"Returned checks. Tax information."

"Nah."

"Correspondence. Maybe an old rolodex."

"Christ, I keep all that stuff I'd be buried in paper. We're talking a lifetime ago."

"Okay. Maybe there's something else."

"I'm thinking."

"You know any of her friends?"

"No."

"How about family?"

"Unh-unh."

"Boyfriend?"

He shook his head.

"Did she say if she was thinking about moving away or taking a trip?"

His brow knotted and his face clenched and he hit the side of his head a couple of times with the heel of his hand. Worried that he wouldn't be able to come through and trying to shake something loose.

I said, "Man, you two were really tight."

He waved his hands. "Hey, we never had no big heart-to-hearts. One day she just wasn't around anymore. I thought she dropped me. You know, went to another agency. I didn't hear anything from her and I tried calling the place she lived, but she was never around, so after a while I figured that's it."

I stood up and walked to the door. "Okay, Oscar. You tried. Thanks, anyway."

He jumped up and came around the desk and grabbed my arm. He grabbed hard, like if he didn't something rare would get away. He grabbed the way you grab when the rare thing has visited once before, long ago, and you blew it, and now you're getting a second chance. "Hey, you know what? I got some old stuff in storage. I'll dig through it. Maybe there'll be something, hunh? Maybe I'll find something that'll help out." I don't think he meant help me.

"Sure. My phone is on the card."

"You tell Peter I'm trying, okay? Tell'm I'm bending over backwards. Tell'm I really liked Karen, and I thought the kid was terrific."

"Sure."

I opened the door and we went out. The black woman was talking on the phone. The two young women who had been reading were still reading and the Sydney was still blowing bubbles. Oscar gave with the big teeth and made a big deal out of walking me to the outer door. "Hey, you can tell Peter I'll get on the search tonight." Putting on the act. "And tell'm I'd appreciate it if he gives me a call. There's a couple of things I'd like to talk with him about."

I said I would.

He made the big teeth some more, then left me at the door and sat on the couch next to Sydney with his hand on her thigh. The other two young women were watching him. He said that I worked for Peter Alan Nelsen and that he and Peter were thrashing out a deal together and that things were gonna start hopping around there soon. When he said it, he gave Sydney's thigh a little squeeze.

She watched him with the large pale eyes, blew another pink bubble, then popped it with her tongue. The eyes never once blinked and never once left him.

I walked out. So long, Norma Jean.

Six.

The sun was dropping fast, the way it does in the fall, and the air lost its midday warmth and took on an autumn chill as I wound my way up Laurel Canyon to the little A-frame I keep off Woodrow Wilson Drive above Hollywood.

The cat that lives with me was sitting by his food bowl in the kitchen. He's thick and black, with fine shredded ears and broken teeth and the scars that come from a full, adventuresome, male-type-cat life. Sometimes he has fits.

I said, "Is dinner ready?"

The cat came over and shoulder-b.u.mped against my leg.

I said, "Okay. How about meat loaf?"

He shoulder-b.u.mped me again, then went back to his bowl. Meat loaf is one of his favorite things. Right up there with Kitnips.

I took a meat loaf out of the freezer, put it in the microwave to thaw, turned on the oven to preheat, then opened a can of Falstaff. It was twenty minutes after five. Business hours were until six. I drank some of the Falstaff, then phoned the Screen Actors Guild and spoke to a woman named Mrs. Lopaka about Karen Shipley. Mrs. Lopaka confirmed everything Pat Kyle had told me and added nothing new. I thanked her, hung up, then dialed the Screen Extras Guild and then AFTRA. Ditto. I called the machine at my office, hoping that there might be a message from the phone company or from B of A. Nada Nada. Somebody named Jose wanted someone named Esteban to call him back right away. Jose sounded p.i.s.sed. I called my partner, Joe Pike.

Pike said, "Gun shop." Pike owns a gun shop in Culver City.

"We're on the job again. Backtrack to a woman and child."

"You need me?"

"Well, I'm here at the house and I'm not yet pinned down by snipers across the canyon, so I guess not yet."

Pike didn't answer.

"You know the director, Peter Alan Nelsen? He's our client."

Pike didn't answer some more. Trying to talk with Pike is like carrying on a fill-in-the-blank conversation.

I said, "Try to make conversation, Joe. It's easy. All you have to do is say something."

Pike said, "You need me, you know where I am." Then he hung up. So much for conversation.

The microwave dinged. I took out the meat loaf, transferred it to a metal pan, opened a can of new potatoes, drained them, put them in the pan around the meat loaf and sprinkled them with garlic and paprika, then put bacon over the meat loaf and put the pan in the oven on high. I like the skin on my meat loaf to be crispy.

The cat said, "Naow?"

"No. Not now. About forty-five minutes."

He didn't look happy about it.

I finished the Falstaff, got another, drank most of it on the way up to the shower and the rest of it on the way back down. When the meat loaf was ready, I put out two plates and sliced off the ends for me and a center cut for the cat. He watched me put the end cuts and the potatoes in my plate and the center slice in his. He purred loudly as I did it. I sprinkled Tabasco on mine and A-1 on his, then took the beer and both plates out to my deck. There's a Zalcona gla.s.s table out there with a couple of matching chairs and sometimes we eat at the table, but sometimes we take down the center section of the rail and sit at the edge of the deck and look out over the canyon. With the rail, you are separated from the view. Without the rail, you are part of it. We eat there often.

