They were driving north on the 5 with Griffith Park on their left—an inky vast track of foliage and trees donated to L.A. as recompense after Colonel Griffin shot his wife. God only knew what was kind of animals were hiding in the dark—four-legged as well as two-legged. They had managed to avoid most of the evening commuter traffic. Nighttime fog was settling in as they hit the higher elevations going over the hill and back down into the Valley.

Marge said, “Call up Sela Graydon. Find out if she can get through to Crystal.”

“Sure.” Oliver paused. “What do you think about Mandy Kowalski going AWOL?”

“From what we’ve been told, the girl is as reliable as sunrise and suddenly she’s not answering any of her phones. What do you want to do if she doesn’t answer her door?”

“What time is it?”

“Eight-thirty.”

“Do we know if she has any friends or relatives that might have a key?”

“She didn’t seem to have much in the way of a social life,” Oliver said.

“I’m getting a weird feeling about it. She may have heard one too many confessions, know what I’m saying? Do you know what kind of car she drives? I’d like to see if it’s in the condo parking lot. And if it’s there and she’s not answering her bell, we could justify coming into her place without her permission.”

“I’ll call up the DMV. Do you want me to do it before or after I call up Sela Graydon?”

“Get the car info first. That’s an easy fix.”

Oliver talked to the DMV as Marge made a descent into the Valley, going parallel to the cement bed of the L.A. River. At this time of night, it was a dark abyss on her right. She passed the exit for the L.A. Zoo merging onto the 134 West, ripping past Forest Lawn Cemetery.

“It’s a 2003 Toyota Corolla, black.” Oliver recited the license plate number. “Do you have Sela Graydon’s phone number?”

“Not on me.”

Oliver made a second call and within minutes had the digits he needed. When he called it, she didn’t pick up. He left his phone number. He regarded Marge, who appeared deep in thought. “What’s on your mind?”

She paused. “I was just thinking.”

“That’s always dangerous.”

“Remember when we were talking to Yvette Jackson, the waitress? I asked her if she knew anyone named Farley. And then I said it might have been Charley?”

“Yeah, she didn’t know either one of them.”

“I gave myself an idea. Maybe it was Charley…as in Chuck Tinsley.” When he didn’t answer, she said, “Yes, no, maybe?”

“Interesting,” Oliver said. “The Loo told us to interview him again. Let’s do it.”

“Why don’t we get a picture of Tinsley, put it in a six-pack, and show it to Yvette Jackson?”