Ryan nodded. "I write screenplays."

"Do you now?" Binder tapped an impatient, blunt finger on a pile of invoices.

"Guns are props in my world," Ryan continued blithely. "Sometimes I can even turn one into a metaphor. I just can't use the word metaphor in front of the producers because it scares them. You know, it doesn't matter what you do, just don't scare the horses." He laughed as if Binder shared his inside knowledge of the quirks of the men who got movies made.

Binder squinted. "Well, this gun is loaded with a round of reality in case some a.s.shole comes in here and tries to metaphorically rob me."

Ryan moved uneasily in his chair.

"I remember she called you the 'mislaid man.'" I hoped to get him back to Nora and maybe helping us. "She didn't mean it in an unkind way."

"I never took it to be mean-spirited. She was my angel." Reflecting, he stroked his beard. "She'd come down and talk to me while I was cleaning. Seems she couldn't sleep either." He began to restack the already neat pile of invoices, then cleared his throat. "It took me a while to realize that this beautiful woman, this movie star, was talking me back into the world."

"She never told me."

"You look a lot like her. Are you as good of a woman as she was?"

"I try to be." I suddenly felt this man could see right through me to the lie I had just spoken.

He leaned back in his chair, resting his hands on his belly. "So you're probably wondering how the dead kid got onto the estate."

"Yes."

"And my connection is I have a key to the indoor swimming pool and I know the gate code."

"Exactly," Ryan said. "And I might add that's a very expensive car you drive."

I leaned toward Binder. "We're not saying you've done anything illegal ..."

But Binder was fixed on Ryan. "You know, son, I'm sometimes at a party or one of my AA meetings and I find myself counting the number of people in the room. It's almost habitual with me. Every time I do, it turns out I've killed more people in war than are in that room. So you in your Eskimo shoes means nothing to me."

Backtracking, Ryan said "BMW is a great car."

Binder ignored the comment. "And now, you, who mean nothing to me, is saying I sold some snot-nosed kid a key so he could make a copy of it, and then I could what? Buy my own building? Buy my Beamer? That's a pretty magical key."

"I apologize for Ryan. He was out of line. In fact he's always out of line." Ryan snorted; I continued. "What I'm wondering is whether there's a chance one of the men who work for you sold it for a little pocket cash. You do hire other pool cleaners, don't you?"

"I do, but I screen them thoroughly. Most of them are vets like me. That's all I've got to say."

"It's important to me, Mr. Binder."

"I'm afraid you're wasting your time and mine."

"My mother helped you in your time of need." I'd always prided myself on being independent from her, and now I was relying on her, using her.

He pursed his lips, thinking. When he spoke his voice was firm. "I clean that pool myself, not one of my guys. Except I get there now around three o'clock in the afternoon, not before dawn, like I used to. I need my sleep. Age has caught up with me, even tired out some of my demons."

"Isn't that a lot of years to be cleaning the same pool?" I asked.

"I have a few houses where I've stayed on for close to forty years. The owners have changed but I always get recommended to the new ones." He adjusted his gaze to glare at Ryan. "And the reason for that is they trust me."

"Did you know the victim?" I asked. "His name is Zackary Logan."

"Never saw him before. Told the police the same. Why would anybody want a key, anyway?"

"Access to an empty house. They could throw parties, deal drugs, or loot the place." I decided not to mention that they could also video people having s.e.x and then blackmail them.

"I told you that I'm the only one with the key, and I never saw any evidence of such goings-on."

"Do you ever go inside the house?"

"Of course not. So I can't help you there. Except I did find a condom once."

Ryan sat up. "When? And where exactly was it?"

"In the container for the garden waste about a month ago. I remember because I was wondering it if it should be put in the trash or the recycle. That just shows you how these environmental little b.a.s.t.a.r.ds can get into your head."

"Didn't you think it was odd to find a condom at a place that'd been empty a while?" I said.

"No. Someone could've tossed it over the wall, and the gardener threw it away with his clippings."

"Did you tell the police about it?" Ryan gnawed nervously on his thumb as if were a drumstick.

"Didn't think it was important." Binder grinned maliciously at him. "You want me to tell 'em?"

I interrupted. "Did Celia Dario hire you?"

"The real estate woman? No, the owners hired me."

Deciding I wasn't going to get any more information from him, I stood and extended my hand. "It was nice to finally meet you." We shook hands.

"Same here. Too bad you brought the a.s.shole with you."

"I'm not always like this, I'm under stress." Ryan stood up just as the door opened behind us.

We turned, watching the young woman with bleached white hair and cement-colored lips saunter in with a plate piled with vegetables and rice. She set it in front of Binder.

"What's this c.r.a.p?" he demanded.

"Your lunch, Daddy. If you don't eat it Mommy's going to be very upset with you." She wagged a finger at him, then kissed him l.u.s.tily on the mouth and swayed out of the room.

