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  “There could be an explanation.”

  “Please, Dr. Delaware, I know how things work. It's who you know. You've worked with the police— With your contacts, they'll listen to you. You must know someone who can help.”

  “What's Lauren's address?”

  She recited some numbers on Hauser. “Near Sixth Street. Not far from the museum complex— the La Brea Tar Pits. I used to take her to the tar pits when she was little— Please, Dr. Delaware, call your contacts and ask them to take me seriously.”

  My contact was Milo. His turf was West L.A. Division, and Hauser near Sixth was Wilshire. Petra Connor, my only other LAPD acquaintance, worked Hollywood Homicide. A pair of homicide detectives. Jane Abbot didn't want to hear that.

  I said, “I'll make a call.”

  “Thank you so much, Doctor.”

  “How's Lauren been doing?”

  “You'd be superproud of her— I am. She— We had a few rough years after her father walked out on us. She dropped out of high school without graduating— it was kind of . . . But then she pulled herself together, got her GED, attended J.C., got her associate's degree with honors, and transferred to the U this past fall. She just finished her first quarter, got all A's. She's majoring in psychology, wants to be a therapist. I know that's your influence. She admires you, Doctor. She always said what a caring person you were.”

  “Thank you,” I said, feeling surreal. “It's midquarter break at the U, for another few weeks. Sometimes students travel.”

  “No,” she said. “Lauren wouldn't have gone anywhere without telling me. And not without luggage.”

  “I'll do what I can.”

  “You're a good man, I always sensed that. You were a great influence on her, Doctor. You only saw her that couple of times, but it had an impact. She once told me she wished you were her father instead of Lyle.”

  * * *

  I tried Milo at home first, got no answer, just the tape with Rick Silverman's voice on it. I tried the West L.A. detectives’ room.

  “Sturgis.”

  “Morning, this is your wake-up call.”

  “Got sunrise for that, boyo.”

  “Putting in weekend overtime?”

  “What's a weekend?”

  “Thought the murder rate was down,” I said.

  “Exactly,” he said. “So now we're all ball-and-chained to subarctic cold cases. What's up?”

  “I need a favor.” I told him about Lauren, letting him know she'd been a patient, knowing he'd understand what I could and couldn't say.

  “She's how old?” he said.

  “Twenty-five. Missing Persons told her mother the only option was filing a report.”

  “Did she file?”

  “I didn't ask her,” I said.

  “So she wants some strings pulled. . . . Problem is, Missing Persons is right. An adult case, without some evidence of disability or blood and guts or a stalking boyfriend— it comes down to routine for the first few weeks.”

  “What if it were the mayor's daughter?”

  Long sigh. “What if I went down in a light plane off the coast of Cape Cod? I'd be lucky to get two drunks in a rowboat as a search party, let alone a Navy destroyer and a fleet of choppers. Okay, I'll put in a call to MP. Anything else I should know about this girl?”

  “She's enrolled at the U, but it's possible she got involved in something less than wholesome.”

  “Oh?”

  “Four years ago she was working as a stripper,” I said. “Private parties. She may still be stripping.”

  “The mother told you this?”

  “No, I learned it myself. Don't ask how.”

  Silence. “Okay. Spell her full name.”

  I did and he said, “So we're talking bad girl here?”

  “I don't know about that,” I snapped. “Just that she danced.”

  He didn't react to my anger. “Four years ago. What else?”

  “She's done one quarter at the U. Straight A's, according to her mother.”

  “Mama knows best?”

  “Some mamas do.”

  “What about this one?”

  “Don't know. Like I said, it's been a long time, Milo.”

  “Your own cold case.”

  “Something like that.”

  * * *

  He promised to get back as soon as possible. I thanked him and hung up, took a longer than usual run, returned home sweat-drenched and faded, showered off, got dressed, went down to the pond and fed the koi without bothering to enjoy their colors. Returning to my office, I started to clear some custody reports.

  I ended up thinking about Lauren.

  From stripping to straight A's at the U. . . . I decided to call Jane Abbot, let her know I'd followed through. Maybe that would be the end of it.

  This time a machine answered. A man's voice, robotic, one of those canned recordings women use as a security device. I delivered my message, worked for a few more hours on the reports. Shortly after noon I drove into south Westwood, bought a take-out Italian sandwich and a beer at Wally's, returned to Holmby Park, where I ate on a bench, trying not to look ominous among the nannies and the rich kids and the old people enjoying green grass as cars whizzed by. When I got back the message light on my answering machine was a blinking red reproach.

  One call. Milo sounding even more tired: “Hey, Alex, getting back to you on Lauren Teague. Call whenever you've got a chance.”

  I jabbed the phone. Another detective answered, and it took a few moments for Milo to come on the line.

  “The mother did file a report. Yesterday. MP ran a background on Lauren.” He coughed. “She's got a record, Alex. They haven't informed the mother yet. Maybe they shouldn't.”