When we were finished, I said, "Well? How was it?"

The cat stretched and broke wind. He's getting older.

I took the dishes inside, washed them, put them away, then stretched out on the couch with a finger of Knockando to read the latest Dean Koontz when the doorbell rang. It was Peter Alan Nelsen and his best friend Dani. Peter was dressed the same way he'd been dressed earlier, but Dani had shifted to buff-cut blue jeans and a designer sweatshirt with little pearl beads worked into the fabric. The sweatshirt was a pale lavender and looked good on her.

Peter walked in without being asked and said, "Whadaya say, Private Eye? You ready to rock?" He was squinting a lot and swaying from side to side and he smelled like his clothes had been doused with bourbon.

He staggered into the center of the floor and looked around and said, "Hey, this is neat. You live here alone?"

"Yeah." The cat started to growl, a hoa.r.s.e sound in his chest.

Peter saw my drink. "What's that, scotch?"

I got a short gla.s.s and poured a little of the Knockando. I held the bottle toward Dani, but she shook her head. Designated human.

Peter went to the gla.s.s doors and looked out at the canyon. "Hey, I like this view. This is okay. I got a place up on Mulholland with a view. You gotta come up sometime. We'll have a party or something."

"Sure."

Peter saw the cat sitting sphinxlike on the arm of the couch. "Hey, a cat."

I said, "Be careful. He's mean and he bites."

"Bulls.h.i.t. I know about cats." Peter swayed over to the couch and put out his hand. The cat grabbed him, bit hard twice, then ran under the couch, growling. Peter jumped back and shook his hand, then bent over and peered under the couch. I could see the blood from across the room. "That sonofab.i.t.c.h is mean."

Dani stood quietly to the side, maybe looking a little sad.

I said, "Peter, it's late. I'm tired and I was getting ready for bed. What do you want?"

Peter straightened up and looked at me like I had to be kidding. "Whadaya mean, sleep? It's early. Tell him, Dani, tell him it's early."

Dani glanced at her watch. "It's ten after ten, Peter. That's late for some people."

Peter said, "Bulls.h.i.t. Ten after ten ain't nothing to guys like us." He looked at me. "I figured we could go out and knock back a few, maybe shoot a little pool, something like that." He sat down on the couch and threw an arm over the back, forgetting about the cat. The cat growled, and Peter jumped up and moved to the chair across the room.

I said, "Another time."

Peter frowned, not liking that. "Hey, you don't want to party?"

"Not tonight."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm tired and I want to go to sleep, but most of all because you're so drunk you sound like you're speaking Martian."

Dani made a soft, faraway sound, but when I looked at her, she wasn't looking at either me or Peter. Peter scowled and leaned forward in the chair. "You got some smart mouth on you."

"The rest of me ain't stupid, either."

He poured himself more of the Knockando and got up and went over to the gla.s.s doors. "I want to know what you've got on Karen."

"You mean, how close have I come to finding her in the six hours since I started looking?"

"Yeah."

"She is no longer a member of SAG or SEG or AFTRA, which probably means she no longer acts or works in front of the camera. I spoke with people I know at the Bank of America and the phone company and the police, all of whom are checking their computers for information about her past or present, but I probably won't hear from any of them until tomorrow. I talked with the man who was her theatrical agent, Oscar Curtiss, who is trying to be helpful but probably won't be. It goes like that sometimes. He wanted me to tell you that because he would like to do business with you."

Peter made a little flipping gesture with his drink. "f.u.c.k'm."

I shrugged.

Peter said, "That's it?"

"Yep."

"I thought it would go faster."

"Most people do."

Peter poured himself another three fingers of the Knockando, took it to the gla.s.s doors, and drank it. He stared out at the canyon for a while, then put the gla.s.s and the bottle on the floor and turned back to me. It took an effort to get himself turned around, like a tall ship in a wind with a lot of sail. He said, "I'm calling you out." Marshal Dillon.

I said, "Yeah?"

He nodded. "You're G.o.dd.a.m.ned right. I didn't like the way you spoke to me at the studio today, and I don't like the way you're speaking to me now. I'm Peter Alan Nelsen and I don't take s.h.i.t."

I looked at Dani. She said, "Why don't we just leave, Peter? He doesn't want to party. We can go somewhere and party without him."

Peter said, "Hey, Dani, you wanna leave, leave, but I'm calling this sonofab.i.t.c.h out." Peter sort of swayed forward, squinting the way you do when you're seeing three or four of something that there's only one of.

He said, "C'mon, G.o.dd.a.m.nit, I'm serious," and put up his fists. When his fists went up the cat howled loud and mournful and flashed out from under the couch. He grabbed Peter's ankle and bit and screamed and clawed with his hind legs. Peter yelled, "Sonofab.i.t.c.h," jumped sideways, stumbled into the chair, and fell over backward. The cat sprinted back under the couch.

I said, "Some cat, huh?"

Dani helped Peter up, then righted the chair. Peter said, "Lemme alone," and pulled away from her. When he did he fell to his knees. He said, "I'm all right. I'm all right." Then he pa.s.sed out.

I said, "Is he like this a lot?"

Dani said, "Pretty much, yeah."

"I'll help you get him outside."

"No, thanks. You could get the door, if you want."

"You sure?"

"I can bench two-thirty. I squat over four."