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  “For professional reasons,” I said, patting over the .38.

  A woman in a rhinestone bra and tight orange velvet pants leaned into the space between me and Z. She kissed the bartender on the cheek as he handed her a flute of champagne. Being trained detectives, we both watched her as she walked away. Her pants were so high and tight, I was surprised she wasn’t yodeling.

  “You’re not in Cambridge anymore,” Z said.

  “Nope,” I said. “Somewhere under the rainbow.”

  The music was pulsing, electronic nonsense, but no one seemed to mind. Four beefy-looking bald men in matching black T-shirts and with equally expanding guts gathered around a bucket of champagne. Several young women wore skirts the size of cocktail napkins and tops that looked as if they’d been knitted by mice. One of the older men clutched the champagne bucket, vape pen firmly in his teeth, as he poured another round. He caught my eye and blew steam from his nose like a bull.

  I raised my whiskey in his direction. He glanced away.

  Z finished the Coke and nodded to me. “What’s the bartender say?”

  “Never heard of KiKi.”

  “I’ll ask the doorman,” he said. He wandered off, leaving me alone with good whiskey and deep thoughts as the club started to rev up at midnight. A DJ worked the soundboard, a dance floor between him and the main bar and sectional sofas. One of those mirrored disco globes spun over the floor, the music reaching a vibrating crescendo as several servers appeared from a side door holding champagne bottles high. Sparklers had been lit against the bottles. The DJ played a song about partying like a rock star as corks were popped and the champagne flowed over glasses and onto the floor.

  I pined for a slow night at the Ritz bar. A gentle fire, good conversation, with the Sox game on.

  The bald fat guys near me were on their feet, gyrating their hips against the backsides of the much younger women. I wondered what Susan might make of all this. I wondered what Jane Goodall would think.

  “Doorman didn’t know her, either,” Z said. “I gave him twenty bucks and he’s going to ask around.”

  “So we wait?” I said.

  “And enjoy the show,” he said. “When’s the last time you went clubbing?”

  “’Ninety-nine,” I said. “Right after Jerry Broz sent two of his worst guys for me. I kept a Louisville Slugger in my trunk.”

  I drank more whiskey and ordered another, this time with lots of ice and a generous splash of water. Always paid to be vigilant. When the bartender returned, I asked him if he’d see if the DJ might play some Johnny Hartman.

  He looked confused and walked away.

  “It’s not as bad as you think,” he said. “Some of these guys are really talented.”

  “Talent means playing instruments,” I said. “Or at the least, carrying a tune.”

  “DJs have to know their audience,” he said. “They have to feel the vibe of the place, know the flow of the night. Do you know this one? Tame Impala. The one before was Diplo.”

  “Sounds like someone making love to a synthesizer.”

  Z rested his elbows against the bar as an XXL bouncer walked up to us and whispered something in his ear. Z nodded at me and I left cash on the bar, following them through the crowd toward the front door. We walked outside, where a long line had formed against metal barriers. The bouncer looked me up and down and then back at Z.

  “He’s cool,” Z said.

  “It’s true,” I said.

  “We don’t need trouble,” the bouncer said.

  Z reached into his pocket and handed the man a little more cash. The man looked at me again and then back at Z. He reached for a walkie-talkie and turned his back.

  “She goes by Caroline here,” he said. “Her friends call her KiKi. She’s one of the bottle-service girls.”

  I watched as two candy-colored sports cars pulled up in front of Mirabeau and opened their doors. One was a canary-yellow Ferrari and the other was a fire-engine-red Bugatti. The XXL bouncer lifted the rope for the drivers and more money was exchanged. The streets were shiny with the rain, the bright lights and neon along Sunset glowing in the asphalt. Lots of cash and bright lights, a warm wind coming down off the hills.