Noticing our surprised expressions, he said, "I know I'm too old for her. When she told me she was a vegan I thought she said virgin." He chuckled to himself. "What do I have to lose except eating meat?"

We walked out past the receptionist's desk and through the door into the blistering sun. Across the street, the paparazzi were waiting.

"Ignore them," I warned Ryan as we got into my car. I put down my window. "That was a bust. We didn't learn anything that we don't already know."

Buckling himself in, Ryan said "They didn't take the money shot."

"What?" I started the engine and pulled out of the driveway past the two fame suckers.

Ryan looked back at them. "They should've taken pictures of me, famous screenwriter, mooning them, and you, s.e.xy actress, discoverer of dead bodies. They didn't."

"You're right." I rounded the corner onto the main drag, heading back to the freeway.

Ryan asked, "Do you think that condom was mine?"

"Did you use one?" I looked in the rearview mirror. No paparazzi.

"I can't remember."

"G.o.d, Ryan."

"DNA. My DNA is probably all over that sofa. The police are going to find it."

"They have no reason to check the sofa for your DNA. And even I know they have to match it to something to be sure it's yours."

"Binder has to be lying," Ryan decided. "He's got a young girlfriend and a red Beamer. That's called overhead. He's got to be selling keys and codes."

"I don't think he's lying."

"Why?"

"I just don't think he'd take money for a key, especially that key."

"Why not?"

"My mother." I could feel my emotions coming undone.

"You mean because she may have gone to bed with him?"

"Because she may not have, Ryan." I snapped. "She may have done just what he said-helped him."

I realized I wanted to think of her as caring for the "mislaid man." I wanted to find a way to love her. I looked into the rearview mirror again. The guy wearing the white helmet was leaning low over his handlebars speeding close behind us.

"What's the word for a single paparazzi?" I asked.

"Paparazzo. The term comes from a character's name in the movie La Dolce Vita. Paparazzo was a photographer who took pictures of stars by hiding in bushes and stalking them. He was based on a real person Fellini knew. Why?"

"Look behind us."

He craned around to peer out the back window. "There is only one."

"You're right, Ryan. They should have taken the money shot." I gripped the steering wheel more tightly. I checked the rearview mirror again. The guy on the bike was right on my tail.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE.

Pressing down on the accelerator, the old Jag surged forward. I swerved into the other lane.

Ryan clung to his seat belt. "So if they're not fame suckers, then they're ... ?"

"Parson's men?"

"Oh, s.h.i.t, Diana. I am a dead man."

I made a sharp turn onto a narrow neighborhood street. The biker did the same. Small bungalows fronted by patches of brown gra.s.s lined the uneven sidewalks. Plastic tricycles stood in a few of the yards like lawn ornaments. I slowed down; so did he.

"Where is the other guy?" Beads of sweat dotted Ryan's forehead.

"Maybe he wanted to find out from P. J. Binder what we talked about. He might still be back there."

The street emptied out onto a busy four-lane avenue. I sped up again, racing past old one-story stucco buildings housing barbershops, bleak bars, and bail bondsmen fighting for s.p.a.ce with McDonald's, Taco Bell and Burger King. I ran a yellow light and glanced in the rearview mirror. The biker was so close that he looked like he was connected to my b.u.mper. Moving in and out of the traffic, I cut in front of a bus and swung a right, tires screeching, then quickly made a sharp left.

"Not into an alley!" Ryan stiffened his hands pressing against the dashboard. "They always dead-end into brick walls."

The biker was still there in my mirror.

"Look out for the garbage cans," Ryan gasped as we careered by iron-gated back doors.

"Oh G.o.d," I blurted, slamming on the brakes.

"f.u.c.k, a brick wall! I told you. I told you." Ryan braced himself against his seat.

It rose up in front of us like a big YOU'RE DEAD sign. I pressed the brake pedal to the floor. Rubber burned. The wall loomed closer. The Jag made a grinding noise as it veered and skidded to a jolting halt, its hood inches from the bricks. We pitched forward and then backward.

Adrenalin pumping, my eyes darted to the rearview mirror again. I watched the bike tilt sideways, sliding down on the pavement as it flew toward us.

"He's going to smash into us," I warned. There was a loud thump as the bike hit us and the Jag lurched again, b.u.mping the wall.

"Perfect. We've killed one of Parson's men." Ryan craned around, looking out the back window. "Unless he was paparazzi and then we could be sued."

"I don't care anymore." I flung open the car door and got out.

His white helmet on and visor down, the man had been thrown against a pile of garbage bags. Grabbing at his leg, he writhed in pain. His bike lay half under the car.

"Who are you?" I stared down at him. Ryan came up behind me, peering over my shoulder.

"You f.u.c.king b.i.t.c.h. You broke my leg." He struggled into a sitting position, leaning against the rust and p.i.s.s-stained wall.

Extending below the knitted cuff of his blue windbreaker, I could see two words tattooed vertically down to his wrist: With You. The thug at the yacht had had a tattoo that read: One Night With You.