“The way men think. As if our going through some stress together would be putting me through it. I'm worried about you, but I'm glad to be here with you—to be part of it. Putting me through it means something totally different.”

“Such as?”

“Constantly diminishing me—condescending to me, dismissing my opinions. Anything that would make me question my worth. Do those kinds of things to a woman and she may stay with you, but she'll never think the same of you.”

“Oh.”

“Oh,” she said, laughing and hugging me. “Pretty profound, huh? Are you mad at me for not wanting to go to Ojai?”

“No, just disappointed.”

“You go anyway. Promise to be careful?”

“I promise.”

“Good,” she said. “That's important.”

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER

18

We had dinner at an Indian place near Beverly Hills' eastern border with L.A., washing the meal down with clove tea and driving home feeling good. Robin went to run a bath and I phoned Milo at home and told him about Jean's call.

“She has something to tell me but wouldn't elaborate over the phone—sounded nervous. My guess is she found something about Hewitt that scares her. I'm meeting her at one, and I'll ask her about Gritz. When were you planning to see Ralph Paprock?”

“Right around then.”

“Care to make it earlier?”

“Dealership won't be open. I suppose we could catch him just as he comes in.”

“I'll pick you up.”

Sunday morning I drove to West Hollywood. Milo's and Rick's place was a small, perfectly kept Spanish house at the end of one of those short, obscure streets that hide in the grotesque shadow of the Design Center's blue-green mass. Cedars-Sinai was within walking distance. Sometimes Rick jogged to work. Today, he hadn't: the white Porsche was gone.

Milo was waiting outside. The small front lawn had been replaced by ground cover and the flowers were blooming bright orange.

He saw me looking at it and said, “Drought resistant,” as he got into the car. “That “environmental designer' I told you about. Guy would upholster the world in cactus if he could.”

I took Laurel Canyon up into the Valley, passing stilt-box houses and postmodern cabins, the decaying Palladian estate where Houdini had done tricks for Jean Harlow. A governor had once lived right around there. None of the magic had rubbed off.

At Ventura, I turned left and traveled two miles to Valley Vista Cadillac. The showroom was fronted by twenty-foot slabs of plate glass and bordered by a huge outdoor lot. Banners were strung on high-tension wire. The lights were off, but morning sun managed to get in and bounce off the sparkling bodies of brand-new coupes and sedans. The cars out on the lot were blinding.