"No-kay doke," he said. "I was arranging a little surprise for her, but I told her I'd pick her up at seven. We're meeting my parents in less than an hour."

"Your parents?" If I had been informed of this eventuality, I had forgotten about it entirely, but regardless, Laney would dress up for a rendezvous with Solberg's family. So why hadn't she returned home?

It was in that moment, that tiny flicker of time, that a number of thoughts collided in my mind: The disarray of my house after the break-in juxtaposed against Nadine's perfectly formed letters. The memory of Laney's stolen jacket ... so like mine. The jacket I hadn't worn since pulling it over my pj's and careening to Glendale following Micky's call for help. Lavonn's dilated eyes. Jackson's dreamy, drawled warning. Blood dripping on rosewood. Missing recipes. Clean toxicology reports. Intensity!

I was scrambling for my phone in a matter of seconds, but Solberg's cell rang before I ever touched mine. It jangled out the wedding march as I straightened, breath held, premonition skittering along the arches of my feet.

"Probably someone regarding the new venue," he said, grinning as he answered. "'Ello."

"h.e.l.lo.... Solberg?" I could only hear a few of the caller's words.

Solberg was still grinning at me. "That's right. The future Mr. b.u.t.terfield."

There was a pause from the caller. I was holding my breath.

"I hate to ... but I'm afraid your fiancee has fallen ... bad luck."

Watching Solberg's face, it was as if the world had suddenly ended. His expression went from unfettered glee to blank nothingness in a shattered heartbeat of time. His lips parted, but for a moment no sound came out.

"Who is it?" My own voice sounded raspy over the harsh beat of my heart.

Solberg shook his head, trembling and pale.

"Who is it?" I asked again, but he didn't respond. I s.n.a.t.c.hed the phone from him.

"What have you done to her?" My tone sounded abrasive now, high-pitched with terror and dread.

"Ms. McMullen, I presume?" The man on the other end of the line sounded amused.

My stomach twisted into a hard knot of dread. "What do you want?"

"Me?" He laughed. The voice sounded vaguely familiar. "I simply wanted what was mine, Ms. McMullen. But now I'm thinking I might want what was Mr. Solberg's, too."

There was something in his tone that made me want to curl into a fetal ball, but I kept myself upright, barely breathing. "If you hurt her you won't get anything."

"Hurt her? Why would I do something so vile?"

"I'll give him whatever he wants." Solberg's voice was little more than a croak. Two patches of red flamed in his cheeks, and his eyes looked manic.

"How much do you want?" I asked and the kidnapper chuckled.

"That's the spirit."

"How much?" I asked, again.

"Twenty million."

I felt the air rush from my lungs. Felt the floor give way beneath me. "Are you out-"

"I can do that." Solberg's voice was clear now. He straightened slightly. "I'll just need a little time."

I turned my attention back to the phone, repeated his words.

The line went quiet for a moment, then, "If you go to the cops there will be retribution."

Retribution! The word rang like a death knell.

"No cops," I said. "But I want to talk to Elaine."

"Perhaps you're not aware, Ms. McMullen, but we don't always get what we want."

I felt calmer now, almost numb. "So I've heard," I said. "But you'll you'll get twenty million. Guaranteed. If she's safe." get twenty million. Guaranteed. If she's safe."

"You're so distrustful." He sighed. "I'm afraid I have no desire to allow you to speak-"

"There'll be an extra million if you put her on the phone," I said.

There was a moment of breathless antic.i.p.ation, then a huffed laugh. "Ahh, capitalism at it's finest," he said, then paused for a moment. "You get one second for every million I'm to receive," he said, then aside, "I must warn you, Ms. b.u.t.terfield, people have been underestimating me since my conception. I hope you will not be so foolish."

In a moment she was on the phone.

"Mac?" Her voice was soft but steady.

"Laney!" Relief sluiced through me, but I funneled it away, focusing on her words, her inflections. We had twenty-one seconds. I concentrated on using every one of them, on keeping my voice low. "Where are you?"

"I'm worried about my cat." Her voice sounded strange. Dreamy. Shocky.

My mind was racing. Laney didn't have a cat. Never had. "What's going on? Are you drugged?"

