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  “Please leave.” She turned back down, wrapping the comforter around her like a cocoon.

  “Charlotte, you know how I am with marriage.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it right now. Just leave. Please.”

  I kissed her cheek and left the room. Downstairs I snuck into the kitchen on the hunt for something, anything alcoholic, but she had nothing. Not even beer.

  I left the house and locked it. As I turned the key, I caught the letters inscribed on it again and realized what they stood for: Go Home Marshall. So I did.

  Chapter 3

  But not before dropping by the liquor store for a fresh bottle of scotch. Meeting with Nora only whet my appetite and this thing with Charlotte was not the first time. It usually blew over, but was still a royal pain in my ass. So I drank.

  My bedroom was upstairs and the room across the hall housed my office. I eventually wanted to find a real office, in a building with a name plate in the lobby that said “Santone Investigations,” but for the last three years, it hasn’t seemed necessary since most of my clients are brought in over the internet and none of them have ever had a problem hosting me or meeting in a public place.

  It had an oak wood desk with a cordless phone, a file cabinet in one corner, a small copy machine in the other, and a giant whiteboard mounted on the wall behind the desk filled with scribbles of appointment times, addresses, and amateur doodles. The closet in the corner stowed my surveillance equipment and the safe on the floor housed my gun - a .45 Glock that I’ve never had to use. Never want to.

  My laptop was stowed away in the top drawer of the desk. Locked of course. I have classified client information in that thing. More importantly, I have their invoices. I slapped down the papers from Nora then fixed my drink. I unlocked the laptop drawer and pulled it out.

  After checking my e-mail and deleting my many offers for male enhancement pills and rich inheritances from Nigerian princes, I plugged “Denny Granger” into a search engine and got a list of results. Denny Granger’s Twitter feed, Denny Granger’s Facebook page, Denny Granger’s personal blog, but all the wrong Denny Grangers. I changed my search term to “Denny Granger comedian” and it brought up a link to his official website. The site had background information, tour dates, and a video of Denny performing in a club. I clicked on the video.

  Text messaging should be abolished. And I say that as an active texter. Seriously, I send like twelve fucking thousand texts a day, okay? It’s fine for sending quick little messages and shit, like “On my way” or “Did your husband hear us?” or something like that, right? But now texting has become a substitute for being a fucking human being! I got dumped once by a girl through a text. If you’ve ever done that, I want you to go home, take a good look at yourself in the mirror...and then kill yourself. Because if you can’t say that to my face, at least use, like, a carrier pigeon or some shit like that. I’ll still think you’re a bitch, but at least you’re a bitch who went through the effort to train a fucking carrier pigeon! I would respect that.

  A very vulgar fellow, Denny was. I could see how he might arouse trouble. He was funny, and the audience certainly thought so, but I wasn’t laughing. I couldn’t laugh even in my own company.

  Denny performed in tight jeans and tank top – which made sense. His arms bulged so big they wouldn’t fit into sleeves. I wondered what a guy like that was doing performing comedy when he should have been fighting Mayweather.

  None of this ended up doing any good, however. His biography didn’t give any information on who he was or where he came from; just a list of credits and quotes from critics – “A stand-up phenomenon!”, “The next big star!” – that didn’t help me.

  So I pulled up the Los Angeles public records directory and plugged his name into a search. It took me to a site where I had to pay $29.95 for access. I paid it. It was my first expense to bill Slavas for. I always reserve the last page of my notebook to keep track of expenses.

  His background check showed one arrest in April 2003 on assault and battery charges. Nothing else. Nothing suspicious, at least.

  His only previous address was a house in Silver Lake. I wrote the address down and kept it in my wallet.

  My deadline was tight, and I wasn’t tired, but figured I should go to sleep. What good is an insomniac detective anyway?

  I left my notepad on the desk and locked up my Mac, then made my way across the hall to my bedroom and stayed there.

  The alarm went off at seven. I shaved at seven-oh-six, showered till seven-twenty, and dressed by seven-thirty. Today I decided to look a little more like Slavas had expected me to. I wore a suit, but no fedora.

  While I drank coffee and ate buttered toast, I flipped back through my notes from the interview with Nora and found the word GORDY next to the note about Denny’s arrest. Gordon Barnes was an old friend of mine who worked in the LAPD; which wasn’t easy for him, I’m sure. Cops hate defense attorneys. He was in the field until he took a bullet to the leg two years ago which left him with a limp. He flat-out refused to retire so they let him take a desk job in the administration building.

  I called his house on the cordless. His wife answered.

  “Hi, Sara. It’s Marshall.”

  “Marshall. Oh my God, how are you? How’s Charlotte?”

