“Then what’s the big deal?” I asked. “There must be thousands of old Audis out there.”
“Yeah,” Bailey said. “But I wrote down the license and registration of Lilah’s car.” She pulled her notebook out of her jacket pocket, flipped to the page, and handed it to me. “Check it out.”
I looked at the numbers written in her notebook, then pulled out the report. Then went back to the notebook again.
The license and registration for both cars was just one number off. It could’ve been a coincidence. The hairs on the back of my neck told me it wasn’t.
“What happened to Lilah’s car?” I asked.
“I just got the report back,” Bailey said. “According to the DMV records, a guy named Conrad Bagram reported it stolen-”
“Stolen?” I sat up.
“Yep.”
“So he bought the car from Lilah, and then it was stolen?” I asked.
“He had it on consignment,” Bailey replied. “Bagram owns a gas station and body shop on Sunset Boulevard near Highland and sells cars on the side. The ‘King of Sunset.’”
“When’d the King report it stolen?”
“Two days after Alicia Morris reported her car stolen,” Bailey said.
“So Alicia Morris doesn’t want the cops to know her address or phone number,” I said.
“But she does want them to know her car was stolen,” Bailey replied.
I frowned. “So the car exists, but Alicia Morris doesn’t?” I wondered.
66
We let the possibility sink in for several moments.
“The similarity between Alicia’s car and Lilah’s is beyond chance,” I said. “Let’s work with the hypothesis that Alicia Morris may be Lilah’s alias.” When we’d started the search for Alicia, I’d been feeling tired and flat. But now the possibility that I was about to enter Lilah’s world had energized me.
Bailey looked at her watch. “Six thirty,” she said. “Probably too late to pay Bagram a visit.”
We were on a roll and I didn’t want to call it a day, so I considered what else we could do tonight. I checked the report-and smiled. “Seems the car was stolen near La Poubelle. Alicia said it’d been parked on the block behind the restaurant.”
Bailey read my mind. “Gee, what a bummer. We’re going to have to check out La Poubelle.” She pulled away from the curb and headed for Sunset Boulevard.
“You cops are always leading us hardworking deputies astray,” I said.
“You can watch me while I eat,” Bailey suggested. “Save your sterling reputation. But you better give your security detail a call, so they can watch you watching me eat.”
I pulled out my cell and arranged for them to meet us at the restaurant.
Traffic was heavy, and even though we were just a few miles away, it was seven o’clock by the time we got there.
La Poubelle was in the middle of a block of very hip, funky stores and restaurants that were big on character-and characters-and low on fancy. A few doors down from La Poubelle was a place called Birds that served up barbecue and had a human-size birdcage where people who got drunk enough to make it seem like a good idea could dance.
The bar at La Poubelle was already doing a brisk business, and customers stood three deep as the bartenders rushed to fill orders. I took a few moments to let my eyes adjust to the dim light so I could get to a table without doing the lambada with strangers. We slowly inched our way into the dining area in the back. The restaurant catered to a late-night crowd, so there were still a few empty tables to be found.
Our waiter sauntered over with a desultory air that told me our service tonight was not a given. His hair, dyed completely white, sloped straight up on one side and dipped precariously over the other to cover his left eye, which was adorned with the longest fake lashes I’d ever seen. His spandex capris were bright pink, which went brilliantly with his silver-sequined V-necked shirt.
“What are we in the mood for ce soir?” he asked in a bored voice.
He looked around the room, and I knew we’d lose him midsentence if we didn’t make it snappy. I gave my drink order so fast it came out as one word.
“A Ketel One martini, straight up, very dry, very cold, olives on the side.”
He inhaled, looked down his nose at me, and turned to Bailey. “And you?”
“The same.”
Our waiter wandered off. I had no faith that he was going to place our orders, so I watched to see where whim would take him. He glided slowly through the tables, but eventually I could see he was headed for the bar. Victory was mine. Sort of: there was no guaranteeing he’d take as direct a route back to our table.
“You got the photographs?” Bailey asked.
I patted my oversize purse. “Want to start with the manager?”
“Probably should,” Bailey replied. She stood up. “I’ll go find him.”
Five minutes later, she returned to the table with a handsome man in his forties, wearing jeans, expensive leather loafers, and a shirt opened down to his sternum, very European-looking. Bailey made the introductions, and then I started to pull out Lilah’s photograph.
He put his hand on my arm. “I have to tell you that I’m not the best person to ask. When I’m here, I’m usually in my office or in the kitchen, so…”
He had a French accent, but it wasn’t overpowering. Just sexy as hell.
“Got it,” I said, then showed him the photograph.
His eyes got 50 percent wider, and he whistled softly. “I’d surely remember a woman like that,” he said. “But”-he shrugged-“I’m sorry, I do not recall ever seeing her here.” He took another long look at the photograph. “I must say, I wish I had.”
“No problem,” I said. “Can you tell me who was working here about four years ago?”
The manager frowned and stared at the table, then looked toward the bar. “The bartenders, I don’t think so. But you can certainly ask. And maybe Jessie.” He gestured to a slender waitress in black tights and a long, clingy sweater. “I think Chris, for sure-”
“Chris?” I asked.
At just that moment, our waiter appeared with our drinks. I suspected the speed of service had something to do with the fact that we were sitting with the manager. But that’s just me, ever the cynic.
The manager stood and gestured to our waiter. Voilà. “Chris,” he said, “these ladies have some questions for you.”
The manager bowed gracefully. “Let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you,” he said.
I took a moment to enjoy the view as he left the table, then got back down to business.
“Chris, I want to-,” I began.
“Oh no, you don’t,” he said, holding up a hand. “I didn’t see a thing.”
“You don’t know what we’re going to ask.”
“Exactly,” he said, staring at me to make his point.
“I just want to know whether you recognize the person in this photograph,” I said, pulling out the picture of Lilah.
Chris gave an exaggerated sigh and dipped his neck, swanlike, to look. After a few moments, a little smile spread across his face.
“Why yes, I believe I do,” he said, his voice mildly surprised. “I think she was here a few times.”
“Recently?” I asked.
“Mmm, no,” he said. “A while ago.”
“Could it have been around four years ago?” I asked, holding my breath.
“Four years ago?” Chris put a finger to his cheek and tilted his head. “That would’ve been my first year here.” He held his tray against one hip and thought a moment more. “Yes, I believe that is when I saw her.”
I couldn’t take the chance that he might waver after calmer reflection. “Are you sure?”
“Oh my, but yes.” He tapped the photograph. “Not a face you see every day. Or forget once you do.”
67
“Thank you so much, Chris,” I said.