“Ugly duckling?” he said. “Every gorgeous girl says that...what that Jewish lady said, the lifestyle issue, maybe she had a point.”

“Michaela got caught up in the Hollywood thing.”

“You know what that does to the ninety-nine-point-nine percent who fall on their asses. The question is, did it snag her or was it just one of those bad-luck deals.”

“Like running into Peaty.”

He ate the last bit of pie, wiped his mouth, put way too much money on the table, and extricated himself from the booth. “Back to the salt mine. Lots of boring stuff to do.”

Boring was his code word for I need to be alone. I drove him to the station and went home.

That evening Michaela’s murder was the lead story on every local broadcast, blow-dried news readers half smiling as they intoned about the “shocking crime” and exhumed mock-solemn memories of Michaela and Dylan’s “publicity stunt.”

Dylan was cited as “a person of interest, not a suspect.” The implication was clear, as it always is when the police phrase it that way. I knew Milo hadn’t given them the quote. Probably some public relations officer, issuing yet another boilerplate release.

Next morning’s paper ran a page-three story with five times the ink space the hoax had merited, graced by two pictures of Michaela: a sultry, airbrushed head-shot taken by a photographer who churned them out for Hollywood hopefuls, and her LAPD booking photo. I wondered if either or both would resurface in the tabloids or on the Internet.

One way to get famous is to die the wrong way.

I didn’t hear from Milo that day, figured the tips would be pouring in and he’d either learn a lot or nothing. I filled my time polishing up reports, thought about getting a dog, took a new referral from an attorney named Erica Weiss.

Weiss had filed suit against a Santa Monica psychologist named Patrick Hauser for molesting three female patients who’d attended his encounter groups. Chances were it would settle and there’d be no court appearance. I negotiated a high hourly fee and felt pretty good about the deal.

I looked up Hauser’s office address. Santa Monica and Seventh. Allison also practiced in Santa Monica, a few miles away on Montana. I wondered if she knew Hauser, thought about calling her. Figured she might see it as an excuse to get in touch and decided against it.

At a quarter to six, when she was likely to be between patients, I changed my mind. Her private line was still on speed dial.

“Hi, it’s me.”

“Hi,” she said. “How’ve you been?”

“Fine. You?”

“Fine...I was about to say, ‘How’ve you been, handsome.’ Got to watch those little slips.”

“All compliments will be received with gratitude, oh Gorgeous One.”

“Listen to this smarmy mutual admiration society.”

“If I’m lyin’, I’m flyin’.”

Silence.