“Damn … or maybe it’s a coincidence and Kleffer’s just hanging with his new flame.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But the interaction I saw was more flirtation than comfortable relationship.”

“So he just met her, is wooing with his cuisine. No sign of Williams?”

“Nope.”

“If Ms. Bosoms is keeping house with Williams, he’s using her as lure to draw out Kleffer.”

“Whatever she’s selling, Kleffer’s buying.”

His lips vibrated like a trumpeter’s. “Okay, let’s find parking across the street—near one of those other restaurants. Somewhere we can keep an eye on that cut between the buildings where Kleffer goes to smoke and wax dramatic.”

Three other eateries with similar clienteles. Every inch of curb the dominion of private valets.

I eased the Seville behind a Bentley coupe that shouldn’t have been painted orange, and cut the engine.

Perfect view of the cut. Milo said, “Now we wait.”

A red-jacket ran over and tried to open the driver’s door I’d kept locked. He squinted. “Ah teck it forrr you.”

High-pitched, eager, Mideast accent.

Milo said, “We’ll just stay here.”

“No, no, rrrestorant awnly.”

“No, no, us.”

“Sirrr—”

“Come closer, my friend.”

“Huh?”

“C’mere.”

No reason for the man to comply but Milo’s curled finger drew him in as if the digit were magnetically charged. Flashing a twenty, Milo unfolded the bill and revealed what he had wrapped underneath.

The valet’s eyes caromed from the cash to the gold shield.

“Huh?”

“This is your lucky day, friend. Money for nothing and we stay here for free.”

The valet blinked. “Det’s a song?”

“No, just reality.”

CHAPTER

41

L.A.’s not known for wearing out shoe leather, especially when the sun shines and sitting around beckons. But the stretch of Melrose where Beppo Bippo and a slew of other eateries sat boasted an intermittent but healthy parade of pedestrians.

Some of the foot-traffic veered to sample Darius Kleffer’s cuisine. Others kept going and made different choices.

The cut between the buildings remained empty. Kleffer back to his knives or still enjoying the company of the woman in the red jersey.

Milo said, “She look like a stripper to you? ’Scuse me, a dancer.”

I drew back in mock outrage. “A girl’s curvy, she can’t be a neurosurgeon?”

“Curvy with tattoos?”

“Actually,” I said. “I gave a lecture to a bunch of med students a couple of months ago. A few had been inked.”

“Changing world.” He yawned. “Not really. Not where it counts.”

The valet he’d paid off took keys from an Audi, sped off, and returned to drop off a Mercedes. A second man joined him at the booth. Heavyset mustachioed Anglo wearing a black sport coat, red slacks and bow tie.

The head valet. Did he get to play with the Lamborghinis?