"She's so old."

My mind clicked into gear. I scrambled for a pencil. Drugged or not, Laney wouldn't waste this time. "How old?"

"The same age as Jeen."

No pen. No pencil. Not even a chunk of charcoal. Desperate, I stuck my finger in the French dressing and wrote Solberg's age on a nearby piece of junk mail.

"You know m.u.f.fy," she added.

I scribbled down the name, barely legible.

"Who is he?" I was all but whispering.

"Take care of Trivette, too."

I wrote it down, though it made no sense at all. My hand was shaking. "Laney ..." My voice trembled. "I don't understand."

"He had that hairless sphinx. Weird. We should have given it a sweater. But he wouldn't have used it. People don't change."

"What do you mean? Who's-" I began, but the phone was taken away and her kidnapper was back on the line.

"So Hollywood," he said, "worrying about a cat when the world is on fire."

"Don't hurt her," I said.

"I've no desire to. But regrettably I may be unable to prevent it if my demands are not followed to the letter," he said, then, "Tell Mr. Solberg to collect the necessary funds. I'll call him soon to let him know where to wire the money."

"Wait!" I felt frantic, terrified, but the phone had already gone dead.

33.

If it wasn't for vinyl I'd be naked all the time.-Teddy Bactrin, one of Chrissy's too honest beaus Solberg and I stared at each other, lost and horrified. He turned like an automaton, and I blinked, coming back to myself.

"Where are you going?"

"To get the money ready."

I nodded, broken, crushed, but when my gaze swept across my scribbled notes I spoke again. "How old are you?"

"What difference-"

"Your age!" I was trying to rally. "How old?"

"Thirty-seven. Why?"

"Because Laney doesn't waste time." My brain was beginning to click a little. "Did you ever have a cat?"

"A cat? No. Wh-"

"Who's m.u.f.fy?"

"Are you crazy? I don't have time-"

But I grabbed his shoulders, shaking him. "Who's m.u.f.fy?"

"I don't know. I-Wait." He blinked. "I used to date a girl called m.u.f.fy."

For a moment all sensible thoughts fled. m.u.f.fy? Really? I shook my head. "Get on your computer."

"What?"

"Your computer. You have it with you, don't you?"

"It's in my-"

"Get it!"

He paused a moment, but finally he scrambled away. I grabbed a pen from the drawer and wrote down the twenty-one-second conversation as closely as I could remember. I had asked where she was. She'd begged me to take care of her cat, who was thirty-seven years ...

"What do you want?" Solberg was panting when he ran back in. He was carrying something that looked like a beefed-up coffee can. But there was no time to dwell.

"Find Thirty-seventh Avenue," I said.

"In L.A.?"

"For now," I muttered, then closed my eyes, trying to think, to wish away the panic. What was the cross street? Not m.u.f.fy. That would have been too obvious, too dangerous. "What was m.u.f.fy's last name?"

"m.u.f.fy?" He glanced up. A little color had returned to his lips. "Newton."

"Find Thirty-seventh and Newton."

He typed madly. The keyboard was in the shape of a cylinder. "There is none."

I wanted to ask if he was positive, but there was no point, so I paced, then spun toward him. "What was her real name?"

"m.u.f.fy is is her real name." her real name."

"Seriously?"

"But her cousins called her Marigold." Our eyes met.

"Thirty-seventh and Marigold!" He was already typing.

I'd asked who had abducted her. "Do you know anyone named Trivette?"

He shook his head, distracted, then yanked his attention toward me. "East L.A. Looks like residential slums." He was already on his feet.

"Where are you going?"

He paused, cheeks bright, fists clenched. "To kill him," he said.

For a moment I was too shocked to take him seriously, but when he turned away I grabbed his arm. "How? Solberg, think. We don't know who he is. We don't know where where he is. Not specifically." he is. Not specifically."

"I'll find him." His voice was gruff, unrecognizable. "I'll find her." her."

"He's probably armed."

"It doesn't matter," he said, and tried to pull away, but I tightened my grip.

"It matters if he hurts Laney."

Every molecule of color drained from his face. His arm went limp in my hand. "What do we do?"