It was a beautiful name, sycamore. This city was full of beautiful names. Pacific Palisades. Mar Vista. I remember how La Cienega had run through me like a voltage whenever I’d said it aloud, my tongue sparking on the consonants and vowels. I thought cienega must mean something grand and otherworldly like “castle” or “star.” I found out that it translates from Spanish as “swamp,” and that was even more wonderful, in a way, envisioning a wet, murky, secretive place in this arid basin. I knew I couldn’t save anyone. Brenae’s death could not be undone. But I could keep searching for the truth. I filled three pages of my notebook with my impressions of the day. Then I rolled down my windows, heard helicopters in the distance, and tasted the west wind. Clear, sweet. I rolled the window up again.

19

EVEN THE WATER IN NELSON de Wilde’s curving pool felt enhanced by wealth: silky, prickly, and a little more buoyant. “It’s salt water,” Zania said when I asked. Then she dived under in her lovely, superbly impractical maroon velvet suit and swam for the other end, emerging by the tiled wall.

Nelson’s house was a glassy, wood-paneled modernist shoebox with a second-floor expansion. The pool looked crammed into the lot, undersized, a pool-ette, but every feature—the intricate tile, the shape, even the ceramic ladders—looked expensive. Where had the money for this extravagance come from?

Pearson was inside, changing clothes. It appeared to be a lengthy process for him. Erik appeared in his swim trunks, bare-chested, staggering, cheeks blotchy. He was holding a large bottle of bourbon by the neck, the brown liquid sloshing. “Your dad has such a killer wine cellar,” he told Zania. “It’s earthquake central here, and he’s got a wine cellar. That’s values.”

Zania looked at him blankly.

“I love your dad,” he said. “When’s he coming?”

“Sometime after ten,” she said. “He’s got an opening to go to.”

Erik swayed from foot to foot, contemplating the pool. “He thinks I’m full of shit, and I respect that,” he said. “I’m not the artist. I’m the craftsman.”

“You’re more than that,” Zania said with a note of passion in her voice. “We all are.”

“Where’s Layla?” he asked. “She keeps disappearing on me.”

“Kitchen,” said Zania. “She’s ordering food.”

Erik rubbed his face with his arm and took a swig.

“She’s in the kitchen,” repeated Zania.

“You’re here to celebrate, aren’t you?” Erik slurred at me. “This isn’t going to be much of a fucking party if no one is celebrating.”

Layla called Erik’s name. “Come help me order.”