“Alas, I don’t know,” Catling said. “Which is one of the reasons I am willing to pay so handsomely.” He crushed out his cigarette in an armrest ashtray and pulled a large manila envelope from the leather portfolio that still rode atop his knees. He unbent the envelope’s clasp and pulled out some eight-by-ten photographs. He held them out to Keegan.

Keegan hesitated. Nothing about this situation felt right.

“Please, Mr. Keegan,” Catling said. “I only ask that you look at them. You may refuse to help me if you wish.”

Keegan reached for the photographs. There were three eight-by-tens: black-and-white close-ups of the same young woman’s face. Keegan recognized the flat, grainy distortion of a long telephoto lens. He’d shot hundreds of photos just like these—parked outside motel rooms and far-flung nightspots—with the pricey Nikon he kept locked in his office.

In the photos, the woman’s dark, curly hair was cut short—stylishly, Keegan guessed. Her face was lean and angular. The photos seemed to have been taken on the same day: she wore the same pearl earrings and scalloped lace collar. They were cropped close. Only her face showed, not her surroundings or her companions, if there were any. In the last photograph, her head was bent down a little. A shadow, slanted across her shoulder, suggested someone had been sitting across from her.

The woman was primly pretty, Keegan thought—a Vanessa Redgrave type. Her eyes glistened as though she’d finished a good cry and was vulnerable and unguarded in its aftermath. She seemed completely unaware of the photographer, and Keegan felt the guilty twinge of a voyeur just holding the photos. He never felt quite clean looking through the viewfinder, but it was part of the job.

He sat back in his seat. “What do you want with her?”

“I’m afraid you will have to refrain from questions,” Catling said. He nodded at the plump envelope beside Keegan. “You will be paid amply to keep your curiosity in check.”

Keegan looked down at the top photo again. He tilted it to catch the gray daylight filtering in through the tinted window. How old was the girl? Certainly not much over thirty, maybe younger. He thought suddenly—and for no worldly reason he could name—of Marilyn Monroe’s bright face as she turned and vanished through the back door of the Formosa Café. Some unspeakable emotion stirred in him. “What can you tell me about her?”

“Only that she’s somewhere in Los Angeles,” Catling said. “At least, that is what my sources suggest.” Catling crossed his legs the other way and leaned forward a little over the folio in his lap. “She had an association with a gentleman in whom I had an interest.”

“Had?”

“That particular gentleman is deceased.”

Of course, he was. Keegan sighed and looked down at the photo again. “And if I don’t take the job?” he asked.