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Parting the drapes an inch, Grace watched Henke drive away in a white Taurus, then returned to the therapy room. The space felt different, no longer trustworthy, as if a security code had been breached.

In a sense, it had: This was the first time she’d sat behind her desk, backed by her diplomas and certificates, and been treated as anything other than an expert.

More than that: She had no idea if the meeting with Henke had freed her of this... this... mess. Did the detective still consider her “of interest”?

Had she made matters worse? Planned vacation but no plans? Objectively, it sounded odd. How could anyone, let alone a cop, understand the way she lived?

The big risk was Henke somehow finding out that a dark-haired man wearing tweed and khakis had left the Opus lounge arm in arm with a slim, chestnut-haired woman.

Remote probability, but not zero. Because lacking a real lead, someone like Henke — probably competent but not brilliant, choosing police work in the first place because she liked structure — could be counted on to develop tunnel vision and keep poking at what she had.

One positive: The details of what had taken place in the parking lot would never come to light.

Unless Andrew had told someone...

No reason to think he had, but if Henke somehow managed to connect him to the hotel — face flashed on the news, a newspaper article with accompanying photo — Grace had to face the possibility that someone — Chicklet, another drinker — could cause problems.

The mere fact that Grace had failed to mention the previous meeting would be damning.

Worst-case scenario: a Kafkaesque nightmare.

Best case: career damage.

Had she been overly confident?

Grace felt her gut begin to knot up again. Early-warning sign, like a prodrome before a seizure. She deep-breathed, ran through two circuits of muscle relaxation exercises, achieved mild parasympathetic stimulation, at best.

Forget all that mind-body crap. Keep the brain busy.

Focus.

Two cups of strong tea and the activity it took to brew them helped. So did imagining herself restored to expert status. Sitting in this chair behind this desk in this room.

Her room.

Her world: helping others.

One stupid mistake shouldn’t disrupt that.

So think. How to minimize risk?

She washed her teacup, returned to her desk, closed her eyes, and created a mental list of strategies.

Dismissing all but one. The only plan that made sense was steering Henke away from the Opus with an alternative: Andrew’s actual lodgings.

And for that, microanalyzing Andrew’s behavior might be the key.

He hadn’t stayed at the Opus but he had chosen it for bar snacks and a cocktail. Because his accommodations lacked atmosphere? Perks?

Was his own place limited to cheap booze from a coin-op mini-bar?

Or maybe he was staying somewhere perfectly nice and just felt like a change of scenery.

Either way, the weather had been mild and a young, healthy male from out of town, possibly just off the plane, might crave a pleasant walk.

Then again, he’d been knifed to death downtown. Did that mean his hotel room was in that area?

A cross-city slog didn’t make sense if you were trying to mellow out. So maybe the poor guy had been driven there and dispatched precisely to hinder identification.

His murderer not counting on a card in a shoe.

Why had Andrew done that?

Seeking out Grace’s help but knowing it was dangerous?

She cast that aside and concentrated on the immediate task: find out where and start by keeping it local.

Using the Opus as a hub, she fanned outward and searched for other seats of hospitality. The Internet yielded a list of candidates within four miles of the hotel. The yellow pages filled in missing establishments and soon Grace had compiled a handwritten alphabetic list, pushing aside a flood of intrusive what-ifs.

What if there was no hotel and he’d bunked down with a friend or relative?

What if the pleasant-stroll hypothesis was bunk and he wasn’t weary from air travel because he lived right here in L.A.?

Atoner.

Roger. To Grace’s Helen.

She’d called herself that because a patient by that name was the last person she’d spoken to before embarking. At the time, a cute little in-joke. Now it seemed tawdry. What if Andrew had employed a similar ruse? Something that might help identify him.

Could he have been that devious? Grace’s bullshit detector was exquisitely tuned but he hadn’t set it off. Was she slipping? Or would Andrew turn out to simply be a decent man seeking help?

Murderer’s son/brother/cousin inspired by the tale of a murderer’s daughter.

No sense wondering. She had a job to do.

Using the same airhead persona she’d presented to the Opus clerk, she began calling.

The Alastair, a “six-star guesthouse” on Burton Way, was fronted by a warm-voiced man. Regretfully, that establishment hadn’t accommodated Andrew Toner nor anyone named Roger.

Same for the Beverly Carlton, the Beverly Carlyle, the Beverly Dumont, and fourteen other establishments.

But eighty minutes later, a man with a middle European accent at the St. Germain on the 400 block of North Maple Drive laughed unpleasantly.

“Funny you should ask, miss. Your Mr. Toner paid for two days then asked for a third day. When the maid went to clean his room this morning, he was gone, along with his belongings. We accepted cash as a courtesy. Where might we find him, miss?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

“Hmph. Well, if you see him, let him know this is wrong.”

Leaving the Aston in the garage and opting for the Toyota because conspicuous was the last thing she wanted to be, she drove south on Doheny Drive.

Maple between Civic Center and Alden was inaccessible from the north due to a long-dormant fenced-off area deeded to the Southern Pacific Railroad. Entry from Third Street to the south led Grace to a dark, quiet neighborhood zoned residential on the west side but hosting massive office buildings across the street.

Not where you’d expect a hotel and nothing looked like a hotel but the rationale hit her: close to her office. An easy walk if you knew how to sidle along the railyard and emerge at the psychotic interchange linking Melrose Avenue and Santa Monica Boulevard.

GPS could turn anyone into a navigator.

Grace cruised up the block, found the address painted on the curb, double-checked her notes to confirm. Driving on, she U-turned and came back, positioning herself across the street and up a bit.

The building was a Georgian Revival from the twenties, just another two-story apartment structure on a block filled with similar, nothing identifying a commercial enterprise. Whiskey-colored glow from a ground-floor window clarified when Grace parked and had a look from the sidewalk: light leaking through the slightly askew slats of old-fashioned Venetian blinds.

One way in: a dark-painted door, but there had to be a rear exit that led to a garden. An escutcheon-like plaque staked midway along a curving cement walkway was barely decipherable.

The St. Germain

Hanging below that, a smaller sign.

Vacancy

Grace hazarded a couple of steps closer. Over the door:

Reception. Ring In.

Not exactly warm and welcoming, but perfect if you wanted to remain obscure.

The Internet ratings she’d read were mixed: decent, clean lodgings but no restaurant, no lounge, no room service.