  “What kind of record?” I said.

  “Prostitution.”

  I kept silent.

  He said, “That's all, so far.”

  “Does that alter the chance that someone will actually look for her?”

  “The thing is, Alex, there's nothing to go on. They asked the mother for any known associates, and she came up with zilch. MP detective's feeling is that Mama is not in the loop when it comes to Lauren's private life. And maybe Lauren traveling isn't exactly an aberration. Her arrests weren't only here. Nevada too.”

  “Vegas?”

  “Reno. Lots of girls work that route, hopping on cattle-car flights, doing one-, two-day turnarounds for fast cash. So maybe her picking up without explanation is just part of her lifestyle. Student, or not.”

  “She's been gone for a week,” I said. “Not exactly a turnaround.”

  “So she stayed to play the tables. Or got herself a lucrative gig she wants to milk for a while. The point is, we're not talking Suzy Creamcheese wandering away from the church bus.”

  “When was her most recent arrest?” I said.

  “Four years ago.”

  “Here or Nevada?”

  “Good old Beverly Hills. She was one of Gretchen Stengel's girls, got nabbed at the Beverly Monarch Hotel.”

  Site of Phil Harnsberger's bachelor bash. The hotel's vanilla rococo façade flashed in my head.

  Tip money. I do great with tips.

  “What month four years ago?” I said.

  “What's the difference?”

  “Last time I saw her was four years ago. November.”

  “Hold on, let me check. . . . December nineteenth.”

  “Gretchen Stengel,” I said.

  “The Westside Madam herself. At least she wasn't working the street for crack vials.”

  I gripped the phone so hard my fingers ached. “Is there any record of a drug history?”

  “No, just the solicitation bust. But Gretchen's girls did tend to party hard— Look, Alex, you know passing judgment on people's sex lives isn't my thing, and I don't even think much about dope unless it leads to someone being made dead. But the fact that Lauren's a working girl does have to be taken into account here. Most likely she split for a gig and the roommate's covering for her with Mom
. I can't see any reason to panic.”

  “You're probably right,” I said. “Mom may be out of the loop. Though she's not totally unaware— told me Lauren went through some rough times, and her voice tightened up when she said it. And with the last arrest four years ago, maybe Lauren did turn herself around. She did enroll at the U.”

  “That could be.”

  “I know, I know— cockeyed optimism.”

  “Hey, it gives you that boyish charm. . . . So you treated her four years ago?”

  “Ten. I saw her once four years ago. Follow-up.”

  “Ah,” he said. “Ten years is a long time.”

  “It's a damned eon.”

  Long pause. “You still sound . . . protective of her.”

  “Just doing my job.” Surprised at the anger in my voice. I avoided further discussion by thanking him for his time.

  He said, “The MP guy did agree to make some calls to hospitals.”

  “Morgues too?” I said.

  “That too. Alex, I know you didn't want to hear about the girl's sheet, but in this case maybe it puts things in a more positive light— she's got a rationale for cutting out without explanation. Best thing to tell the mom is just wait. Nine times out of ten, the person shows up.”

  “And when they don't, it's too late to do anything about it anyway.”

  He didn't answer.

  “Sorry,” I said. “You've done more than you had to.”

  He laughed softly. “No, I had to.”

  “Up for lunch sometime?” I said.

  “Sure, after I chip away at some of this ice.”

  “Subarctic, huh?”

  “I wake up middle of the night with penguins pecking my ass.”

  “What kinds of cases?”

  “Potpourri. Ten-year-old child murder, parents probably did it but no physical evidence. Twelve-year-old convenience store robbery-gone-bad, no witnesses, not even decent ballistics, 'cause the bad guys used a shotgun; drunk snuffed out in an alley eight years ago; and my personal favorite: old lady smothered in her bed back when Nixon was president. Should've gotten my degree in ancient history.”

  “English lit's not a bad fit either.”

  “How so?”

  “Everyone's got a story,” I said.

  “Yeah, but once I'm listening to them, you can forget happy endings.”

  5

  THE ROOMMATE'S COVERING for her . . .

  A roommate who lived the same life as Lauren? If so, no reason for her to talk to Jane. Or the police. Or anyone else.

  Jane Abbot claimed Lauren admired me. I found that hard to believe, but perhaps Lauren had mentioned me to the roommate and I could learn something.

  I called the 323 number Jane had given me for Lauren, got another male robot on the machine, hung up without leaving a message.

  I thought some more about the path Lauren's life had taken. Given the little I knew about her family life, I supposed there was no reason to be surprised. But I found myself succumbing to letdown anyway.

  Ten years ago. Two sessions.

  When her father had terminated, had I let it go too easily? I really didn't think so. Lyle Teague had never accepted the idea of therapy. Even if I'd managed to reach him by phone, there was no reason to believe he'd have changed his mind.

