Another cabinet, another printout. “Nope, no Lauren Teague. Doesn't look as if she's working here, Dr. Delaware. You're sure the study was in psychology? Some of the other departments have behavioral science grants— sociology, biology?”

“I assumed psychology, but you could be right,” I said.

“Let me call over to the administration building, see what the central employee files turn up.” Glance at the wall clock. “Maybe I can catch someone.”

“I really appreciate this, Mary Lou.”

“Don't even think about it,” she said, as she dialed. “I'm a mom.”

* * *

No job listing anywhere on campus. Mary Lou looked embarrassed— an honest person confronting a lie.

“But,” she said, “they do have her enrolled. Junior psych major, transferred from Santa Monica College. Tell you what— I'll pull our copy of her transcript. I can't give you her grades, but I will tell you which professors she took classes from. Maybe they know something.”

“I appreciate it.”

“Hey,” she said, “we're not even close to even in the thank-you department. . . . Okay, here we go: This past quarter she took a full load— four psych courses: Introductory Learning Theory with Professor Hall, Perception with Professor de Maartens, Developmental with Ronninger, Intro Social Psych with Dalby.”

“Gene Dalby?”

“Uh-huh.”

“We were classmates,” I said. “Didn't know he switched from clinical practice to teaching Social.”

“He came on full-time a couple of years ago. Good guy, one of the less pompous ones. Even though he drives a Jag.” Her eyes rounded and she pretended to slap her wrist. “Forget I said that.” She began to return the transcript to the drawer.

“Lauren told her mother she got straight A's.”

“Like I said, Dr. Delaware, grades are confidential.” Her eyes dropped to the paper. Tiny smile. “But if I was her mother I'd be proud. Smart girl like that, I'm sure there's an explanation. Here, let me write those professors’ names down for you. Ronninger's on sabbatical, but the others are teaching all year. By this time I doubt they're in, but good luck.”

“Thanks. You'd make a good detective.”

“Me?” she said. “Never. I don't like surprises.”

* * *

She locked up, and I walked her through the lobby, both our footsteps echoing on black terrazzo. When she was gone I strode back to the elevators and read the directory. Simon de Maartens's office was on the fifth floor, Stephen Z. Hall's and Gene R. Dalby's on the sixth.

I pushed the button and waited and thought about Lauren's lie to Andrew Salander. No research job. Probably covering for her real employment. Stripping, hooking, both. Resuming her old ways. Or she'd never stopped.

Runway modeling. Another lie? Or maybe gigs at the Fashion Mart were just another way to cash in on her looks.

Smart kid, but enrollment in college and good grades weren't contradictory to plying the flesh trade. Back when Lauren had worked for Gretchen Stengel, the Westside Madam had employed several college girls. Beautiful young women making easy money— big money. Someone able to compartmentalize and rationalize would find the logic unassailable: Why give up five-hundred-dollar tricks for a six-buck-an-hour part-time bottle-washing gig without benefits?