  “We’re just fine.” It was too early and I had too much work to do to discuss relationship problems. “Thank you. How are the boys?”

  She sighed. “They’re boys.” And she laughed.

  “Did I wake you?”

  “No, not at all. You looking for Gordy?”

  “Yeah, I need to talk to him.”

  “He left about twenty minutes ago. They moved him to the morning shift last month, thank God. Still has to work the weekends, but it’s much better than before. You could try him on his cell.”

  “No, that’s all right. I’ll surprise him at the office. Need to see him in person anyway. Thanks.”

  “Sure. Nice to hear from you.”

  “Likewise. Take care now.” I hung up and swallowed the last of my coffee.

  The paper with Denny and Nora’s cell phone numbers was on the next page of my notes. I plugged the numbers into my Blackberry and saved them, then called Denny’s number and got four rings and an outgoing voicemail message. I didn’t leave one.

  Nora’s papers –- itinerary, boarding pass, headshot of Denny -- were still on my desk. I zipped each paper through the copy machine and stuffed them in a manila envelope from the file cabinet.

  The administration building was on First Street. I arrived shortly after nine o’clock. Gordy worked out of a cubicle on the sixth floor doing computer work and handling complaints from callers. I never understood why he didn’t just take the disability and retire. He said he simply “needed to work.”

  His cubicle was plastered with pictures of Sara and the boys. He had two. Twelve and nine. Both soccer players.

  He was on the phone when I approached his desk. His eyes lit up a little when he saw me and I smiled. My old pal. Hadn’t seen him in a couple of months, though it never felt that way. He finished up his call. Some woman was furious about the long response time of two officers after her complaint about party noise.

  He hung up and gave me a hug. “Marsh! Where the hell have you been?”

  “Hiya, Gordy.”

  “Sara’s been wanting you and Charlotte over for dinner. How’s she doing?”

  “Talking about marriage again.”

  “Oh...”

  “Yeah. She’s not very happy with me at the moment, but it’ll blow over. Always does.”

  Gordy smiled. “Come on.” He grabbed his cane which he kept in the mini closet beside the desk and threw on his jacket.

  “Are you hungry?” He asked. “I can get you something.”

  “No. Thanks. I just ate.”

  “You sure? We got the best hash browns in LA.”

  “I’m full.”

  We were the only ones in the cafeteria. He got the hash b
rowns. I got the coffee. I slid the manila envelope onto the table.

  “I got a case.” I opened the envelope and showed him Denny’s headshot. “This guy’s a comedian. Denny Granger. Got booked out of New York for a show this weekend, supposed to be there tonight, but as soon he got in yesterday morning, he vanished.”

  “Okay.” He examined the headshot.

  “I spoke to his manager last night. She said he used to live in LA and was arrested about seven or eight years ago. I ran a background check on him last night and found out it was for assault and battery. But that’s all I got.”

  “You need me to pull the file.”

  I nodded.

  “You think his disappearance has something to do with the arrest?” He said.

  “Probably not, but it’s the only thing I have. Hoping it might give me some idea of who knows him. I got his previous address, so I’ll check that out, but the guy doesn’t have any family here, and no contacts that his manager is aware of. Most likely he’s just pulling a stunt. He has a reputation for causing trouble.”

  “I got a friend in R&I. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Okay, but you gotta be discreet about this. I’m being paid to keep this secret.”

  “Have you ever heard me squeal?”

  The answer was No, but I didn’t need to say it, so I said, “Thank you. And there’s something else.”

  The photocopy of Nora’s boarding pass and itinerary were out. I pushed them to him.

  “I’d like to see the manifest of his flight. He disappeared at the airport terminal, beyond where people can go without a pass. That means if somebody else was involved in this, they must’ve been on the plane with him. Could you do that?”

  Gordy just smiled. “You know, if you’re gonna make everyone else do your work, you should lower your rates.”

  I didn’t smile. “I need you, Gordy.”

  “Lighten up, pal. I’ll try, but...” He swallowed the hash browns in his mouth, “Don’t put too much stake on the manifest. Airlines are pricks about that kind of thing, even with the authorities. And if I’m not allowed to divulge specifics on the case, it’s more likely that Lindsay Lohan will walk in here and give me a blow job.”

  This I did smile at. “I’m just asking you to try. I gotta go.” I stood up and put my jacket on, then scooped up the manila envelope with the original documents. “Thanks, Gordy. Tell the boys to give Beckham something to watch out for.”

  We shook hands and I left while Gordy finished his hash browns.

  Back in the lobby, I tried calling Denny again. No answer again. Didn’t leave a message again.

