January said, “Now on these indie projects -- take your own Murder Will Out -- Paul picks the projects, Porter financed, and I write the screenplays. We’ve been very successful. I mean, given that most indie projects are lucky to break even.”

“Where did you first meet Paul Kane?” I asked. Porter and Al had been of the same age, but Paul Kane was quite a bit younger. I wondered about that.

“Hold that thought,” he said, rising. He pointed to my glass. “Did you want another?”

“Sure.”

He disappeared inside the house, and I wondered if he had deliberately called for a time-out. He didn’t seem unduly troubled by any of my questions. In fact, Al was about the most relaxed I’d ever seen someone in a murder investigation -- taking into account that I wasn’t the police and we both knew it.

He came back with a second bottle of noni juice for me and another whiskey for himself. He stretched his long legs out and tilted his face to the warm afternoon sun.

“I met Paul through Langley Hawthorne. You probably never heard of Langley.”

“Paul mentioned him during his eulogy.”

“That’s right,” he said vaguely. “Langley was the brains behind Associated Talent, which is now Paul’s production company. It started out as me, Langley, and Porter. Langley came from old money. A son of the South.” He winked at me. “He was raised on Stephen Foster and mint juleps.”

“Doesn’t sound like much of a background for going into the moving pictures business?”

“Everyone loves the flickers,” January said. “Anyway, Paul was a friend of Langley’s. That’s how we originally met.”

“What happened to Langley?”

“He drowned off Catalina.” A funny expression crossed his face.

He picked up his glass, and I said, “What? You just thought of something.”

“It’s a crazy idea, really, but you were wondering if anyone had a motive to get rid of Porter. Langley’s daughter Nina sort of had a motive. This is years ago, mind, but Nina and Porter had an affair. It didn’t end well. Porter was married at the time -- not to Ally. He was married to an actress by the name of Marla Vicenza.”

“She was at the funeral yesterday,” I said. “In fact, I heard her mention something about Porter not being in good health.”

“I don’t know about that. His doctors were after him for years to cut back on his drinking and to give up cigars. Anyway, Langley insisted that the affair end.”

“How young was Nina?”

“Very young. Just eighteen, I think.”

“I can see why Langley had a problem.”

He stroked his mustache, smiling. “You don’t have children, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

“Nina was furious with Langley -- and Porter. She felt doubly betrayed.”

“This was back when? The eighties? Could she be holding a grudge after all this time?”

“Nina is a world-class grudge holder,” Al said, “but in fairness to her, I don’t think she killed Porter. She’s not the…lie in wait type. If she killed anyone, it would probably be three and a half minutes after they pissed her off. Especially back then.”

“Why especially back then?”

“Nina was not always…in control in those days. Well, it was the eighties. I don’t know anyone who was in control.”

“Was she at the party last weekend?”

“No.” January got that evasive look again. “Not exactly. Her company catered the party.”

Chapter Eleven

Friday afternoon traffic was a bitch -- as usual -- and I got back to Pasadena in a less than jolly mood. Shelling out over fifty bucks on gasoline and the same again on a few staples like tilapia, Tab, and the magical elixir known as orange-pineapple juice did little to improve my mood.

When I reached Cloak and Dagger I saw that -- predictably -- the construction crew had knocked off work early again, and that the store was empty of customers barring one: a slim young man who looked like a sexy Harry Potter. He wore artfully ripped jeans and a fitted bronze mesh T-shirt, and he was contemplating Natalie over the top of his Windsor-style specs.

“Oh, here’s Adrien,” she said as I approached the counter. “He can probably tell you when the best time to drop by is.” To me, she said, “Hey, Adrien, this is…uh…one of Guy’s former students.”

I nodded hi, setting the bag of groceries down, and then I took another look. There was something very familiar about Guy’s former student. Something familiar about the cool, slightly challenging way he stared back at me. But it took a minute to place the pale pointed face and cropped dark hair.

Peter Verlane.

Last time I’d seen him, he had been doing his level best to help kill me. Well, no. To be fair, the very last time I’d seen him, he’d been fleeing into the night trying to avoid arrest for kidnapping, extortion, and murder. And suddenly I had a clear memory of the envelope that had fallen from Guy’s pocket the night I’d tried to catch him before he left for Margo’s book signing -- the letter that had borne the return address of the men’s prison in Tehachapi.

“Peter Verlane,” I said. “Who left your cage open?”

He reddened, glanced at Natalie, and said stiffly, “I did my time. I’ve got as much right to be here as anyone.”

“Not exactly,” I said. “She works here, and I own the place. Remind me why you’re here again?”

Natalie looked from me to Verlane and said uncertainly, “He was asking for Guy.”

“Why?” I asked him.

“Not that it concerns you,” he said, “but he told me to contact him when I got out. We’re friends.”

“There’s no accounting for taste,” I admitted. “But why are you here?”

He said evenly, “I know he’s seeing you now.”

“I’m relieved he thought to mention it,” I said. “Didn’t he also mention that he still keeps an office at UCLA? Or that he still has his townhouse?”

The glasses gave Verlane an unfairly vulnerable look; scorpions have offspring too, after all.

He said, “I wanted to see you.”

“Uh-huh. Well, you came, you saw, you confounded. Now how about you skedaddle? I’ll let Guy know you called.”

“Guy wants to see me,” he said with complete and quiet conviction.

Against my best effort I was getting mad, and my heart was starting to race. I said, “I’m betting he wants to see you elsewhere. And I sure as hell want to see you elsewhere. So leave a number where he can reach you, and go.”

I wasn’t being magnanimous there. I thought it might be a good idea if I knew where Verlane could be found -- just in case.

Bewildered, looking from me to Verlane, Natalie pushed a notepad at him and he scribbled something down.

He raised his bespectacled gaze to my face. “Guy wants to see me,” he said again with certainty.

“I don’t,” I said. “And if you show up here again, I’ll have a restraining order slapped on you.”

He gave me a final assessing look, turned and walked unhurriedly up the aisle, pushing out through the glass doors. As they jingled shut behind him, Natalie let out a long breath.

“What an arrogant little prick!” she said indignantly. “He seemed fine until you walked in.”

“It’s all right,” I said. “Don’t worry about it.” I started for my office. My heart was starting that uncomfortable tripping beat, signaling trouble. Aggravatingly, she followed me, talking.

“I’ve never heard you talk to anyone like that. You were kind of an arrogant prick too.” She sounded like she found it entertaining. If only I did.

I sat down at my desk, pulled open a drawer, and pulled out my pills.