  No reason at all for me to feel I'd failed, and I told myself I felt comfortable with that. But as the afternoon grayed Lauren's disappearance continued to chew at me. Just after two P.M. I left the house, gunned the Seville down the glen to Sunset, and headed east, through Beverly Hills and the Strip, to the roller-coaster ramp that was the crest of La Cienega.

  Catching Third just past the Beverly Center, I picked up Sixth at Crescent Heights and cruised past the tar pits. Plaster mastodons reared, and groups of schoolkids gawked. They pull bones out of the pits daily. One of L.A.'s premier tourist spots is an infinite graveyard.

  Lauren's apartment on Hauser sat midway between Sixth and Wilshire, a putty-colored six-unit box old enough for fire escapes. I made my way up a chunky cement path to a glass door fronted by wrought-iron fettuccine. Through the glass: dim hallway and dark carpeting. A column of name slots and call buttons listed TEAGUE/SALANDER in apartment 4.

  I pressed the button, was surprised to be buzzed in immediately. The hallway smelled of beef stew and laundry detergent. The carpeting was an ancient wool— flamingo-colored leaf forms over mud brown, once pricey, now heeled and toed to the burlap. Mahogany doors had been restained streaky and lacquered too thickly. No music or conversation leaked from behind any of them. A flight of chipped terra-cotta steps at the rear of the building took me upstairs.

  Unit 4 faced the street. I knocked, and the door opened before my fist lowered. A young man holding a white washcloth stared out at me.

  Five-six, one-thirty, fair-haired and frail-looking, wearing a sleeveless white undershirt, very blue jeans cinched by a black leather belt, black lace-up boots. A heavy silver chain looped a front jeans pocket.

  “Oh. I thought you were . . .” Breathy-voiced, pitched high.

  “Someone else,” I said. “Sorry if I'm interrupting. My name's Alex Delaware.”

  No recognition in the wide, hazel eyes, just residual surprise. The fair hair was dun tipped with yellow, clipped nearly to the skull. Zero body fat, but what was left was string, not bulk. Tiny gold ring in his right earlobe. A tattoo—“Don't Panic” in elaborate blue-black script— capped his left shoulder. A band of thorns in the same hue circled his right biceps. He looked to be around Lauren's age, had the round, unlined face, pink cheeks, and arched brows of an indulged child. As he looked me up and down, surprise began to give way to suspicion. He clenched the washcloth, and his head drew back.

  “I'm an old acquaintance of Lauren's,” I said. “One of her doctors, actually. Her mother called me, concerned because she hasn't heard from Lauren for a week—”

  “One of her doctors? Oh . . . the psychologist— yes, she told me about you. I remember your name was one of the states— are you Native American?”

  “Kind of a mongrel.”

  He smiled, pulled at the silver chain, produced a saucer-sized pocket watch. “My God, it's two-forty!” Another eye rub. “I was catching a nap, heard the bell, thought it was three-forty, and jolted up.”

  “Sorry for waking you.”

  He let the washcloth unfurl, waved it in a tight little arc. “Oh, don't apologize, you did me a favor. I have . . . an old friend dropping by, need the time to pull myself together.” A hip cocked. “Now, why are we having this conversation out in the hall?” A bony arm shot forward. His grip was iron. “Andrew Salander— I'm Lauren's roomie.”

  He swung the door wide open, stepped aside, and let me into a large parlor with a high, cross-beamed ceiling. Heavy ruby-and-gold brocade drapes sealed the windows and plunged the space into gloom. New smells blew toward me: cologne, incense, the suggestion of fried eggs.

  “Let there be light,” said Andrew Salander as he rushed over and yanked the curtains open. A cigar of downtown smog hovered above the rooftops of the buildings across the street. Exposed, the living room walls were lemon yellow topped by gilded moldings. The cross-beams were gilded as well; someone had taken the time to hand-leaf. French cigarette prints, insipid old seascapes in decaying frames, and frayed samplers coexisted in improbable alliance on the walls. Deco and Victorian and tubular-legged moderne furniture formed a cluttered liaison. A close look suggested thrift-shop treasures. A keen eye had made it all work.

  Salander said, “So Mrs. A called you. Me, too. Three times in as many days. At first I thought she was being menopausal, but it has been six-plus days, and now I'm starting to get concerned about Lo myself.”

  He pulled a tattered silk throw off a sagging olive velvet divan and said, “Please. Sit. Excuse the squalor. Can I get you something to drink?”

  “No thanks. It's far from squalid.”

  “Oh, please.” A hand waved. “Work in progress and very little progress at work— Lo a
nd I have been going at this since I moved in. Sundays at the Rose Bowl Swap Meet, Western Avenue, once in a while you can still find something reasonable on La Brea. The problem is neither of us has time to really give it our all. But at least it's habitable. When Lo lived here by herself, it was utterly bare— I thought she was one of those people with no eye, no artistic sense. Turns out she has fabulous taste— it just needed to be brought out.”