  The sun had already baked the Beemer to about a hundred degrees. I sat in it for a minute with the air conditioner on and smoked a cigarette. When the car began to cool down, I tossed my cig out the window and drove to Silver Lake.

  Dillon Street was just a few blocks from the reservoir and, goddamn, I could smell it. A dank, soppy smell unlike the ocean freshness I was used to. Took me forever to find the street too, since I don’t have a GPS. I had to ask directions from three different people who could barely navigate the street they were standing on.

  The house was a moderately sized bungalow with a garden and a high porch. The paint job was nearly identical to the color of the grass it stood on. While approaching the front door it occurred to me how similar this house was to Charlotte’s.

  A young girl opened the door, about twenty-five. Blonde hair pulled back into a pony tail. The face of a model, or an actress, but no more distinguishable than the ten thousand others in this city. She was wearing shorts and a tank top, with ear buds in, ready for a jog.

  I hadn’t knocked yet, so when she stepped out expecting to see the street ahead of her and found me instead, she let out a startled shriek, followed by a laugh.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, removing the ear buds. “You scared me.”

  “Sorry. I was just about to knock.”

  “Can I help you?”

  “I hope so. I’m looking for someone who used to live here. Denny Granger?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know him.”

  “He lived here about eight, nine years ago.”

  “Yeah, I’ve only been here for three months.”

  “You live here alone?”

  She scoffed, “I wish,” and smiled. “I have three roommates. Nobody who’s been here that long though.”

  “What about the owner?”

  “Of the house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Um...I don’t think so. He bought the place couple years ago after it foreclosed.”

  “I see.” I took a look at the house. “Well, I’m sorry to bother you. Thanks.”

  “Uh-huh.” She wriggled her nose like Samantha from Bewitched and locked the door and set off on her jog while I got back in the Beemer and headed back to West Hollywood.

  Moving through the green light half a block away from the Chuckle Hut, I raised my head just in time to notice the black sedan in the oncoming lane. It was driven by a middle aged man with curly brown hair, wearing large sunglasses and a tie-dye button-up. My memory started buzzing and I recognized him from the hotel. James Lawson. Except his face had taken the business side of a few bony knuckles, like he’d been mugged or something. He didn’t see me as he passed. I turned and looked after him long enough to notice the car he was driving had California plates, but didn’t harp on it too long.

  The same giggling girl was at the same box office wearing the same ear buds and texting on the same phone. I said, “Hello again,” and she didn’t look up, as usual.

  “It’s nice to see you again.” Nothing. I thought maybe a few hard raps on the window might jolt her to attention. And it did. I banged on the window which caused a sound like small thunder. She hurriedly removed her ear buds.

  “What?” She glared.

  “Remember me?” I asked.

  “No. What do you want?”

  “Slavas in?”

  “Not until eleven.”

  “Mind if I go back and wait? He’s expecting me.”

  “I’m not allowed to do that.”

  “Please?”

  “No.”

  “Pretty please?”

  An annoyed glare, as if she was trying to shoot me with her eyes. “No.”

  “I’ll just walk around till he gets here then.”

  I stepped away and removed my jacket, slung it over my arm in a casual manner, trying to look like the heat wasn’t getting to me, which it was. Good God, was it hot.

  Twenty minutes to kill, so I pulled out my Blackberry and made a call.

  “Morning, Sweets.” I said.

  “What is it, Marshall?” Charlotte said. Something about her tone of voice when she was angry really turned me on, which tortured me because she only had that tone when the last thing on her mind was sex.

  “I like your voice.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Let’s talk about this.”

  “We have talked about it, Marshall. We’ve had this conversation over and over and over again and nothing ever changes.”

  “So you’re just going to stay mad at me forever?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Char, come on. Meet me somewhere and we’ll talk about this.”

  “You’re not going to sweet talk your way out of this again.”

  “I’m not trying to. I really want to work this out. No tricks, no sweet talk.”

  “What does that mean?”

  I wasn’t exactly sure, but I tried to sound cognizant of what was coming out of my mouth.

  “Let me meet you somewhere.”

  There was mostly silence for a moment, but I could hear her thinking, mumbling to herself.

  She sighed. “Come to the house.”

  “The house?”

  “I took a personal day. I’m going to lunch with my sister. Come over after then.”

  “When?”

  “Three o’clock.”

  “I�
��ll be there. I promise.”

  “Bye.” And she hung up. Three o’clock. Remember that, Marshall. Three o’clock.

  After strolling around the block a few times, I went back. It was probably about ten after by now. The box office girl said Slavas hadn’t come in. I told her to call his office. She did and no one answered.

  “Just let me in. This is business.”