"Have you maintained contact with Greg Fowler?"

"I haven't."

"What about Tom?"

No answer.

"He lives down in Mexico now, doesn't he, Gwen?"

Silence.

"Near Mexico City?"

Nothing.

"Gwen?"

"No, a small village near the coast. Far from Mexico City. I don't even know the name."

"Still running dope, huh?"

"No!" she said. "Charter fishing!"

"Tom's been down there, hasn't he? Brings back a nice catch of corbina or albacore?"

"So?"

"What's the address?"

"I don't know, Greg only told Tom. He's still officially a fugitive. Please don't get him in trouble, he's really a good guy."

"Tom didn't give you the address?"

"No, he was supposed-" Drumming the table.

"He was supposed to what?"

"Meet us. In Mexico City, with a van; then we were going to drive down together. The tickets were supposed to be at the gate. I bought them myself, made sure we had special boarding help, but they said it had all been canceled- that Tom canceled them. Why would he do that? Why?"

40

I used her desk phone to call Milo's home number and was pleased when the answering machine picked up.

"Detective Sturgis? It's Dr. Delaware. I just had a long talk with Mrs. Shea- no, at her shop. Yes, I know about the airport, that's where… I know, but I figured… she gave me what I think is useful information, maybe you'll think so, too… no, I don't think- do you want to speak to her? When? Okay… no, I don't think so. No, he's not… already in Mexico… some fishing village, she claims she doesn't know where and I'm inclined to believe- what? No. No, I don't think so. Okay, see you then."

Hanging up, I shrugged. "I feel a little stupid saying this, but you're not planning to leave town, are you?"

She hadn't taken her eyes off me since I picked up the phone. "When are they coming to speak to me?"

"Soon. There are other people they're talking to. Your name's on some kind of airport watch list. If you try to leave the country, they'll confiscate your passport."

"Doesn't matter," she said. "I'm staying here, what's my choice."

I gave a last smile to Travis and headed up the coast, thinking about twenty-one years of pretending.

Accepting a payoff and pretending it was a big tip. Feeding Doris Reingold's green-felt habit and convincing themselves it was charity.

Five thousand dollars in a paper bag.

Once they'd been able to reduce it in their minds to a rich man's trifle, the rest had been easy.

Gwen was a mix of callousness and breakability. Waffling, resisting, struggling to paint herself out of any criminal conspiracy. Yet, my instinct was that, over all, she'd been truthful. If she and Tom were killers, they wouldn't have tolerated Doris Reingold's putting the touch on them all this time.

I was driving faster than usual. Before I knew it I passed Latigo Shores and Escondido Beach and came to Paradise Cove, where Karen had been picked up on the highway by someone in a red Ferrari.

Lowell asking for a pretty one to set up the tables and chairs.

App- or a lackey- picking her up.

Private party before the big one.

Lowell and App and Trafficant? Had the producer worn a mustache, back then?

Nothing nasty Friday night; she'd been in a good mood the next morning. But something had gone very bad the next day.

Make it a good-looking one.

Felix Barnard was no Sherlock, but he'd managed to put enough together to merit his own payoff. And a finale at the Adventure Inn.

App, sitting there, talking to me about deals.

Playing with me?

He was Lowell's patron. Powerful enough to be ordering Lowell around… I recalled his explosive reaction to my intrusion, then the cold, cruel way he'd fired his receptionist.

Allowing me in when I told him what it was about.

Sounding me out, assessing the threat.

Talking about Mellors/Mullins's violent nature. The script definitely a diversion. Which wasn't to say Mellors hadn't written it.

App, with years of experience weaving and darting in Hollywood.

Had he bought my biography story?

Maybe. He hadn't tried to restrain me or harm me. Hadn't even kept my card.

Waiting for me to get back to him on the deal…

I pressed down on the gas pedal, forging into rural Malibu. This far up, there were no lights on the road. The highway darkened and twisted. I kept picturing Karen, getting into the sleek red car with golden expectations.

Playing with Lucy and Puck the next morning until Gwen had had Doris, the experienced mother, take over.

Doris, putting the kids to bed, then sneaking out to frolic. Returning later to discover Lucy gone.

She runs out to look for her. Finds her sleepwalking, babbling.

Men hurting girl.

Powerful men. Mopping up the evidence of murder… in a motel owned by some guys from Reno. The Advent Group. Now I knew why the name was familiar.

The other outfit sharing the twentieth floor with App's production company.

Advent Ventures.

App keeping Mellors on a financial leash in order to control him and use him. First, the "idiot job" at the production company, then moving him into the motel job.

Literary critic to brothel manager. Lowell would have appreciated it.

I could imagine App's spiel.

"Think about it, Denny. I know the job is below you, but it's just short-time and all you have to do is look in on the dump once in a while- maybe even pick up some material- how about a series based on a motel? All these crazy characters drifting in and out? We can pitch it to the networks. Don't feel pressure to make a decision right now. Think about it and let me know. Come up to the house, we'll look at the ocean and break some bread."

Everything falling into place, but, still, Gwen had admitted to nothing more than seeing Karen step into the crowd with her hors d'oeuvres tray, and Lowell's payoff could be construed as a generous tip.

I heard Milo's voice, superego by way of the LAPD:

No evidence.

41

I tried to call him again that night, and the next morning. No answer at home, and the desk officer at Westside Division was unhelpful.

All this information and nowhere to go. Lucy wasn't focusing on Karen, so that bought some time. But I wasn't sure last night's intimidation would keep Gwen Shea in town and, without her, what did I really have?

I'd keep trying to find Milo. In the meantime, I'd run off the tension.

I was changing into shorts and a T-shirt when my service called with Dr. Wendy Embrey on the line.

Trying to keep the irritation out of my voice, I said, "Hi, Wendy."

"Hi, how's Lucretia doing?"

Off the case, she had no privileges. "She's fine."

"Well, that's good. It was an odd case, I never really felt I had a handle on it."

"In what way?"

"The suicide attempt. She was so adamant about not trying to kill herself, but she seemed so coherent. So, no subsequent psychosis or major depression?"

"None."

"Good. Anyway, say hello to her for me. I still think about her."

"Will do, Wendy."

"Actually, I was calling you about something else. This is awkward and don't feel obligated to answer, but have you had any trouble getting paid for treating her?"

"I'm fine with that."

"Oh. Hmm. I know this is tacky, but I think I told you Woodbridge is in a major financial bind; the staff's under a lot of pressure not to take on any nonpaying cases. I'm under special pressure since it's my first year there- probationary status. Lucy had no insurance and no clear ability to pay. Strict hospital policy is to take care of the crisis, then transfer them over to County. I didn't do that because I liked her and because her brother told me he'd handle it. But the hospital just notified me that a bill they sent to his company was returned unopened, and he hasn't returned any of their calls. None of mine, either. Have you been in contact with him?"