Berger looked thoughtful. “Not really…”

“Mr. Berger-”

“Alan, please.”

“Alan.” I gave him a teasing smile. “I’ve lived long enough to know that when a man says ‘Not really’ it actually means ‘Yes.’ ”

“Well, I did meet her once, a few months ago, when Roland gave a small dinner party. She seemed charming, but I wouldn’t say that I know her.”

“Yvette was Roland’s date?”

“I don’t remember if she was paired with anyone. The evening was to celebrate the fact that Terror Master had reached the high sales threshold that meant the publisher had to pay him a bigger royalty. She cooked the meal-Moroccan dishes, in tribute to the parts of the book that were set in Morocco. It was delicious.”

He squinted for a moment, as though trying to recall details of the evening. Then something made him smile.

“She told us that we had to eat the proper way for a Moroccan meal-meaning without cutlery, and scooping food from the communal serving bowls by using pieces of flat bread. Will Parker, who’s a bit of an imp, concealed a fork behind the pocket handkerchief in his jacket. When she was in the kitchen, he used his fork to eat. I wished I’d thought of that.”

I chuckled. “That is funny. Did she catch him?”

“Oh, yes. She called him incorrigible. That word is almost the same in French as it is in English, so we all laughed. Parker wasn’t embarrassed about it. He said something to the effect that if God had meant humans to eat with their hands he wouldn’t have let them invent silverware. As a wit, Parker isn’t exactly Oscar Wilde, but he is enjoyable to be around.”

“Who else was at the dinner?”

“Only my wife, Frances, and Mary Lively. Mary’s one of my agents-my backup. Roland calls her if he needs something and I’m out of town.”

“Is Mary Lively close to Roland?”

“Not-” He stopped and grinned. “I was about to say ‘not really.’ Mary is a spry eighty-seven and tells people she’s ten years younger. An old-school career woman-still wears hats in the office. I hope she never retires, because she’s amazing at spotting new young writers. I run a small, boutique literary agency. Mary’s discovered a third of our client list.”

The waiter brought our Crisp-Fried Herbed Halibut with shoestring potatoes. It was as good as Alan Berger had promised. While we were eating, Berger turned the conversation around to me, and asked if I had any interest in writing a cookbook.

“Because you’re on television, I’m sure I could sell it,” he said.

“I’ve never thought of it, but I don’t think I’m qualified. I’ve never had formal training as a cook.”

“That might be an advantage; you’d be representing the majority of people. The audience must like you because your ratings have doubled since In the Kitchen with Della went on the air.”

“How did you know that?”

His nice hazel eyes twinkled. “I researched you when Roland told me he was guesting on your show. After I saw you, I made a mental note to call at some point to discuss the possibility of a cookbook.”

I shook my head. “I’m afraid that what I make is too simple for a book. Anyone who watches the show could make my dishes, and I already post the recipes on my Web site.”

“Don’t dismiss the idea without thinking about it,” he said. “You might enjoy seeing your face on a book cover. And it could only help your show.”

To be polite, I agreed to think about it, but at the moment the only thing I was interested in was finding out who killed Keith Ingram and tried to kill Roland Gray.

My lunch with Alan Berger was pleasant, but it didn’t yield the “Aha!” moment that pointed me in the right direction to solving the mystery that threatened me, and those dear to me.

I did learn one thing, though. Yvette Dupree was close enough to Roland that she had personally cooked his celebration dinner. That wasn’t the act of a mere acquaintance.

As we were having coffee and dessert-marmalade steamed pudding-I planned my next move.

36

It was close to three o’clock when Alan Berger and I were saying good-bye outside the restaurant.

“I’ve enjoyed meeting you,” Berger said. “Perhaps you’ll have dinner sometime soon with me and my wife. I’d like to talk to you more about the possibility of doing a cookbook.”

The valet brought my Jeep. Berger insisted on paying him.

“Thank you,” I said. “And, thank you for lunch.”

“I’ll call you,” he said.

The idea that had occurred to me during lunch involved going to the Santa Monica Library. When I had time to read for pleasure, it was one of my regular stops, so I knew that it was open until four o’clock on Sundays. That was perfect. What I wanted to do wouldn’t take more than an hour.

The Santa Monica Library, on the corner of Montana Avenue and Seventeenth Street, is a one-story building with a simple exterior, but to anyone who loves libraries as I do, the inside is a magical kingdom for grown-ups, filled with the delights of entertainment and knowledge.

Just as I pulled into a parking space, my cell phone rang. It was Hugh Weaver.

“Our Gang Unit picked up a piece of scum named Victor Raynoso-street name Shoes, ’cause he’s got two hundred pairs of shoes.” Weaver was speaking hurriedly, his voice low. I heard the hum of voices in the background and guessed that he was at his West Bureau squad room. “They caught Raynoso shooting at cars on the 405 freeway near Santa Monica last night. Hatch decided he’s the one shot at your writer.”

“He was using the same sniper rifle?”

“No. Like that ex-Special Forces SID tech guessed, Ballistics established that weapon was a Walther WA 2000. The creep last night was using a H & K G3 assault.”

“Then what tied him to the Caffeine an’ Stuff shooting? Did the police find that other weapon, the Walther?”

“Not so far,” Weaver said. I heard anger in his voice. “Hatch doesn’t care. His position is that Raynoso shot at the coffeehouse and was caught shooting at cars in the same general area. Raynoso doesn’t have an alibi for the Gray attempt. He claims he was dead drunk asleep Thursday night.”

I felt my stomach muscles clench with worry. If Hatch believed that Raynoso was person who shot Roland, then in his mind he’d severed that case from the Ingram murder. Which put John O’Hara back in Hatch’s crosshairs.

“Does John know about this?”

Weaver gave a snort. “Oh, yeah. After Raynoso’s collar, Hatch convinced the captain that John’s a viable suspect in the Ingram murder. John’s been suspended. Look, Della, he doesn’t want his wife and kid to know about this.”

I understood. John would be afraid this bad news might send Shannon into a relapse. “But how is he going to keep it from them?”

“By making things look normal,” Weaver said. “He’s going to keep leaving the house to go on duty, but he’ll tell them he’s been assigned to work on a big white-collar fraud case for the state, so if they need to reach him, they’re to call on his cell.”

I sensed Weaver was about to ring off, but I had one more question for him. “Has Hatch identified any of the women in Ingram’s sex tapes?”

“Yeah, we know who all of them are. Every guy in the station volunteered to look at the tapes to see if they recognized anybody. The putzes. It was SID using their computer system that matched faces on the tapes to newspaper an’ magazine society photos.” Weaver chuckled, but it was a dry sound, without a trace of mirth. “We had a bit of drama around here this morning. One of those thousand-buck-an-hour lawyers shows up with legal papers. There was a closed-door conference with Hatch, the captain, and the chief of detectives. A lot of yelling. The chief of Ds was so mad when he left he almost broke the captain’s door slamming it. The only one smiling was the shyster, because he had something in his briefcase that wasn’t there when he arrived.”