I saw where these stories were going, of course. Bad calls happen in football and people scream about the officials and then they get over it. For Fred Kreutzer, Evan Newman, and David Dix to come to me, it meant they had more to go on than alleged bad calls in a couple of games.

Newman said, "We've looked at the tapes ad nauseam, Jack, including last Sunday's game in San Francisco. We see a pattern. All told, eleven games stink badly over two and a half years. Nine of the losing teams had winning records and seven of them made the play-offs."

My uncle said, "A lot of people lost a lot of money on these games. They're starting to wonder if there's something funny going on."

"Why come to me?" I asked. "Why not take this to the commissioner first?"

"We don't have any proof," said Dix. "And frankly, Jack, if something did happen, we don't want the commissioner and the press and the public to hear about it. Ever."

Chapter 18

EMILIO CRUZ CAME through my office door first, and Del Rio arrived maybe five minutes after the owners had left. I waved them both into chairs. "We've been tapped by three NFL team owners," I said, "and they could be representing a dozen more. One of them is Fred Kreutzer. Fred is my mother's brother."

Cruz lifted his eyebrows. "Fred Kreutzer is your uncle?"

"He is. He and some other owners think that games are being fixed. They see a pattern of long-odds underdogs winning too often, and based on questionable calls."

"That's nuts." Cruz frowned. "You can't cheat at football. You can't predict a game-changing play, and even if you could, there are cameras on every move. Every second is under a microscope."

"If that turns out to be the case, we've got happy clients," I said, "and nice paychecks. We've been guaranteed double our rate for fast, thorough, and very confidential work."

"They're saying the players are rigging the games?" Del Rio asked.

Del Rio is my age, but the years he spent at Chino aged his face and shattered his faith in people. I think the sanctity of football is one of the few things he still believes in.

"Fred says that they didn't find any player infractions, just calls that may have been crooked. Or else the refs were seeing optical illusions.

"Before we make any decisions on this, let's talk about the Cushmans. I saw Andy this morning," I said. "The press is all over him. He hasn't been charged, and he wants to get out of town. I told him to check in to a hotel and not tell anyone but me where he's staying."

"He's got good reason to worry," said Del Rio. "Whoever killed Shelby got in and out of the house with the skill of a Beverly Hills proctologist. I'm looking into contract killers. I've got a couple of leads. We're going to break this one, Jack."

I asked Cruz and Del Rio if they could work both cases, and they said they could. That was the usual response at Private-we hired the best, at very high pay, and they expected long days and challenging cases.

"I want you to do thorough background checks on Shelby and Andy," I said.

"What are we looking for that you don't already know, Jack?"

"The answer to one simple question: Why would anyone kill Shelby Cushman?"

"No problem," said Del Rio. "Two cases for the price of three? I can go with that." We all laughed, then Cruz and Del Rio left and went to work.

I had been alone in my office for about sixty seconds when Colleen stepped in and closed the door.

"Your eleven o'clocks are here, Jack. I don't like the looks a' them."

"No? They're just lawyers," I said.

Colleen grinned. "Just lawyers. Sure thing. Smirky lawyers. Sweaty lawyers."

A minute later, she showed the two men in. I knew them by reputation.

Their names were Ferrara and Reilly, and they represented Ray Noccia, head of the Noccia crime family.

Chapter 19

I SHOOK HANDS with the men coming through the door and offered them seats.

Attorney Ed Ferrara was wearing a dark three-piece suit. His associate, John Reilly, wore black jeans and a black cashmere sweater. Reilly searched my office with his eyes, checking for hidden cameras in the bookshelves. I don't think he spotted them.

Ferrara said, "It's nice to meet you, Jack. You come highly recommended by several sources."

"Always good to hear," I said. "How can I help you?"

Reilly dug into a pocket and pulled out a photograph of a very pretty blond woman in her early twenties. I thought I recognized her, Elizabeth something, an actress. I'd seen her on Craig Ferguson once or twice.

"This is a picture of Beth Anderson. She's a film actress," Ferrara said, "and she's also Mr. Noccia's good friend."

Ray Noccia was at least seventy years old. After waiting for two generations, he had just taken over the top job from his uncle Antonio, deceased. And he was "good friends" with twenty-something Beth Anderson.

Reilly was saying, "Beth hasn't been seen in a week. She doesn't return Mr. Noccia's calls. He wants to make sure nothing untoward happened to her."

"Sounds like a job for LAPD," I said. "You should give them a shout. I highly recommend them."

Ferrara smiled and said, "We want to keep this quiet. We don't want publicity that could hurt Beth's career. Which brings us to you, Jack. We'd like a quote with a ceiling."

I wondered if Beth Anderson had left town or if she was dead. Either way, I didn't want Noccia's business at Private.

"Sorry, I don't do quotes," I said. "I don't do ceilings either. And I don't do business with the Mob."

There was a moment of thick silence, then Reilly and Ferrara got to their feet as one.

"You're doing Andy Cushman," said Ferrara. "And if I'm any judge of degenerate womanizers, you're doing the little piece of Killarney sitting outside your office too."

Reilly paused on the threshold to launch his parting shot. "And let's not forget your father was doing life for murder when he passed. You've got a lot of nerve, Jack-off."

I guess I did, but that was part of the reason Private was doing so well.

Chapter 20

AT THREE THAT afternoon, Jason Pilser was in his office at Howard Public Relations, waiting for the advisory board meeting to start, when he got a text message that catapulted his mood.

The message was from Steemcleena himself, posting particulars of the next "night on the town." The notice addressed him by his screen name, "Scylla," and said, "Get ready. You're IT."

Holy crap, it was actually happening, his baptism by fire. He'd been thinking about this night for weeks. In fact, he'd thought of little else. He'd originally met "Morbid" on Commandos of Doom, an online real-time war game. As allies, they had fought dozens of successful battles over the past two years.

But when Morbid recruited him into a much more select group of gamers, it had floored him. His introduction to Steemcleena had been virtual, and he'd had to wait until Morbid locked it up. Now Steemcleena was on board. And soon Jason as Scylla would step out from behind the computer screen and see some real-life action.

Pilser worked like a robot for the next three hours. He didn't flinch when the head bitch blamed him for screwing up a proposal he hadn't even compiled. Screw her. At six, he put on his jacket and left for the day.

He drove straight to a hardware store in West Hollywood.

He walked the narrow stocked-to-the-ceiling aisles and picked out a six-foot-long extension cord, a roll of duct tape, and a pair of cotton jersey gloves. Nothing very unusual. He paid cash for his purchases, keeping his head down so the security camera over the cash register didn't catch his face.