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Marcy said, 'Philip Marlowe.'

Lyle looked confused and twisted to look at her again. I guess she'd said her bit and he hadn't expected her to speak again. 'What was that, Marce?'

'Raymond Chandler created Philip Marlowe.'

Lyle laughed again, but this time the laugh was strained. Guess you weren't supposed to correct the anchor while you were on the air. He twisted back to the camera and said, 'Well, it looks as if Los Angeles has found its very own Sherlock Homes, and, unfortunately, that's all the time we have for this segment.' Lyle Stodge offered his hand to me, and we shook as if he had just awarded me the Congressional Medal of Honor. 'Mr Cole, it's been my privilege to meet you. Congratulations, and thank you for taking the time to talk with us.'

'Thanks, Lyle. It's been personal.'

The floor director raised both hands. 'In promo. We're clear.'

Lyle Stodge glared at Marcy Bernside. 'You fucking cunt! Don't you ever do that to me again on air!'

Marcy Bernside gave him the finger again. 'It's Holmes, moron. Sherlock Holmes. With an L.'

'Oh, yeah, right. Sure.'

Kara Sykes undipped my lapel mike and helped me off the set. No one gave me a second glance.

We followed Kara Sykes back to the lobby, then left the building and walked to the car. Lucy hugged my arm. 'That was almost as much fun as Beverly Hills.'

'Un.'

She stepped back and looked at me. She cocked her head. 'Are you okay, Studly?'

I said, 'Luce?'

'Mm?'

'If Truly wants me to do another of these, I'm going to shoot him to death. Will you represent me?'

She smiled sweetly. 'Oh, you know that I will, hon. You shoot him all you like.'

Thanks, Luce.'

CHAPTER 17

Lucy, Ben, and I spent the next two days seeing Disneyland and Malibu and the Griffith Observatory. We saw Ronald Colman's house. We shopped in Beverly Hills. I called Jonathan's office twice each day, asking to speak with either Jonathan or Truly, but neither was ever available. Busy, they said. In meetings. No one returned my calls.

I stayed away from my office because of the press. The answering machine was flooded with so many interview requests that I deleted them without playing them. The eat-me lady called back twice.

Elliot Truly's assistant phoned to arrange three more television interviews and two appearances on local talk radio. It's important to Jonathan, she said. We need our side of it known, she said. I asked her about Pritzik and Richards. I said that I wanted to know what was going on. She said that she would talk to Jonathan and get back to me. She didn't.

News reports questioning LAPD's investigative techniques appeared with greater frequency. A summer marine layer moved in, filling the morning sky with an oppressive layer of dark clouds. Sometimes they burned off by noon, but not always.

On the morning of the third day, Peter Alan Nelsen took Ben to spend the day on the set of his new movie and Lucy was dressing for her second meeting when the phone rang and Elliot Truly said, 'We're meeting with Teddy Martin at ten this morning in the Men's Central Jail.

Teddy wants to meet you, and Jonathan would like you there. Can you make it?'

I said, 'What in hell is going on, Truly? How come no one returns my calls?'

'You're not the only investigator we have on this, Cole. We've been swamped. Jonathan's working sixteen hours a day.'

'I'm an investigator. I investigate. If you don't want me to investigate anymore, fine.' I was feeling sullen and petulant. Mr Maturity.

Truly said, 'Look, talk about it with Jonathan at the jail. One other thing. Jonathan's having a get-together at his home tonight, people who've been behind Teddy through this thing, some press people, like that. Jonathan personally asked me to invite you. You can bring a date if you want.'

I cupped the phone and looked at Lucy. She was standing in the kitchen, dressed and Guccied and ready for business, eating peach yogurt. 'Would you like to go to a party at Jonathan Green's house tonight?'

Lucy blinked at me and the spoon froze between cup and mouth. 'Are you serious?'

'Truly just asked.'

She shook her head, the spoon forgotten. 'I don't have anything to wear to meet Jonathan Green.'

I uncupped the phone. 'Forget it, Truly. We can't make it.'

The yogurt cup hit the floor and Lucy grabbed my arm. 'I didn't say that! I'll get something!'

'My mistake, Truly. We'll be there.'

Truly said, 'Great. I'll see you at the jail. Ten o'clock.'

I smiled at Lucy. 'How about that? You'll get to meet Jonathan.'

Her eyes were glazed and distant. 'Ohmigod, what am I going to wear?'

'Wear what you have on. You look great.'

She shook her head. 'You don't understand. I'm going to meet Jonathan Green.'

I said, 'You've got time. Go to your meeting, then go into Beverly Hills. You'll find something.'

Lucy looked miserable. 'I wouldn't know where to go. It could take days.'

'Call Jodi. Jodi can tell you.'

Lucy's eyes widened and she latched onto my arm again. 'That's right. Jodi can save me!' I guess these things are relative.

Lucy set about arranging her salvation, and I drove down to my office. I hadn't been there in three days and wanted to check my mail and return calls. There weren't any news vans parked at the curb. Maybe my fifteen minutes of fame was over. Live in hope.

I locked the door in the outer office, then answered mail. Most of the mail was bills, but even World Famous Private Eyes have to pay their Visa charges. When the bills were done I was getting ready to return calls when the phone rang and I answered, 'Elvis Cole Detective Agency. Please leave a message at the sound of the beep. Beep.' The detective as Natural Born Wit.

There was a pause, and then a muffled woman's voice said, 'You're not a machine.' The eat-me lady.

'Who is this?'

'That weevil-dicked fuck James Lester is fulla shit. You find out about Stuart Langolier in Santa Barbara.' She was speaking through cloth, but I'd heard the voice before.

'El-ay-gee-oh…' Spelling it. 'No, wait… Capital el-ay-en-gee-oh-el-eye-ee-are.'

I said, 'Jonna?'

There was another pause, and then Jonna Lester hung up. I listened to the dial tone for several seconds, then called an investigator friend of mine named Toni Abatemarco who works at a large agency in Santa Barbara. Toni had worked as an investigator since the day she was old enough to get the license, and had hammered out twelve-hour days for years, building her small agency into one of Santa Barbara 's finest. Then she met a guy, fell head over heels, and decided that she wanted a small herd of children. She sold the small agency to a larger outfit, had four little girls, and now worked three days a week for the organization that had bought her. She loved investigating, she loved being a mom, and the little girls often accompanied her to the office. They would probably grow up to be investigators, also.

I gave Toni the name, asked her to see what she could find, and then I went to jail.

The Men's Central Jail is an anonymous building behind Central Station, less than ten minutes from the Criminal Courts Building in downtown L.A. I parked in a neat, modern underground parking structure, then walked up steps to a very nice plaza. Nicely dressed people were sipping lattes and strolling about the plaza, and no one seemed to mind that the plaza adjoined a place housing felons and gangbangers and the wild men of an otherwise civil society. Perhaps because this is L.A. and the jail is so nice. There's a fountain in the plaza, and it's very nice, too.

Truly was waiting for me in the jail lobby. 'Jonathan and the others are in with Teddy. Come on. I've checked us in.'