ASIDE FROM BEING orange and meaty pink everywhere I looked, Angry Elephant was pretty disappointing. Nothing like the studios in Hollywood. Not even like Pear Magic. It was a crackerbox of a building, tucked back in a neighborhood with no personality. Nothing at all that said movies.

I’d grabbed a file folder from the backseat. Inside were the clippings from Dad’s closet, which I had taken before leaving for Vegas, along with photos of Luna. We went inside, where two women sat, side by side, behind a tiny desk. They were gazing at a computer screen and laughing, like they were watching something funny online. They both looked up when we walked in.

“Hi,” one of them said. “Can I help you?”

I had rehearsed what I was going to say about a billion times between Brentwood and here, and also in my hotel room last night and this morning. Still, my mind went blank for a second. The woman shifted her gaze from me to Chris, her smile fading a little.

Chris cleared his throat. He dipped into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet, then opened it and showed it to the women.

“I’m Detective Chris Martinez. I’m wondering if I can ask you a few questions.”

One of the ladies placed her hand on her chest, a worried look overtaking her. “Oh, I don’t know if we should—”

Chris held out a hand to silence her. “Nobody’s in trouble,” he said. “We’re just trying to find someone. Have you heard of Luna Fairchild?”

The two women looked at each other questioningly, and then shook their heads in unison.

“What about Jetta? Is Jetta here?” I asked, finally finding my voice.

“Jetta?” one of the ladies repeated. The nameplate on the desk read Barb Jones.

“I was told Jetta was working here.”

“Never heard of anyone named Jetta,” the other woman said. She had scooted her chair back over behind a second desk. The nameplate on that one read Deb Thurston. She tapped a few keys on her keyboard, then shook her head again. “No, there’s no record of a Jetta ever working here.”

This time Chris and I exchanged glances. Blue had been wrong. “Is the owner here, by any chance?” Chris asked.

Barb’s eyes lit up. Finally a question she could answer. “Mr. Weers? No, I’m afraid he’s out for the day. On location.”

On location, meaning spying on me at the Luxor? I wanted to ask. Instead, I opened my file and pulled out the article and pointed to the photo. “This is him, though, right?”

Barb leaned over the photo, her brow creased as she studied it. She shook her head as she gently took it from me and passed it to Deb. “No, that’s not him. Mr. Weers is completely bald. And much shorter than this man.”

Strike two.