  A few minutes later, a woman with a blunt-cut bob and the standard outfit of black bra and black hot pants came outside. She sucked on a vape pen and said something to the bouncer. He nodded toward us and she walked our way, head down and shoulders slumped. She had on thick eye makeup and looked a little like Louise Brooks.

  “KiKi?” I said

  She nodded. I introduced Z and told her that we were hired to find Gabby. She listened as she sucked on the device, squinting her eyes into the haze, not sure what to make of us. An electric-blue Lamborghini wheeled up as I told her what we’d seen with Eric Collinson.

  “Eric is such a fucking prick.”

  “Most likely,” I said. “He said you and Gabby were friends.”

  “Best friends,” she said. “We were the very best of friends.”

  “‘Were’?”

  “Gabby got judgmental,” she said. “She didn’t like me working here. She didn’t like what I did or my lifestyle.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’ve already talked to the police,” she said. “I don’t really know anything more.”

  “What did you tell the police?” Z said.

  “I told them I hadn’t seen Gabby in months,” she said. “We had a nice pasta dinner at Republique and she kept on bashing this club and what I did with my life. And the men I dated. I told her I didn’t need another mother. Not to mention, I wasn’t into half the shit that Gabby was into. I mean, this is just a fucking job. What Gabby did, the men she dated, that was really messed up.”

  “Like Eric.”

  “Like I said, Eric was a prick,” she said. “But he wasn’t the worst.”

  “Who was the worst?” I said.

  KiKi looked back to the door and then back to us. She sucked hard on the pen and then shook her head. “I got to go,” she said. “I don’t know where she went or what she got into. But I wasn’t about to sit there and have her run down me and my friends. All I know is that she was acting strange. Like maybe she was high or something. She was just so calm, talking in this really irritating, level voice, telling me that I had options. That there was a bigger world out there I needed to experience. That I didn’t have to be the person I was.”

  “Maybe she was channeling Carl Sagan.”

  KiKi looked confused and shook her head. “I didn’t stick around. Once she started getting totally judgy, I paid my share and left.”

  “Did you talk to her later?”

  “She called,” she said. “But I didn’t answer. I don’t know who she’s met or what she’s done. But that wasn’t Gabby that night. Gabby used to be the most wild, fun girl I ever knew. You ever been to Joshua Tree at three a.m., out of your mind on mushrooms?”

  I shook my head. “Not since Graham Parsons died.”

  “I really have to go,” she said. “I have three tables tonight.”

  “Do you know anything about a new boyfriend?”

  She looked at me and Z and shook her head. “Just one?”

  “Eric was convinced she’d been seeing someone new,” Z said. “Someone special.”

  “Eric’s mad he got dumped,” she said. “He was so controlling. Had to have her check in with him all the time. Kept on pestering her to move in with him. I mean, really. What a total dick.”

  “Someone broke into Gabby’s apartment,” Z said. “And made a real mess.”

  “I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

  Z named several women he’d spoken to earlier in the day. He was very exact and precise about each one mentioned. He asked KiKi if there was anyone else we should find.

  “Not really,” she said. “They haven’t se
en her in a while, either. She left us for whatever she’d found.”

  “Did Eric ever threaten her?” I said.

  KiKi shook her head, pointing the vape pen at my chest. “You want to know what I really think? I think Gabby got herself into her own mess. I think she pissed off the wrong people and something really, really bad happened. There, I said it. I’m sorry. I loved her like a sister. But she brought up some really painful stuff to me. Things that I told her in confidence. It was almost like she wanted to blackmail me or something.”

  “Blackmail you into what?” Z said.

  “That’s the thing,” KiKi said. “I never gave her a chance to go ahead with her threats. I left. I turned her away. I don’t have time for that shit.”

  I watched the bouncer ushering in more beautiful people and some who slipped him a little cash. It was midnight in Los Angeles and way past bedtime in Boston. I looked at my watch and nodded to Z.

  KiKi turned to leave. We watched her walk away in wobbly tall boots.

  “Gabby Leggett is a woman of many secrets.”

