I thought about her earlier dinner invitation and my clumsy decline. If we had stood there a few seconds longer, maybe I would have reciprocated the invitation for later, but Jeanne—and the moment—was already gone.

And I had an interview to do.

A blue Suburban, right?

Chapter 65

Chapter 65

IT WASN’T THE FOOT-LONG SERPENTINE tattoos up and down both of Bettina Rodgers’s arms, or the half-dozen piercings on her face that made me doubt what she had just told me. Actually, Bettina was as good a witness as you get. It was more the fact that eyewitness accounts are notoriously sketchy and unreliable. FBI research has shown them to hover around 50-percent accuracy, even just a few minutes after an incident—and this was at least two hours later.

That said, Bettina’s confidence in what she had seen was unwavering.

“I was in the parking lot, starting my car,” she told me for the third time. “And the Suburban tore out behind me, over that way, toward Santa Monica Boulevard. I turned around to look ’cause it was going so fast.

“I know for sure it was dark blue, and I know it was a Suburban ’cause my mom used to have one. I’ve ridden in it a million times. I remember thinking it was kind of funny, ’cause it was like my mom was driving crazy like that.”

She paused. “The Suburban took a sharp left out of the parking lot. That’s all I know. Can I fucking go now?”

That was about as much as Jeanne Galletta had gotten out of her, but I pressed on with a few more questions of my own.

“Any markings on the car?” I asked. “Bumper stickers, dents, anything at all?”

She shrugged. “I mostly just saw it from the side, and like I said—it flew by super fast. For a Suburban. I didn’t see the license plate or anything.”

“How about the driver? Anything you noticed? Was there anyone else in the car? More than one person?”

She fiddled absently with one of the thick silver rings in her eyebrow while she thought about that. Her makeup was heavy and mostly black, except for the pale white cast of her face powder. I didn’t know too much about Bettina, but she put me in mind of the urban vampire culture I’d investigated a few years back on a case. One thing I’d learned then was how sharp some of these people were despite the goth-slacker stereotype.

Finally, Bettina shook her head. “I want to say it was a woman, ’cause that would make sense, right? I mean, Jesus shit, we’re talking about that fucked-up Hollywood Stalker wench, aren’t we? Don’t bother to lie, I know it’s her. One of the other cops told me already.”