“Why not?”

“If she call anyone, she call Beth.”

We walked her back to the front of the store. Before we reached the door, Milo said, “Did Kat ever talk about someone who owned really expensive cars — like a Ferrari, a Rolls-Royce — a Bentley.”

“She talk about a Bentley, but not a rich guy.”

“Who?”

“Some guy she used to date. Big loser, dirty hands.”

“A mechanic.”

“Greased-monkey she call him.” Rianna Ijanovic laughed.

“What’s funny?” said Milo.

“Greasy little monkey.” Her hands climbed the air in front of her. “It sound funny.”

“What’s this grease-monkey’s name?”

“Maybe… Clyde? I don’t know for sure.”

“Clyde what?”

“Clyde Greased-monkey.” Laughing louder, she swung the door open and hurried back to the world of cover-up.

I drove out of the Barneys lot and Milo worked the phone. “Clyde the Bentley boy, shouldn’t be a feat of detection.”

He started with the main dealership on the Westside. O’Malley Premium Motors was on the east end of Beverly Hills but the service facility was on Pico, in Santa Monica.

Minutes from the Light My Fire.

Milo called, asked for Clyde, said, “Yeah, that’s him — is he in? Thanks. No, not necessary.”

Click.

“Not Clyde, Clive. Probably a chips and ale and darts kinda guy. And tinkering with high-priced British metal as we speak.”

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER
10

O’Malley Premium Motors Service and Maintenance was a gray wedge of front office glued onto a taller brick garage. A few nondescript cars were parked in the employee lot, soaking up sun and pollution. Off to the left in a covered Customers Only! area sat a few million bucks’ worth of status symbol.

Milo said, “Pull in next to that blue Rolls.”

“Don’t I need to be preapproved?”

He slapped the Seville’s vinyl dash. “How many miles on this masterpiece?”

“Sixty thou on the second engine.”

“Endurance beats flash anytime, son. You are officially a classic.”

The waiting area was a sliver of space facing an empty coffeemaker. No chairs, no reading material, no one waiting. Behind a glass partition, a black woman wearing reading glasses moved columns of numbers around a computer screen.

Milo rapped on the glass. The partition slid open. “How can I help you?”

He introduced himself and asked for Clive.

“Clive Hatfield? Why?”

“We’d just like to talk to him.”

She pushed a button on an intercom. “Clive to front desk. Front desk for Clive.”

Milo said, “Not too many customers today.”

“We call them clients,” she said. “They rarely come here.”

“Pickup and delivery?”

“Those people expect it. We used to do it free. Now we charge a hundred dollars a trip and no one complains.”

“The age of lowered expectations.”

“Pardon?”

“The cost of gas, huh?”

“That’s what the bosses say.”

“Who does the pickup and delivery?”

“The same guys who detail the cars.”

“Not the mechanics?”

“With what they get paid? I don’t think so.”

“Skilled job.”