“That’s not possible—”

“Make it possible.”

A stretch on hold was rendered less endurable by brain-stabbing techno music featuring the same two bars beaten senseless.

The snotty-voiced man came back on. “He is creating a mussels soufflé, it’s fragile, he can’t be interrupted.”

“How about his life? That fragile, too?”

Noise in the background. A beat. “Did you say something, sir?”

“Never mind.”

“I gave him your message, sir. He didn’t care.”

Milo stared at his phone.

I said, “There’s survival, then there’s mussels soufflé.”

He broke into laughter, was still convulsing as he collected his gun, keys, radio.

I said, “Where to?”

“Moron doesn’t deserve it but c’mon.”

CHAPTER

40

We drove past the restaurant, cruised neighboring streets looking for J. J. Williams’s Dodge van, the Lexus registered to Meredith Santos, a gray Corolla tagged 77S XXXX, owner unknown.

During the fourth circuit, Frank Gonzales checked in again and cleared up one third of the vehicular mystery.

“Toyota just came in stolen. Woman parked it near a seafood place on the Ventura harbor. She went in for takeout, left the keys.”

“Again with cuisine,” said Milo. “Ever have mussels soufflé, Frank?”

“Sounds gross,” said Gonzales. “Top of that, I got a shellfish allergy.”

“So Williams switched cars but no sign of his van.”

“Not yet, Ventura PD’s checking the harbor, asking around at the tourist shops. They’ve got whale-watching going on, maybe the bastard hopped on a boat and jumped off somewhere, good riddance.”

“God forbid, Captain Ahab.”

“No, I’m Ishmael,” said Gonzales. “The good guy.”

I circled three more times. Satisfied that none of the vehicles was parked nearby, Milo had me pull over a block north of Melrose.

He unlatched his seat belt. “Okay, National Geographic fans, time to explore the world of lusty gustation.”

I said, “Maybe I should go in alone?”

“Why?”

“Williams saw both of us but I might be able to slip in easier, avoid attracting too much attention.”

“You think Williams could be in there?”

“Just covering bases.”

“Why would you have it easier?”

“I don’t look like a cop.”

He scanned my clothes. Black turtleneck, jeans, brown deck shoes. He was wearing a gray suit that had long surrendered to gravity, a wash ’n wear shirt that could’ve been off-white or just overlaundered, and a skinny tie made of something.

“What, I can’t pass as a hipster gourmet?”

“Place like that,” I said, “it isn’t about the food.”

“What’s it about?”

“I’m not sure.”

He thought for a while. “Okay, but don’t stay in long, keep your phone on with my cell on the screen. Let me know if you see anything remotely interesting.”

I stepped into a room full of noise and aroma. Squarely in the lunch hour, the restaurant’s waiting area was jammed with skinny people craving small plates at big prices.