Gray stopped collecting his gear and looked from John to me, and back to John. “But I will be of interest to the police when they see that judging card. I’m surprised that there hasn’t been a knock on my door yet.”

“There would have been, and there probably will be at some point,” John said, “but their immediate focus is on me. Cooperate here, informally, and I may be able to help us both, and keep the investigation from getting to you.”

Gray opened his mouth to speak, but something he saw over John’s shoulder stopped him. I turned my head to follow his line of sight. Quinn Tanner was coming toward us, carrying Gray’s blue cashmere blazer. He lowered his voice and said to me, “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Call both of us.” John handed him a card. “My cell phone number’s on the back.”

It was nearly midnight and I was about to get ready for bed. I’d given Tuffy his final walk, Nicholas D’Martino and I had completed our nightly call, and I had just taken the cap off the tube of toothpaste when the phone rang again. I thought it must be Nicholas, with something he’d forgotten to tell me, but the caller ID number was unfamiliar.

An automatic jolt of concern tightened my stomach muscles.

Was it Eileen again? She was supposed to be with her parents tonight, but I knew all of her phone numbers, and her father’s and her mother’s. And those of my friends and coworkers. None of those numbers was on the faceplate.

As I reached for the receiver, I guessed that someone had misdialed, but if it was an obscene call, my reaction would be to laugh. On the two occasions that had happened, laughter took the wind out of the pervert’s sails-so to speak.

I said hello and heard Roland Gray’s Henry Higgins accent.

“Della, please forgive me for phoning you so late. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I need to talk to you,” he said. “In person.”

“We could meet for breakfast-”

“I mean now. Right now. I’m in my car outside your house.”

My pulse quickened with anger at that, and I didn’t try to keep it out of my voice. “How did you find out where I live?”

“As a writer, I’ve developed many contacts. Discovering anyone’s location rarely takes more than a single phone call, but I do apologize for invading your privacy.”

“You should apologize. I don’t like this one little bit. You had no right-”

“Of course, no right at all, but I have an explanation. I know something about Keith Ingram that I am sure is relevant to his murder. I don’t want to discuss this over the telephone. Now, I’m not suggesting that you invite me into your home at this hour. Will you allow me to take you out for a drink, a glass of wine, or coffee?”

I thought about that for a moment. One of the things I hate in movies and in mystery novels is what I call the heroine who is Too-Stupid-To-Live: the one who goes to meet a murder suspect in the middle of the night, in a remote place, all alone. Or who goes upstairs in a dark house when anyone with an IQ higher than that of a carrot could guess that the villain is hiding there.

I didn’t want this virtual stranger in my house at this hour, and I didn’t want to get into a car with him, but I did want to hear what he had to say. Maybe it could save John.

“All right. Where shall I meet you?” I said.

I heard him chuckle. “I’m flattered that you consider me so potentially dangerous that you’re proceeding with such caution. I must be sure to make the heroine in my new books as smart as you are. When the case has been resolved and Ingram’s murderer is in custody, perhaps then you will trust me enough to allow me to call for you and take you out to dinner?”

“Thank you for the invitation,” I said, “but I’m seeing someone.”

“Are you engaged?”

“No.”

“Then I will feel free to ask you again sometime. Regarding tonight: There is a place nearby where we could meet, if you like. I want you to feel safe.”

Feel safe? He’s making me sound positively antediluvian. Nevertheless, I wasn’t going to let a twinge of embarrassment turn me into one of those T-S-T-L women.

I kept my cool and said, “Where?”

“There’s a sidewalk café I know on Montana Avenue, near Twelfth Street. It’s called Caffeine an’ Stuff,” he said. “Good coffee. Do you know it?”

“Yes.”

“How soon can we meet there?”

“Ten minutes,” I said.

“Excellent.” With a quick good-bye, Gray disconnected.

I didn’t bother to change clothes from the slacks and sweater I was wearing, but I did brush my hair and dab on some lipstick and mascara. Looking completely natural wasn’t as attractive as it had been twenty years ago.

Before I left the house, I wrote a note for Eileen, telling her about Roland Gray’s call, and that I was going to meet him at Caffeine an’ Stuff. Even though she wouldn’t be home tonight, I put it on the little table just inside the door, where we always left messages for each other. The note was one of my little personal voodoo rituals, like carrying a raincoat and umbrella so that the weather forecast of rain wouldn’t come true. Tell someone where I was going and I would get home safely. I know it was silly, but it did no harm. And just in case…

I gave Tuffy and Emma a few strokes and told them that I’d be back soon.

20

Montana and Twelfth Street was only six blocks from my house. During the day, I would have walked down to the café, but not at night. I wasn’t shy about taking chances-my life was pretty much testimony to that-but I didn’t believe in taking foolish risks.

Montana Avenue was almost as busy at this time, shortly after midnight, as it was during the day and early evening. With its great variety of businesses, small restaurants, pubs, and coffeehouses, it was the shopping, strolling, and meeting-friends-for-whatever heart of the northern end of the city of Santa Monica. I knew the area well because my little cooking school was located in the back of a kitchen appliance store on Montana, near Fifteenth Street. And the library on the corner of Seventeenth was one of my regular stops.

Caffeine an’ Stuff occupied the ground floor of a two-story structure that looked like an old English pub. A dark green, weather-faded wooden sign hung above the entrance. The words “Caffeine an’ Stuff” were painted on it in gold script, below a drawing of a mug of coffee, steam curling up in the shape of a question mark. In similar, but larger, gold script, the name of the café arched across the front window.

I spotted Gray’s Rolls parked in front of the entrance. The man himself was standing in the middle of the empty parking space directly behind his car. When he saw me, he stepped back onto the curb and waved me into the slot. There were no other empty spaces on that block.

When I parked, Gray appeared at my driver’s side door and offered his hand to me. I took it, and hopped down onto the street.

“Did you drive yourself tonight?”

“Yes. Will Parker assists me-he doesn’t come along when I’m out with a lady.”

I indicated our cars. “Either you are the luckiest driver in the state of California, or you bought these two spaces.”

“It was partly luck. Someone was pulling out of my spot as I arrived, and let’s just say I rented yours,” he said with a smile. “It’s a bit chilly to sit outside, so I secured a table by the window. I hope that’s all right with you?”

“It’s fine,” I said.

In spite of the fact that the temperature was in the fifties tonight-frigid by Southern California standards-three of the four outside tables were occupied by young couples. I remembered being that young, in college at UCLA, and being that impervious to cold when I was on a date and in the first heat of attraction.