Nope, I never delivered to him. I know him from the register, but he hasn't been down in a while. Ivy came for his things.

Cass laughed.

Oh, that chick!

I said, A girl named Ivy picked up his groceries?

He'd phone the order, and she'd pick it up. He had to stop driving.

Cass was making a big loopy grin.

Charles was so totally into that chick.

Charles flushed.

Stop it, dude. Discretion.

Who's Ivy?

Cass touched the midpoint of her left forearm.

She had a broken heart here on her arm. The wreckage of Charles's love.

Dude!

Cass was pleased with Charles's mortification and crossed her arms smugly.

She lived up there in the big redwood house. A total hippie throwback to the commune age.

Charles shot a sulky glance at Cass.

It's not a commune. Dude rents out his rooms, is all. Ivy crashed there for a few weeks.

Cass mouthed her words with exaggerated volume.

Not long enough to drop her shorts.

Phil laughed and went back to his tuna.

The big redwood house was next door to Tina Isbecki. I had been there less than an hour ago and spoken with a bald man named Lloyd and a woman named Jan who identified herself as a screenwriter. Neither had known anything about Lionel Byrd, and no one named Ivy was present.

I was just up there talking to Lloyd. Ivy doesn't live with them anymore?

Uh-uh. She went home.

Great. The only person I'd found who had any contact with Byrd had ridden the tornado back to Oz.

Because of what happened?

She left before the fires. She only had the room while her real place was being repaired. They found mold in her bathroom.

Charles suddenly looked alarmed.

Hey, he didn't kill her, did he? Is she dead?

No, it's nothing like that, but I'd like to speak with her. You know how to reach her?

Cass made swoony eyes.

Ooohhh, yeeaaahhh.

Then she mouthed, Stalker.

Charles couldn't give me Ivy Casik's phone or address, but he knew how to find her apartment. Ivy's car had died in the parking lot, and Charles had given her a lift to pick up cash for the repair. He had brought her to an apartment in Hollywood.

I copied the directions, thanked them for the help, then went out to my car.

When I reached the parking lot, a stocky kid in a Foo Fighters T-shirt and black wraparounds was peering at the interior. You drive a '66 Corvette, you get that. He saw me coming, and stepped away.

Nice ride. Want to sell it?

No, thanks.

Too bad. I could rock a car like this.

He lit a cigarette, then drifted away to a blue Mustang. He stared at my car as he smoked. Vehicle envy.

I headed back to Sunset, then followed Charles's directions east into Hollywood. Things were looking up. I had a real, live lead who might even be able to provide something useful. Of course, the odds she knew anything useful were probably along the lines of getting brained by a meteor, but you take your hope where you find it.