“Your mascara ran down your cheeks, from all that barfing.” She dabbed gently at my face with the damp towels.

Because of her kindness to a stranger, I was revising my opinion of Tina Long. I had to admit that I was ashamed of myself for making the tabloid stories about her the basis for my judgment of this young woman I had seen at the gala, but never met. The extravagant, party-girl tales might be true, but they were only part of the truth.

With Tina leaning over me, and my eyes at the level of her neck, I had a close-up view of the necklace she was wearing. Six letters hung on a thin platinum chain. Outlined in tiny diamonds, they spelled out the word “Poppet.”

Tina Long straightened up again. “All clean. You look okay, but just one more thing.” She reached into the small clutch purse that she’d put down on the sink counter and withdrew a tiny bottle. She aimed it at me and gave a little squirt. Cologne. A delicate floral scent.

“Now nobody can smell what happened, but you should change your clothes as soon as you can.”

I stood, no longer wobbly. “Thank you for everything.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I couldn’t help noticing your necklace,” I said. “Is that word ‘Poppet’?”

“Cool, isn’t it? I love it. That’s what my mother-person calls me.”

Outside the entrance to the Olympia Grand, I stopped beneath the canopy and took a few deep breaths of fresh air. A uniformed valet approached and asked if I wanted him to bring my car around.

“No, thank you. I’m parked nearby.”

With no tip to be had from me, he headed for a couple just exiting the hotel. The man handed him a claim check and the valet scurried off toward the garage.

I’d expected to park at the hotel, but I’d spotted-and took-an empty space on Oakwood Drive, the side street just before I would have turned into the entrance.

It was almost noon. I hoped I’d put enough quarters into the meter because parking fines had become so expensive I couldn’t imagine why the city couldn’t balance its budget.

Luck was with me. As I came close to the Jeep I saw that the meter had indeed expired, but there wasn’t any ticket on my windshield.

I unlocked the door and started to climb into the driver’s seat when instinct told me something was wrong. Stepping back from the vehicle, I realized that my Jeep was sitting lower than it should have been.

Then I saw the reason for it: My tires had been slashed flat.

Fear shot through me like the jolt from a cattle prod.

42

My immediate reaction was to run back to the safety of the hotel and call the police.

But when I got to the corner, I realized that I couldn’t do that. If I made a police report of the vandalism, my name on it might come to the attention of Detective Manny Hatch. He’d pounce on me like a cat on a mouse, demanding to know why was I near the Olympia Grand. Who was I talking to? What was I up to? And could I spell “interfering with a police investigation”?

No, I couldn’t report this to the police.

I felt relatively safe on the busy corner of Oakwood Drive and Wilshire Boulevard. Cars whizzed by in both directions as shoppers and tourists strolled past the elegant stores on Wilshire Boulevard. Peering down both sides of Oakwood Drive, I didn’t spot anyone sitting in a car, or walking along the street. It was likely that whoever slashed my tires got away. And now I had to deal with what the vandal had done.

I pulled my wallet and my cell phone out of my bag, found my Auto Club card, and dialed the number for Emergency Roadside Service.

After reciting the make, model, color, and license number of my Jeep, and the location, I told the dispatcher that my tires had been slashed and I needed a tow to the All Tires store on Pico Boulevard near Beverly Glen Canyon Boulevard.

I heard the usual assurance that a driver would arrive in thirty minutes or less, and thanked the dispatcher. Next, I phoned Liddy, who had a key to my house. Happily, she was home. I told her what happened to my tires and that a Triple A truck would take me to All Tires.

“I don’t know how long I’ll be at the tire store. Could you go to my place and take Tuffy for a walk?”

“Glad to,” she said. “I need the exercise. Where are you right now?”

“On Oakwood Drive just south of Wilshire.”

“Oakwood? That’s the street that runs next to the Olympia Grand. Were you at the hotel? Were you investigating without me?”

“Yes, but for what I had to do, you couldn’t have come with me. I’ll call you later, after they put new tires on the Jeep and I get home.”

“Okay, but don’t leave anything out. After all, I was your wheel woman and lookout while you were-well, I’m not going to say what on the phone.”

“Good idea. Thanks for taking care of Tuff.”

As has usually been my experience with Triple A Emergency Roadside Service, the truck arrived sooner than the dispatcher’s outside estimate. Such was the case today.

I showed the driver my two slashed tires and he mumbled something in what sounded like Russian. That would have fit because the name on his shirt said “Ivan.”

Ivan examined my membership card, made a note, and handed it back. I told him where to take the Jeep. He nodded, and got into his truck to position it for attaching his chain to my vehicle.

I was on the sidewalk, still scanning the street for anyone who looked suspicious. There was no one. While the driver prepared to tow my car, I walked down the street a few yards, studying the other parked cars. Mine was the only one with slashed tires.

The driver called to me. “Hey-come look.” He gestured to the passenger side of the Jeep. “You got a bigger problem than you thought.”

When I joined him in the street, I saw what he meant: The two tires on that side had been slashed, too.

All four of my tires had been ruined.

As far as I could see up and down Oakwood Drive, my car was the only one that had been targeted.

While the men at All Tires were replacing my four, I sat on a folding chair one of them had brought outdoors from the office for me. I was replaying in my head the story Eugene Long had told me about what he and Keith Ingram had plotted to do to Roland Gray, in retaliation for Gray embarrassing Tina Long four years earlier. It was an outrageous tale that I found very hard to believe.

Sitting in the hot sun was making it hard for me to think. I moved the chair into the shade and felt better. Even though there was a stale taste in my mouth and my stomach was empty and felt hollow, my head was clear.

I decided to do what I would have done more than an hour ago, if I hadn’t gotten sick and then discovered the vandalism to my Jeep. I dialed John O’Hara’s cell phone.

He answered on the first ring.

“Hi, it’s Della. I have a question. When Keith Ingram’s clothing and belongings were inventoried and bagged, was anything unusual found in one of his pockets?”

“Unusual-like what?”

“A dry, ground substance, brown in color. Probably in a little packet of plastic wrap.”

“How did you know that?” I heard surprise in his voice.

“So they found it. Tell me if it was tested to find out what it was.”

“Yes, sure. But it wasn’t a drug of any kind. Forensics said it was a spice.”

“Nutmeg?”

His voice hardened into his detective-on-the-job tone. “What’s going on, Del?”

“Was it nutmeg?” I asked.

“Yes, but it isn’t relevant to Ingram’s murder.”

“Not directly. Or maybe not at all. I don’t know yet.”