We walked along the little studio back streets and people stopped what they were doing and looked at him. They saw celebrities every day, so they wouldn’t look at Mel Gibson or Harrison Ford or Jane Fonda, but they looked at Peter Alan Nelsen, and Peter seemed to enjoy it. He stood tall and when he spoke he made broad, exaggerated gestures as if what was happening had been scripted and he was acting the scene and the lookers were his audience. Maybe the lookers thought so, too. Maybe, since Peter was the King of Adventure, they figured that a Stearman biplane would suddenly appear and begin a strafing run. Maybe they thought a Lamborghini Contach driven by Daryl Hannah would suddenly screech around the corner, chased by psychopaths in souped-up Fords, and Peter would have to save the day and it would really be something to see. If Daryl Hannah was driving the Contach, Peter would have to move pretty fast. I was planning to get there first.

I said, “Okay. Do you have any idea where Karen might be living?”

“No.”

“You think she’s still here in Los Angeles?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did she ever talk about someplace in particular, like, ‘I’d really like to live in Palmdale one day,’ or, ‘Los Angeles is the greatest city in the world. I’ll never leave it,’ something like that?”

“I never thought about living anyplace else.”

“Not you. Her.”

“I don’t know.”

“Did she have any friends?”

He pressed his lips together and made a shrug. “Yeah. I guess so.” Thinking harder. Then, “I dunno. I was sort of into my own thing.” Embarrassed that he didn’t have an answer.

I looked at Pat Kyle.

Pat said, “Where was she born, Peter?”

“Someplace in Arizona or New Mexico. Phoenix, maybe.” He frowned. “We never talked about stuff like that.”

“Okay.”

“Why don’t you ask me something I know?”

“Okay. What do you know?”

He thought for a while. “About Karen?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know.”

I said, “How did you meet? Did she belong to any clubs or organizations? Did she have brothers or sisters or aunts or uncles or cousins or grandparents?” I figured if I listed enough stuff I would get lucky somewhere.

He said, “I’ve got an older sister. She’s married to a fat guy lives in Cleveland.” Everything was I.

“Great. But that’s about you. What about Karen?”

“Oh.” Oh. Then, “I think she was an only child. I think her people were dead.”

“But you don’t know.”

“They were dead.” We walked along a little more, thinking about it. He said, “Maybe she was from Colorado.”