He threw cash on the table. The woman in the sari rushed over and tried to return the money. “For your commission!”

“Give it to charity,” he said.

“What charity, Lieutenant?”

“Something kind and gentle.”

“Like you.”

He stomped out of the restaurant.

The woman said, “Such a wonderful man!”

One of the cops called out, “Pardon, could we have some more of that spinach?”

CHAPTER
31

As we drove to the south end of Beverly Hills, I thought of something. “Sommers said Wedd avoided conversation. How’d he know Wedd was an Industry guy?”

“Let’s find out.”

Sommers answered his phone. “He used to get Variety delivered.”

“Used to?”

“Haven’t seen it for a while. Also the way he walked was a tip-off. Full of himself. Like ‘I’m a dude who knows people.’ He do something bad to those girls?”

“No evidence of that, Robert.”

“Meaning maybe he did,” said Sommers. “Okay, if he shows up I’ll let you know.”

Gold Standard’s address matched a two-story building clad with salmon-colored granite. Quick ’n Easy Postal and Packaging took up the street-level space. The female clerk working the counter was young and cute with doe eyes and a fox-face. Her hair was a red tsunami. Sleeve tattoos and a steel stud jutting from her chin said pain wasn’t an issue for her. Neither was discretion.

Milo said, “Where can I find the people who rent Box Three Thirty-Five?”

“Go outside and up the stairs.”

I’d been wrong about a mail drop. Was glad to be humbled.

“If their office is right here why do they need you?”

The clerk said, “Hmm. ’Cause I’m cute?”

He squinted to read her name tag. “Well, sure, I can see that, Cheyenne. Is there any other reason?”

She twirled the chin stud. It caught for an instant, made her wince, finally rotated. “The building owner doesn’t provide mail slots for the tenants.”

“How come?”

“ ’Cause that was the deal in order for us to move in. It worked, most of them rent from us. Are those guys in trouble or something? ’Cause they don’t seem like the type.”

“What type is that?” said Milo.

“They’re kinda … like old?” She inspected us. “I mean serious old.”

“Grandma and Grandpa.”

“Not like my Gram-peeps. They don’t have a clue.”

“These guys do.”

“These guys are like cool dressers. In an old way.”

“These fashion plates have a name?”

“Plates?” she said.

“What are their names, Cheyenne?”

A fingernail pinged the stud. A speck of blood seeped from between steel and skin. A tiny red bubble formed. She flicked it away. “They are in trouble? Wow.”

“Not at all, Cheyenne. We just need to talk to them.”

“Oh. They’re Daisy and Jack. She used to act on TV and he was like a musician.”

“They told you that.”

“Yeah, but it’s true, I saw her acting.”

“Where?”