From Wikipedia

Lullaby Town is a 1992 detective novel by Robert Crais. It is the third in a series of linked novels centering on the private investigator Elvis Cole. It was nominated for both the Anthony Award and the Shamus Award. Read more - Shopping-Enabled Wikipedia on Amazon

From Kirkus Reviews

Lullaby Town is Chelam, Connecticut, where L.A. shamus Elvis Cole (The Monkey's Raincoat, 1987--not reviewed) goes in search of Karen Shipley, divorced ten years earlier by boyish filmmaker Peter Alan Nelsen, who's since developed deep pockets (courtesy of a string of action hits beginning with Chainsaw) and a conscience of sorts. Just when it looks like Elvis has found Karen and her son, Toby, all too easily, Karen turns out to be laundering money for the Mafia, and the story takes off like a two-stage rocket. It'll take all of Elvis's wise-guy savvy to pry Karen loose from those other wise-guys without condemning her to the witness-protection program or the East River. Elvis is as sharp as a West Coast Spenser, but without Spenser's nasty/noble attitudinizing--and this story is pure pleasure from the very first page. -- Copyright ©1992, Kirkus Associates, LP. All rights reserved.

From Wikipedia

Lullaby Town is a 1992 detective novel by Robert Crais. It is the third in a series of linked novels centering on the private investigator Elvis Cole. It was nominated for both the Anthony Award and the Shamus Award. Read more - Shopping-Enabled Wikipedia on Amazon

From Kirkus Reviews

Lullaby Town is Chelam, Connecticut, where L.A. shamus Elvis Cole (The Monkey's Raincoat, 1987--not reviewed) goes in search of Karen Shipley, divorced ten years earlier by boyish filmmaker Peter Alan Nelsen, who's since developed deep pockets (courtesy of a string of action hits beginning with Chainsaw) and a conscience of sorts. Just when it looks like Elvis has found Karen and her son, Toby, all too easily, Karen turns out to be laundering money for the Mafia, and the story takes off like a two-stage rocket. It'll take all of Elvis's wise-guy savvy to pry Karen loose from those other wise-guys without condemning her to the witness-protection program or the East River. Elvis is as sharp as a West Coast Spenser, but without Spenser's nasty/noble attitudinizing--and this story is pure pleasure from the very first page. -- Copyright ©1992, Kirkus Associates, LP. All rights reserved.

PRAISE FOR ROBERT CRAIS
AND THE ELVIS COLE NOVELS

“The dialogue’s clever, and the action’s lean and pictorial, with gunshots pinging like mad pinballs.”

—Voice Literary Supplement

“Cole delivers the goods in the kind of bravura performance only a pro can give.”

—Kirkus Reviews

“This novel shows why the Elvis Cole series has become one of crime fiction’s best.”

—Detroit Free Press

“Sue Grafton’s Kinsey Milhone has become a fixture in the genre [and] Robert Crais’s Elvis Cole ought to become one, too. Cole is fast replacing Spenser as the best of the intelligent but sensitive tough guys.”

—Detroit Free Press

“Elvis Cole is lean, mean and completely lovable.”

—People

“Crais … flips a quick, cutting wit at Hollywood hucksters, and shows a keen ear for their inane industry prattle.”

—The New York Times Book Review

“The ghostly influence is Robert B. Parker, including the wisecracks and the incessant attention to food.… But once Crais gets past the mandatory wise-mouthing and sets his story in motion, forget influences; he is his own man.”

—Los Angeles Times Book Review

“Cole noshes like Spenser … and he views the world through the same darkly moral shades as Marlowe and Archer.”

—Chicago Tribune

“Elvis is the greatest.… [He’s] perhaps the best detective to come along since Travis McGee.”

—San Diego Tribune

“Crais is in a class by himself—he is quite simply the best.”

