“There’s another video by Brenae,” I said, and told her about my conversation with Ray, and finding After-Parties, and the footage of Nelson and Calvin leaving a party together. “Zania de Wilde told me that her father knew James Compton. If Ray has disappeared, is that enough evidence to follow up?”

“You’re sure it’s Nelson and Calvin in the video.”

“Positive.”

“I’d like a copy of that video,” she said. “As soon as possible. Where are you?”

I told her.

“Wait there. I’ll get there as soon as I can,” she said.

“That’s great,” I said. “Thank you.”

“You let me know if you hear from Ray, okay?” the detective said. “And just stay put.”

She hung up. I wedged my phone into my jeans.

“What’s up?” said Yegina.

“Some developments with one of Hal’s students. And Ray’s missing. Maybe,” I said. “Or maybe he’s just being Ray.”

I told her that Detective Ruiz wanted to pick me up.

“Really?” Yegina sounded disappointed.

“It won’t be for a while. Let’s have fun now,” I urged her. I turned and started walking in the direction of the bar, which was a half-dozen black scalloped awnings down the block, glowing with studded-leather lights. “You got a great parking spot,” I said, feeling like part of me had been swept high above, ripped and tossed by a rising storm, while below my normal bantering self carried on with her normal evening. “Next Friday night you wouldn’t get within two miles of here.”

“What was the bit about James somebody?” said Yegina, following me.

“Some investigating I did about Ray’s brother,” I said. “It’s probably not credible, though.”

“You’re starting to talk like them,” said Yegina. Her wing gently poked my shoulder.

“Not for long,” I said.

We threaded through other pedestrians, mostly groups of wealthy older women, and men in jeans and crisply ironed button-downs or tight T-shirts. They all smiled at Yegina and slid their eyes over me.

“Hey—weren’t you going to ditch the cloak?” she said. “It looks itchy.”

“I need the sackcloth tonight,” I said. “I need to stay awake.”

THE BAR WAS CALLED CAMDEN, and like many L.A. tribute venues, it was the embodiment of esque. The violent, chaotic joy of British punk had been massaged to a design theme here—rather than a dirty grotto with bad lights and cheap beer, Camden flattered its patrons with well-placed luster, each lamp circled in a studded leather shade, mahogany walls wearing discreet bands of red and blue. Black-and-white photos of snarling bands were labeled with cheerful handwritten comments, and the drink menu opened with a silver zipper. Dee started apologizing for the place as soon as we spotted her, her hair deranged to spikes and her eyes inked with sharp corners. She looked slightly more gorgeous than insane. A typical Dee appearance.