  “Even among her closest friends,” Z said.

  “You remember Spenser’s number-one Crime Stopper tip?”

  “Keep bugging the shit out of people until the bad guys get nervous.”

  I grinned. “You were listening.”

  7

  Samuelson graciously agreed to meet for breakfast at the Original Pantry downtown on Figueroa. Samuelson, being Samuelson, had gotten there early and was already studying the menu when I walked in. He was still bald but had grown his mustache back, long and droopy, like a member of the Earp family. He wore a navy suit and white dress shirt with a flowered red tie, and had on gold aviator glasses with tinted lenses.

  “Nice tie,” I said. “No wonder you made captain.”

  “I made captain because I closed a shit-ton of cases,” he said, shaking my hand and passing me a menu. “Sit down, gumshoe. The French toast will break your goddamn heart.”

  I sat, put the menu down, and leaned back. Outside, the sun had finally decided to make an appearance, and light streamed through the blinds onto the old tables.

  Samuelson didn’t ask what I wanted, but I gave a two-minute rundown of Gabby Leggett and what I knew so far. He listened intently and nodded, taking a break only when the waiter appeared. I got the French toast. He had country-fried steak with eggs sunny-side-up. The restaurant was a long shot from the front door, with a big sizzling grill against the far wall. Cream-colored globes glowed overhead, and there were slatted blinds over the windows. A sign read: SINCE 1924. NEVER CLOSED WITHOUT A CUSTOMER.

  “You told me the woman’s name in your message,” he said. “As you’ve done such a stellar job keeping in touch over the years, I made a few calls.”

  “You didn’t get my Christmas cards?”

  “Must’ve gone to the wrong address,” he said.

  “And the fruit baskets?” I said.

  “Please.”

  The waiter brought ice water and coffees. I added one pack of sugar to a thick mug and stirred.

  “Girl was reported missing about a week ago.”

  I nodded. “By her mother.”

  “You know how many girls go missing in Los Angeles County and then are found a few days later?”

  I nodded. “How many go missing and are never found?”

  “You really want to know the answer to that question?”

  “Not really.”

  There was the dull murmur of conversation all around us. Men and women in business attire and laborers in heavy overalls and paint-splattered shoes. Historic photos of L.A. hung on the wood-paneled walls. The air smelled of crisp bacon and black coffee. All the things that made diners wondrous places.

  “The detective who caught the case did his job,” he said. “He talked to some of the girl’s hippie friends and the girl’s ex-boyfriend. Guy named Collinson.”

  “I’m on the same track,” I said. “Although Collinson hasn’t been her boyfriend for some time. Now he’s just her agent.”

  “Good for him.”

  “And I don’t know if I’d call these kids hippies,” I said. “Or hipsters. To be honest, I don’t know what to call them.”

  “Call ’em fucking dumb kids,” he said. “They’re all the same. Same as you and me when we were that age. Looking to screw over the old guys.”

  I toasted him with the mug and took a sip.

  “As an ex-cop, you know we’re looking at the boyfriend,” he said. “Most of the time that’s our answer. It’s not exactly Agatha Christie out in the real world. Unless it’s Colonel Mustard lurking around the corner with his dick in his hand.”

  “Never did trust Colonel Mustard,” I said. “Or Collinson. He seemed reticent to assist me. And for the record, I wasn’t fond of his haircut.”

  “Reticent?” he said. “Jesus. You need to get out of Boston more often. And yeah, the detective had the same impression of Collinson. But here’s the thing. That’s not the boyfriend I mean. I mean the most current boyfriend, that I never for one single goddamn moment mentioned to you.”

  “I have the feeling I’m springing for breakfast.”

  “What did you expect?” he said. “I didn’t come for the stimulating conversation.”

  The waiter brought breakfast. Samuelson had told the truth. The French toast was truly heartbreaking. Out of respect, I lightly applied the maple syrup and took a third and fourth bite.