—Eric Van Lustbader

ACCLAIM FOR ROBERT CRAIS’S

AWARD-WINNING FIRST ELVIS COLE NOVEL

THE MONKEY’S RAINCOAT
WINNER OF THE ANTHONY AND
MACAVITY AWARDS FOR BEST NOVEL;
NOMINATED FOR THE EDGAR AND
SHAMUS AWARDS FOR BEST NOVEL

“Far and away the most satisfying private eye novel in years. Grab this one—it’s a winner!”

—Lawrence Block

“Cole is simply the most mesmerizing new P.I. in years.”

—Booklist

“In Crais, a new star has appeared on the private eye scene—a dazzling first novel.”

—Tony Hillerman

Other Books by This Author

By Robert Crais

*THE MONKEY’S RAINCOAT

*STALKING THE ANGEL

*FREE FALL

*LULLABY TOWN

VOODOO RIVER

SUNSET EXPRESS

L.A. REQUIEM

HOSTAGE

DEMOLITION ANGEL

THE LAST DETECTIVE

* Available from Bantam Books

Title Page

LULLABY TOWN
A Bantam Book/

PUBLISHING HISTORY
Bantam hardcover edition published April 1992
Bantam paperback edition / June 1993

Grateful acknowledgment is made for permission to reprint lyrics from “Karn Evil 9, First Impression Part 2” by Emerson Lake & Palmer. Reprinted by permission of Leadchoice Limited.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 91-36185.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
For information address: Bantam Books.

eISBN: 978-0-307-78993-8

Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, New York, New York.

v3.1

Dedication

Dedicated with love
and respect to
my mother,
Evelyn Carrie Crais,
who saved me from the monsters.

Epigraph

There’s a quaint little place they call Lullaby Town—It’s just back of those hills where the sunsets go down. Its streets are of silver, its buildings of gold, And its palaces dazzling things to behold.

There’s a peddler who carries, strapped high on his back, A bundle. Now, guess what he has in that pack. No, he’s not peddling jams nor delectable creams. Would you know what he’s selling? Just wonderful dreams!

—from Lullaby Town*
by John Irving Diller

Welcome back, my friends, to the show that never ends. We’re so glad you could attend. Come inside! Come inside!

—Emerson, Lake, & Palmer

*published in The Best Loved Poems of the American People selected by
Hazel Felleman,
Doubleday and Company, 1936, p. 399.

Contents

Contents

Cover

Other Books by This Author

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

Chapter Thirty-eight

Chapter Thirty-nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-one

About the Author

Chapter One

One

Patricia Kyle said, “Is this Elvis Cole, the world’s greatest detective?”

“Yes, it is.” I was lying on the leather couch across from my desk, enjoying the view that I have of the Channel Islands. I used to have chairs, but a couch is much better to relieve one of the rigors of world-class detecting.

She said, “Were you sleeping?”

I gave her miffed. “I never sleep. I’m waiting for Cindy to come out onto the balcony next door.” The glass doors leading out to my little balcony were open to catch the breeze that was blowing up Santa Monica Boulevard into West Los Angeles. It was a nice breeze, cool and smelling of salt and sea birds. The open doors were also better to let me hear Cindy.

“Who’s Cindy?”

I switched the phone from the left ear to the right. The left ear was still sore from having been hit hard two times by a Cajun with large forearms and no teeth. “Cindy is a beauty supply distributor who took the office space next door.”

Pat Kyle said, “Hmm. I’ll bet I know what she distributes.”

“Your callousness and insensitivity are unbecoming. She is a very nice woman with a ready laugh.”

“Unh-hunh. I know what’s ready.”

“The private-detecting life is a lonely one. After cleaning the guns and oiling the blackjack, what’s a guy to do?”

“You could have lunch with me at Lucy’s El Adobe Café across from Paramount.”

I said, “Cindy who?”

