I’d resisted fixing myself up for him, and wore minimal lipstick, a T-shirt, and jeans. Ray slid in next to me, also dressed casually. I tried not to observe the way his bare bicep swelled out his T-shirt sleeve when he switched gears. He didn’t look me over either, except once, to make sure my feet were in before he shut my door. There was some discordant song in another language playing on the stereo, and Ray turned it low.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

Ray named a club in West Hollywood. “Brenae’s brother is in a band. I was hoping we could catch him on a break between sets. He blames LAAC for her death.”

“I’m not participating in this, though.”

“I know.” He sounded guilty or nervous, I wasn’t sure which. “I just need your advice on something.”

I wasn’t sure how giving advice constituted not participating, but I didn’t object to hearing some music. I’d been to the club a few times, for bigger shows. If its fifty years of performances could have been recorded by its wooden walls, it would have been a World Heritage Site for musicologists. Elton John. Joni Mitchell. Guns N’ Roses. Already I could sense its dank, vaulting interior, the glow on the drums, the dark headstones of the amps.

“You doing all right?” Ray said as we nudged east on Venice.

Was I supposed to answer that truthfully or not?

“I’m here,” I said. “Keeping busy.”

He glanced at me. “You were asleep at eight. You’ve got a couch-pillow line on your face.”

“It’s a big couch,” I grumbled. “It takes up half the apartment.”

Ray smiled at this, then shot into a gap. He had impeccable reflexes in traffic. He was also the kind of driver who hawked his mirrors, minding the road behind him as obsessively as the one before, scowling at tailgaters, and flashing his brakes. It amused me to watch him.

“What?” Ray said, looking over.

“Nothing.”

“You know any recent LAAC grads through the Rocque?” he said. “I mean someone who could be discreet.”

“Some,” I said, thinking of several coworkers. “I can give you their names.”

“Much obliged,” he said.

“Was that it?” I said, my hand on the door handle. I obviously wasn’t getting out, but I wanted to give the hint. “The advice you needed?”

“No, it’s not,” he said. The headlights of an oncoming car illuminated his face, and he looked suddenly skinned by the glare: stark and pale.

“What then?” I said.

“There’s something you should know about Janis,” said Ray.

My memory rewound to the meeting at the café, Janis’s hesitation, the drop in her voice, and her and Dee’s sudden, inexplicable absence in Wonder Valley. “Is something wrong with her?”

He glanced over at me, his mouth grim.

It was hard to form the words again. “What’s wrong with her?”