  “You sure you want into this?” he said. “I don’t know if you really want to go there.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Shit City,” Samuelson said.

  I shrugged. “Oh, I’ve been there once or twice,” I said. “Always glad to get my passport stamped.”

  “And that doesn’t always work for you.”

  “I’ve made a few mistakes over the years,” I said. “A big one out here that both of us will never forget.”

  Samuelson nodded and cut into the country-fried steak and eggs. He worked around the eggs, slicing and slicing until finally breaking the yolk. The yellow spread out across his plate. “See, the boyfriend isn’t just a boyfriend,” he said. “He’s not some twiggy, jittery little hipster. Looks like your girl Leggett’s last boyfriend was a goddamn nine-hundred-pound gorilla in his town.”

  I held up my hand. “Gabby was dating Mighty Joe Young?”

  “Pretty much,” he said. “Ever heard the name Jimmy Yamashiro?”

  “Sounds like a Japanese steak sauce.”

  “Even better,” Samuelson said, pointing the end of his fork at my chest. He explained Yamashiro was the president and CEO of a major studio that now had offices on the old MGM lot in Culver City.

  “Ah,” I said. “That’s entertainment.”

  “This was told to me with the utmost confidence.”

  “You know me,” I said. “Ol’ trustworthy Spenser.”

  “I never said that,” Samuelson said, taking another stab at the eggs. “I just thought the family should know. Yamashiro is a big fucking deal. The chief has taken a personal interest in keeping this quiet.”

  “Why tell me?”

  “Off the record?” Samuelson said. “Maybe I think the current chief is an asshole. If this gets out, it’ll be a three-ring media circus. Fucking Entertainment Tonight and those smug a-holes at TMZ.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “They won’t leave me alone since I broke up Brangelina.”

  Samuelson shrugged and continued to eat. “This won’t end pretty,” he said. “Things like this never do.”

  “Don’t I always come out smelling like a rose?”

  “Don’t get cocky,” he said. “Even if Yamashiro is clean, these people have too damn much to lose and won’t go easy.”

  “Did the detective mention anything about Gabby’s apartment being torn apart?”

>   “Nope,” he said. “They said the apartment was empty and clean.”

  “Hmm.”

  “And now?”

  “Might want to have them check on it again.”

  “Find anything?”

  I set down my fork and leaned back into my chair. The front door opened and gust of cool air blew through the diner.

  “Wait,” Samuelson said, holding up the flat of his hand. “I know you too well, Spenser. Please don’t answer that question.”

  8

  Icalled Z twice without luck. I left a message on his cell and with his secretary, Delores.

  “Does your heart go pitter-patter when you hear my voice?” I said.

  “No, sir,” she said. “It does not.”

  “Even just a bit?”

  “Nope,” she said. And hung up.

  “She’ll come around,” I said, setting the phone in the rental’s console.

  I was on my own the second morning in L.A., dipping in and out of traffic on the 10 West toward Culver City. In my experience, there were several different ways to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop. But the most expedient was always crushing it in your back teeth. I had several other friends and acquaintances to find. But when you get a big lead from a cop you trust, you don’t waste your time.

  After breakfast with Samuelson, I dug deep into my Rolodex and called a producer I’d worked for in Boston many moons ago. Sandy Salzman had assigned me to track down a guy in Boston stalking a big-time actress named Jill Joyce. While the outcome wasn’t what we’d expected, we remained friendly.

  “You want to get in with who?” Salzman said.

  “Jimmy Yamashiro.”

  “You’re kidding me,” he said. “I can’t even get in with Jimmy Yamashiro. He runs the whole fucking studio in Culver City.”

  “I know,” I said. “I’m headed that way now.”

  “What, did you write some cockamamie pilot about a Boston tough guy?” he said. “You trying to sell your life story?”

  “How’d you know, Sandy?”

  “I expected it,” he said. “I’d change a few details, though.”