Pat Kyle laughed. It was clear and without apology, the way a laugh should be. Pat Kyle is forty-four years old and five feet four, with curly auburn hair and good bones and an athlete’s build. When we met six years ago, she looked like the Graf Zeppelin and was having trouble getting out of a bad marriage. I helped. Now she ran four fast miles every day, had her own casting agency, and was engaged to a dentist from Pasadena. Maybe one day I’d learn to like him. She said, “I’m casting a film for Kapstone Pictures and a director named Peter Alan Nelsen. Do you know who he is?”

“He makes action pictures.”

“That’s right. With great success. Time magazine called him the King of Adventure.”

“They called him a few other things, too.” Arrogant, demanding, brilliant. I had read the article.

“Yes. There is that.” You could hear something behind her. Voices, maybe. “Peter has a problem and I mentioned your name. The Kapstone people want to talk with you.”

“Okay.” I swung up into a sitting position and put my feet on the floor. The detective, ready for action.

“When Peter was in film school, he broke up with his wife just after they had their only child. A boy. Peter hasn’t seen or heard from his former wife or their son since, and he wants to find them. I told him that finding people is one of your best things. Are you interested?”

“It’s what I do.”

“Kapstone has offices at Paramount. I’ll leave a pass at the main gate for you to see Donnie Brewster. Donnie’s the head of production.” Donnie. A twelve-year-old running a film company. “Can you be here in about twenty minutes?”

“Let me check my calendar.”

She said, “Ha. What calendar?”

“Callous. You dames are callous.”

She made the nice laugh again and hung up.

I pushed up off the couch and thought about Kapstone Pictures and Peter Alan Nelsen. The Big Time. I was wearing a white Mickey Mouse sweatshirt with a mustard spot high on the right shoulder. Mickey would be okay, but the mustard spot was definitely unacceptable. Did I have time to race home for the tux? I looked at the Pinocchio clock. Unh-unh. I took off the Mickey and put on a yellow-and-white Hawaiian beachcomber’s shirt, a Dan Wesson .38 caliber revolver, and a light blue waiter’s jacket. Dress for success. I began to hum. There’s no business like show business. I turned on the answering machine and listened to the same message I’d been running for two months. “Elvis Cole Detective Agency, we’re cheap.” Maybe it was time for a change. You work for a major film company, you need something a bit more show business. Elvis Cole Detective Agency: There are no small cases, only small detectives—hire the biggest dick in the business! I decided to leave well enough alone.

I walked the four flights down to the parking garage, got my car, and drove east along Santa Monica Boulevard through the belly of Hollywood. It was October, and the air was cool. I’ve got a 1966 Corvette convertible, but it wasn’t so cool that I had to put up the top. It rarely was. Global warming. With the end of summer, the cars from Utah and Michigan and Delaware were gone, but the cars from Canada were arriving. Snowbirds, come down to beat the cold. At a red light on Santa Monica and La Brea I pulled up next to a maroon Buick sedan from Alberta with a very short man and a very short woman in the front seat and two very short children in the rear. The man was driving and looked confused. I gave them a big smile and a wave and said, “Welcome to Los Angeles.” The woman rolled up her window and locked the door.

I stayed on Santa Monica to Gower, then turned right and followed Gower down past the Hollywood Cemetery to Paramount.

Paramount Studios is an Olympian structure on the corner of Melrose and Gower with a beige stucco siege wall running around its perimeter. The wall is very high, with a heaviness and permanence that has kept Paramount in business long after most of the other original Hollywood studios have gone. In a neighborhood marked by poverty and litter and street crime, it is free from graffiti. Maybe if you got too near the wall, thugs in chain mail poured boiling oil on you from the parapets.

I rounded the corner at Melrose and tooled up to the guard at Paramount’s front gate. “Elvis Cole to see Donnie Brewster.”

The guard looked in a little file. “You the singer?”

I shook my head. “Elvis Presley died in 1978.”

The guard found a yellow slip, stuck it to my window with a piece of tape. “Not the King. That other guy. With the glasses.”

“Elvis Costello. No. I’m not him, either.”

