A car pulled into the parking lot behind the studio. I dropped the lens cap back into my purse and made for the window to see who it was. Tearing the edge of the protective paper covering away from the window, I peeked out. A furtive white businessman parked his luxury sedan, looked around to see if anyone was watching him and slipped into the oriental massage parlor. Breathing a sigh of relief, I hurried out to my car.

Monica Fullbright had said to meet her at four on Sunset Drive behind Sunset Boulevard and near Vermont. Although it took me a while to find the small street, I didn’t rush; I wanted her to be waiting for me. It was a moderately oppressed neighborhood of stucco bungalows, tiny front yards and cars that needed bodywork. It was a few blocks from Children’s Hospital and a few blocks from the chichi shops on Hillhurst and the trendy nouvelle restaurants that place tiny swirls of pureed raspberry-colored food in the center of your plate and surround it with kiwi slices. I never go to those places. I’m a baroque eater. When I’m going to eat, I want to eat.

I drove around the block another time before I spotted her getting out of an old black Lincoln Continental with a dented grill. She didn’t see me. Monica Fullbright wore a red dress and a pair of black high heels. Around her neck she had the same designer scarf she was wearing the first time I met her. Her hair was badly arranged. From where I was, I could see she looked thrown together and tired. I waited till she stepped away from her car and started to pace the corner. Like a hooker.

I eased my foot off the brake so my car crept toward her.

“Get in.”

Feigning surprise, gripping her purse in her hands, she climbed into the car. Two of her false nails had come off, exposing broken white nails. The smell of her expensive Joy perfume, its dead roses and threatening jasmine, made me feel sick and l didn’t want to look at her.

I made a right, heading north toward the entrance to Griffith Park, but just before hitting Franklin I swung a left across traffic into an alley behind a large and busy restaurant. I pulled the car up behind a trash can and turned off the motor. I didn’t say anything. Staring straight ahead, I watched as a woman came out of the back of a store located farther down the alley to walk her dog. Monica Fullbright fidgeted on the seat next to me.

“I’m scared,” she announced finally.

“You should be.”

“I think I’m in trouble,” Monica Fullbright whined, lighting one of her cigarettes.

I snatched it from her and threw it out the window. “You got a hell of a nerve to come to me now!” I exploded. “You set me up!”