The air carried the faintest tang of the ocean. I pressed my cheek to the window screen, willing myself to focus on what today was really about: interviewing the talented young actress who would play Françoise Gilot. The rest was simply a favor to Janis. When my pulse had settled, I fixed my lips up with a dulled garnet color, grabbed my notes, and headed down the stairs to the carport. Warm morning sun kissed my face and hair. I’d always loved the early hours of the Southern California day. They made me feel ageless and light. When I reached my car, I hesitated. A little stroll might help me now. It was only eight blocks to the gallery, twelve to the coffee shop. A long walk, but there was a breeze. I started striding.

For the first five glorious minutes, I imagined my day as gallerina, as Hollywood interviewer. Then the haze began to burn off, and even behind my sunglasses I could feel the city blocks heating up. Every window glared. I started to sweat and veered off the big boulevard for the smaller streets. Mistake. There was little shade in the manicured neighborhoods. Lawns were dotted with green hedges and dwarf trees. Small white signs indicated vigorous security surveillance. Wealth is here, they announced, as if anyone needed reminding.

Sweat trickled in my eyes. I tripped on a fallen palm frond and tweaked my ankle, staggering. I almost turned around. But no one had seen. No one was walking outside but me, and I ducked my head and kept going.

Several more turns, and I arrived at the main commercial boulevard. The buildings grew spotless windows and cursive signs, showcasing the delights inside, an organic juicery, sushi, New Age books, small-batch ice cream. I’d pass the gallery in three blocks. Two blocks. One. Rush-hour exhaust filled my mouth. There was Hal’s name printed on the glass and, beyond, the unlit emptiness of the white cube. Wait, no. I spotted shadows, then figures. Three of the four young people from the desert were there: the redheaded woman and the two guys. They were already inside, already talking. I sped up, my stomach sinking. I had finally recognized the redhead.

Earlier this year, I’d seen pictures of her online, smiling with her horrible father, the rich, overbearing collector who’d secretly tried to rig Kim Lord’s career and one of Ray’s principal suspects in the violent death of his brother.

She was Layla Goetz-Middleton.

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