Reason To Kill. Andy Weinberger

airport, last I heard. She’s moved on; I haven’t yet. Somehow, in spite of all the evidence to the contrary, a small stubborn part of me is convinced that he’s still out there and still alive.

      I put in a call to Lieutenant Malloy. It’s probably too soon for him to have dug up anything yet, but I’m compulsive. When she was in her right mind, Loretta used to say I was relentless, which was not a compliment where she came from. I can tell by the way he answers the phone that he’s had a rough day. “Make it short, Amos. I’ve got a murder-suicide in Boys Town and a string of burglaries in Hancock Park.”

      “Don’t let me interrupt, Bill. But I just came back from Van Nuys and I thought you might be a little more interested in my missing person case if you looked at the inside of her apartment.”

      “Oh yeah? What’s so interesting?”

      “Well, for one thing, someone came through and trashed the place.”

      “Was she among the trash?”

      “Fortunately not,” I say. “And her suitcase is gone, too. There’s definitely something wrong with this picture.”

      “She’s scared,” he says. “Someone’s trying to scare her. I dunno, maybe he’s trying to kill her, but I doubt it. So now she’s on the run. Can’t say I haven’t seen this movie before.”

      “Right. Me, too. You haven’t had a chance to track down the other musicians yet, have you?”

      There’s a muffled silence over the phone, like he’s busy talking to someone else. Then he comes back on the line. “No, no, not yet. Like I say, there are a few other things on my plate at the moment. I’ll get back to you, okay?”

      “Sure, Bill, sure.”

      The thing about Malloy, one of the best things, in fact, is that he’s true blue. He will definitely call me back. It may be two weeks, it may not be until after midnight, but I know when he says something, he means it. In the bureaucratic bowels of the LAPD, that counts for a lot. I couldn’t get far without him.

      An hour later, Carmen brings Loretta into the bedroom, helps her slip into her white frilly nightgown, and tucks her in. Then she returns to the living room, flicks off all but the essential lights, and puts on her sweater. While she’s clearing the table and hunting around for where she left her purse, I emerge from my office. I pull out several twenties and hand them to her. “You do such good work,” I tell her. I want to hug this woman. “You make Loretta smile.”

      “She is a wonderful person,” Carmen says. “A special person in my life. I am blessed. I think about her, you know, even when I am working at one of my other jobs. She is often like a child, but then there are always some times in the day when she lets me see the way she used to be.” She shakes her head slowly. “I can’t explain. But it must be hard for you, señor.”

      “It is what it is, Carmen. Thank you.” I hold open the door for her and watch her retreat down the carpeted hall toward the elevator.

      Two hours later, I’m in my pajamas and about to turn in when my cell phone rings. It must be Malloy, I think. I pick it up, and a woman’s voice comes on the line.

      “Mr. Parisman?”

      “That’s me.”

      “It’s Lola. Lola Emery. You know, Risa’s neighbor?”

      “Oh yes, of course. What can I do for you, Lola?”

      There’s a pause. “You left me your business card and—”

      “Is there something you forgot to tell me, Lola?”

      “No, not exactly,” she says. “But I thought you ought to know. Risa was just here a few minutes ago. She came back for some clothes and cosmetics and a few other things. Threw them in a shopping bag. I heard some noise, so I went out and spoke with her.”

      “Did you tell her people are worried about her?”

      “I did. I mean, not in those words, but I told her you’d been around.”

      “Did she tell you where she was staying? Or what she was doing? Did she know who ransacked her apartment?”

      “No, yes, I don’t know. She was only here for a few minutes. She said she couldn’t stay, that it might not be safe. There was someone in a car downstairs waiting, I think. It was all very fast.”

      “Well, at least she’s alive,” I say. “That’s good news. How’d she look?”

      “What do you mean?”

      “I don’t know. You tell me.”

      “She looked—she looked fine. Scared but fine. Beautiful. What can I say? She was in a hurry.”

      “Did you get a glimpse of the car she drove off in?”

      “I heard it, that’s all. She ran down the stairs. By the time I got back to my place and looked out the window, it was gone.”

      “Well, thanks, Lola. If she comes back again, will you do me a big favor?”

      “Sure, what’s that?”

      “Give her my card. Have her get in touch.”

       Chapter 4

      THE NEXT MORNING, on my way out the door, I stop at my mailbox. Still no check from Bleistiff, but I’m not discouraged. The way the mail works, someone told me once, the only reason you get anything at all, is that in the end it’s easier to just deliver it instead of dumping it down a manhole. And that was a guy who worked for the United States Post Office.

      I climb into my ancient blue Honda Civic, and with the brown paper shopping bag they gave me at Peet’s I spend a few minutes scooping up the dental floss, the Post-it notes, the dry-cleaning receipts, the old gum wrappers, and other debris scattered around on the floor and on the passenger seat. I’m a tidy fellow at home, but somehow here in the car I let myself go. Don’t know why this always happens, but it does. Every month or so I poke my head in, frown, and vow it will never happen again.

      There’s a parking space in front of my local pharmacy on Third, which is a minor miracle. The store is air-conditioned, and some kind of plaintive electronic Mexican music is being piped in, not quite loud enough to hear but not soft enough to ignore, either. I go all the way to the rear where they’re filling prescriptions. There’s a tall, gorgeous Ethiopian clerk in a powder-blue smock standing behind the counter. I ask her if they have that brand-new drug that’s supposed to help with memory loss. “You know what I’m talking about?” I ask. “The one on television?”

      Last time we met with Dr. Ali, he mentioned it, thought it might do Loretta some good. You could give it a try, he said. No promises, of course. The medical profession in general, and Dr. Ali in particular, have long ago backed away from that kind of blanket assurance. They mean well, but beyond a certain point it’s just a guessing game; they’re shooting in the dark. My friend smiles broadly. She has such beautiful white teeth, I think. Beautiful cheekbones and astonishing deep green eyes. In the olden days, when I was single, a woman like this could lead me into trouble, or out of it, for that matter. I wouldn’t care. Now she leads me down the aisle, past the aspirin and the allergy sprays and the sleeping remedies, right to it.

      “It’s very expensive,” she says with concern, scanning the label, “but even so, we can’t keep it on the shelf. I think it’s made from jellyfish. Something like that.” She’s just being honest, not trying to sell me. If anything, it’s a warning. I know that, which only makes me want to buy it all the more.

      Traffic is light along La Brea. A stiff breeze has been blowing all night and now it’s one of those magnificent crystal-clear days ad men used to write about when they sold plots of Los Angeles to the world. I turn west on Beverly. It’s the middle of the week. The sushi bars are closed until later, as is the boutique ice cream parlor and L.A. Eyeworks. A gaggle of tourists in baggy shorts and sweatshirts has