Nelson de Wilde. Hearing his name conjured an instant vision of the last time I’d seen him, in the crowd at The Oasis, a silver-headed man with a cunning, youthful expression and a tan so deep it looked like the sun had soaked beyond his skin, into his blood. He was the powerful gallerist who had once represented Kim Lord and had probably let a greedy collector rig her growing reputation. Maybe he was trying to make up for past failures. Maybe Janis had made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.

Now the three of them were watching me, waiting for my response. They wanted me to play gallerina while the students built their director’s show. They wanted me to eavesdrop on twentysomethings while I pretended to call clients and process purchases.

Janis cleared her throat. “May I add one more thing?” she said and named an expensive boutique on the West Side. “You can charge a couple of good suits in my name there. I’ll call them,” she said. “I’ll get you out of your day job, of course. And as I said, you’ll be paid well, by me.”

“There isn’t anyone else who can do this?” I said.

I knew there had to be, and this fact made me more reluctant than anything.

Ray folded one hand over the other, a gesture that reminded me of my father when he was caving in to some irrational request of my mother’s.

Detective Ruiz said, “Assuredly. I’ve personally suggested some other investigators—”

“But I personally don’t trust them,” Janis Rocque broke in. “Maggie knows this world. She’s smart and discreet. She worked for Jay Eastman. Her credentials add up. And we’re out of time. The installation begins tomorrow, and one of the assistants is talking about moving to New York. This may be the last stretch that they’re all together. So are you in?”

“Don’t let her rush you,” said Detective Ruiz. “You can take a few moments.”

Ray said nothing and kept his eyes on the table, his expression blank. I could feel the others watching me, but I studied him anyway, the subtle lines in his forehead, the slight hunch in his shoulders. I remembered him standing against the crumbly wall of The Oasis, gripping my arm. The fear in his face. I’d never seen it before. You don’t know me, though, okay? Something had made him afraid. And deep down I knew: that fear was why Ray was back in L.A.

A shadow fell over me, and Ray raised his head; he was gazing behind me, eyes widening. It was our food—three huge trays of fries and sandwiches and salads riding on the shoulders of three waiters, all of them sweating in the white sunlight.

“Dear God,” said Janis Rocque. “It’s not all supposed to come at once.”