The guard shook his head sadly. “Christ, I remember a time, you said ‘Elvis’ there was only one.”

Probably just promoted from parapet duty.

Donnie Brewster was in a two-story earth-colored adobe building with a red tile roof and bird of paradise plants the size of dinosaurs. A receptionist led me to a secretary who showed me into a dark-paneled conference room. In the conference room were Patricia Kyle and a man in his late thirties with a sharply receding hairline and an eight-hundred-dollar sport coat that fit him like a wet tent. What hair he had left was pulled back tight into a short ponytail. Style.

Pat Kyle stood up and smiled and gave me a kiss. She’d been working on her tan since I’d last seen her and it looked good. “Elvis Cole, this is Donnie Brewster. Donnie, Elvis Cole.”

Donnie Brewster gave me a moist hand and looked nervous. “Christ, where were you? I thought you’d never get here.”

“The pleasure is all mine.”

Donnie gave me everyone’s-out-to-get-me eyes and glanced at Pat Kyle. “She warned me you thought you were a riot. What you’ve gotta understand is that this isn’t funny.” He held up three fingers. “There’s Spielberg, then Lucas, who doesn’t direct anymore, then Peter Alan Nelsen. Peter’s grosses total one point two billion worldwide over six pictures. He’s the third most successful director in the history of film, and he knows it.”

“Hard to keep it a secret from him.”

Donnie rubbed his hand over his scalp and tugged at his ponytail. When he rubbed, he rubbed hard. Maybe that’s why his hairline was receding. He said, “Peter’s gifted and brilliant. Gifted and brilliant people are sometimes difficult and have to be handled carefully.” I think he was saying it as much to himself as he was to me. He looked at Pat Kyle. “Did you tell him what this is about?”

“Yes.” Pat repeated what she had told me.

Donnie nodded and looked back at me. “That’s about it. We need someone who can find the ex and the kid and not waste a lot of time doing it.”

“Okay.”

He sat in one of the swivel chairs, leaned back, and gave me the appraisal look. Getting down to the business of hiring a private eye. “You charge by the hour or the day?”

“I get a flat fee. In advance.”

“How much?”

“Four thousand, plus expenses. The expenses I bill later.”

“That’s absurd. We couldn’t pay four thousand in advance.”

“How about six thousand?”

He tapped on the table and gave me his best business-affairs frown. “You give it back if you don’t find what you’re looking for?”

“No.”

More tapping. Convincing himself. “I had our lawyers call around. They spoke to a guy in the D.A.’s office and a policeman named Ito. They say you’re pretty good at this sort of thing. How many cases like this have you handled?”

“Maybe three hundred.”

“Unh-hunh. And how many times out of that three hundred did you find the person you were looking for?”

“Maybe two ninety-eight.”

Donnie raised his eyebrows and looked impressed. Maybe he was feeling better about the four grand. “Okay. We get you going on this, how long is it going to take to find them?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, can’t you give me some sort of ballpark?”

I spread my hands. “If she’s living in Encino and telling her friends that she used to be married to Peter Alan Nelsen, maybe I find her tomorrow. If she’s changed her name five times and working as a missionary in the Amazon, it takes longer.”

“Jesus Christ.”

I made a little shrug and smiled. Mr. Confident & Assured. “It’s rarely that bad. People usually don’t change their names five times and move to the Amazon. People use credit cards, and credit histories list prior residences, and people own cars and driver’s licenses and social security numbers, and any of these things are ideal for tracing someone.”

He didn’t seem bolstered by my assuredness. He rubbed at his hair again and got up and paced. “Peter is three weeks away from making a film, and he has to start this crap about finding his family. Christ, he hasn’t seen the woman in over ten years. You’d think he could wait until the picture was finished.”

“Insensitive of him.”

