't much of a lead, Alex. She could have been picked up by some party animal and run into trouble later. What reason would anyone have to suspect she was somewhere on the grounds, six feet under?"

We reached the bluff and I walked him to the Porsche. He opened the driver's door and fished for car keys.

"I told Lucy about Karen," I said.

"Oh?"

"I'm still not sure it was right, but I followed my instincts. It was either continue to hold back information from her, and take the chance it would destroy our rapport, or be straight."

"How'd she react?"

"Initial shock. Then she warmed to the idea that the dream might actually mean something. Learning the truth's become her mission."

"Great."

"I'm doing my best to keep the lid on. So far, she's being reasonable. She asked for hypnosis to enhance her memory, and I agreed to try some basic relaxation. I thought she'd be really susceptible, and at first she seemed to be. Then she fell asleep. Which means she's resisting strongly. She slept very deeply and her dream pattern's fragmented. I actually watched her go in and out of several phases. I'm not surprised she's a sleepwalker and has chronic nightmares. She'd like to believe she sleepwalked her way into the kitchen and put her head in the oven, and I guess it's possible. Sleep's her great escape. She blocks things out by dozing off."

The keys came out of his pocket, and he jangled them. "Did it bother her, falling asleep?"

"I downplayed it, made it sound routine. I was worried about getting into too much too quickly, but overall the session seemed to help her. She left in good spirits. Other than the dream, her main concern's Puck. She's well aware of his addiction, defends him as a sick guy. And thinking about him helps her forget about her own troubles. You had any thoughts on the note?"

"Not really."

"Anything new on the copycat?"

"Not a thing, but I'm gonna check out the Bogettes very seriously." He got in the Porsche, started it, and lowered the window.

"I went by the Sheas' surf shop today," I said. "Bought a pair of shorts. Gwen arrived with their son. He's got severe cerebral palsy, needs constant care. Tom Shea drives a newish BMW 735, Gwen's got a customized van for transporting the boy, and both Best and Doris Reingold said the Sheas have a house on the beach at La Costa. Even years ago that was serious money. Not to mention all the medical expenses. The shop didn't look like any big cash cow, but even assuming it is, how'd they get the capital to start up a business by tending bar and waiting tables? Now that we're thinking about Barnard getting paid off, it makes me wonder if they did, too."

"Gwen was obviously an enterprising lady, subcontracting catering. Maybe she had other things going."

"It's still quite a leap from moonlighting to living on the sand. Coming into a little venture capital twenty-one years ago would have helped. Be interesting to know what transpired between the time the Sheas left for Aspen and returned. And why they left in the first place. If it was just because Sherrell Best was bugging them, that would imply some kind of guilt."

"Well," he said, "I gave the widow Barnard plenty of information. Malibu's still a small town, there should be some whispering. Break a few eggs, and who knows?"

"Flushing out the prey?"

He turned his hand into a pistol and pointed it at the windshield. "Boom."

"I may have a shot at big game," I said. "Lucy and I decided I should accept Buck Lowell's invitation to chat."

His hand lowered. "Where you going to meet with him?"

"Sanctum."

"Don't go snooping around the dirt looking for burial plots."

"I promise. Dad."

"Listen, I know you… Meanwhile, you want to talk to Doris Reingold again, or should I try?"

"I can do it; we're already pals. If she's got nothing to hide, another big tip might be enough to pry something loose."

"Hoo-hah, Daddy Warbucks."

"I expect to be reimbursed by the department."

"Oh, sure, absolutely. Officer Santa Claus'll deliver it to you personally. And no new taxes."

24

The next morning, feeling like a hunter, I called Sanctum. The same woman who'd answered the first time picked up. Before I finished introducing myself, she said, "Hold on."

Several minutes later: "He'll see you here, tomorrow at one. We're hard to find, these are the directions."

I copied them and she hung up.

I got Terry Trafficant's book from the bedroom and searched for mention of his editor, but there was none. At his publisher, a confused receptionist said, "There isn't anyone here by that name."

"He's an author."

"Fiction or nonfiction?"

Good question. "Nonfiction."

"Hold on."

A moment later, a man said, "Editorial."

"I'm trying to locate Terrence Trafficant's editor."

"Who?"

"Terrence Trafficant. From Hunger to Rage."

"Is that on our current list?"

"No, it was published twenty-one years ago."

Click.

A woman said, "Remainders."

I repeated my request.

"No," she said, "that isn't on our roster. When was it published?"

"Twenty-one years ago."

"Then I'm sure it's long gone to the pulp mill. Try a used bookstore."

"I don't want the book. I'm looking for the editor."

Click. Back to the same man at Editorial, very unhappy to hear from me. "I'm sure I have no idea who that was, sir. People come and go all the time."

"Would there be any way to find out?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"Please connect me to your editorial director."

"That's Bridget Bancroft," he said, as if that ended it.

"Then that's who I'll speak to."

Click.

"Bridget Bancroft's office."

"I'd like to speak with Ms. Bancroft."

"Regarding?"

"Excerpting one of your authors. My name is Alex Printer, and I represent Delaware Press in California. We'd like to include some selections from Terrence Trafficant's From Hunger to Rage in a-"

"You'd need to speak to our Rights department about that."

"Could you tell me who Mr. Trafficant's editor is?"

"What's the author's name?"

"Trafficant. From Hunger to Rage. Published twenty-one years ago."

"I have no idea. People come and go."

"Would Ms. Bancroft know?"

"Ms. Bancroft's on vacation."

"Would you please ask her to call me when she gets back?"

"Certainly," she said. "Would you like to speak to Rights?"

"Please."

Click. Voice mail. I left another message and hung up.

Ah, fame.