Donnie crossed his arms and kept pacing. “Hey, I know what that sounds like, but you’ve got to understand. We’ve got forty million dollars committed to Peter’s film. I’ve already spent eighteen mil. I’ve got sets and soundstage rent. I’ve got stars with play-or-pay deals and a crew I’ll have to carry. If Peter is distracted, we could run over budget into the tens of millions. We could end up with another Heaven’s Gate. I could lose my ass.”

Maybe I’d be nervous, too. “Okay. Then maybe it makes sense to wait until the picture is finished before we get started. The ex-wife will still be wherever she is. I’ll still be around. Call me then.”

Donnie rolled his eyes and stopped the pacing and dropped into another chair. “Did you see Chainsaw?”

“Yes.”

“Chainsaw was Peter’s first picture. He made it for something like four hundred thousand. It grossed four hundred million and overnight Peter Alan Nelsen went from parking cars to being Hollywood’s new Wunderkind. Every picture he’s made has grossed a fortune. Every studio in town wants Peter Alan Nelsen’s next picture. The biggest actors in the business suck around him for a role and Oscar-winning screenwriters pimp their mothers for a shot at a development deal. You hear what I’m saying?”

“You’re saying that Peter gets what Peter wants.”

“Abso-fucking-lutely. Peter being happy is the most important thing there is. Peter wants to find these people, and we want Peter happy, so we’re gonna hire somebody.”

I said, “Make Peter happy.”

“Abso-fucking-lutely.” Donnie slapped his palms down on the table and stood. “I like you. I like you fine. Peter knows about you, and wants to meet you, so all we have to do now is go over and see him. If Peter’s happy, you’re hired.”

“Making Peter happy is the most important thing.”

“Right.” Donnie Brewster lowered his voice, like maybe someone else might hear, and leaned toward me. Conspiratorial. “Tell you the truth, I don’t give a rat’s ass if you find his ex or not. But if it makes Peter happy to have someone looking, then we’ll have someone looking.”

Mr. Sincerity.

He made a little let’s-go gesture and started for the door. “We’ll go over to meet him now. Whatever Peter says, just nod and say sure. Whatever he wants, say no problem. He asks how long, say a couple of weeks, max.”

“Make Peter happy.”

“Yeah. Peter being happy is all that matters.”

I looked at Pat Kyle, and then I looked back at Donnie Brewster and shook my head. “You’re asking me to lie to a client. I won’t do that. You’re also asking me to mislead him. I won’t do that, either.”

Donnie stopped with his hand on the knob and looked horrified. “Hey. Hey, I’m not asking you to do any of that. I love Peter Alan Nelsen like a brother.” He made a nervous glance out the door. Never know who might be listening. “I’m just saying agree with the guy, that’s all, and we’ll work out reality later.”

“No.”

“No? What does that mean, no?” He ran back into the room and spread his hands. “You can’t say no to Peter Alan Nelsen!”

“I’m not saying no to Peter Alan Nelsen. I’m saying no to you.”

Confused. “Hey, you want Peter happy, don’t you? Peter’s not happy, you won’t get hired. You know what a job like this could mean?”

“Ulcers?”

Donnie spread his hands even wider and gave incredulous, like how could I miss it? “You work for Peter Alan Nelsen, you get on the A list. You get on the A list, you’ll be working for the biggest names in the business. You might even get written up in People magazine.”

I said, “Wow.”

Donnie raised his hands to the ceiling and looked at Pat Kyle. Her face was red and she was making a choking sound. He said, “What kind of guy is this? What kind of guy did you bring me?”

She turned up her palms. “Someone with principles?”

Donnie began rubbing at his head again and tugging at his ponytail. He rubbed so hard that I thought I saw hair fall, but that might’ve been my imagination. He said, “This isn’t going to work. Peter isn’t going to go for this.”

Pat said, “Peter and I spoke about Elvis at length. He sounded agreeable to me.”

Donnie gestured at me. “But this guy’s saying he won’t play along. You know how Peter is. He can be a monster.” He made the nervous glance again, checking the door and the windows for ears. “Hey, I love him like a brother.”

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