It was just after four when they pulled up outside Kitty’s apartment. The street moved lazily in the early morning gloom: palm fronds nodding, a gender-fluid pride flag saluting from a fifth-floor balcony. The chauffeur opened the rear door. Johan got out. He offered his hand to Kitty and she took it.

“I’ll call,” he said.

“You’ve got my number.”

She stepped past him and started up the steps to her apartment. When she reached the top, Johan called out:

“Can I trust you, Kitty?”

She stopped, looked over her shoulder. It was too dark to read her eyes. “You can trust me.”

Johan watched from the sidewalk until she was inside her apartment building, then got back into the limo and went home.

He waited three days—just long enough for her to wonder if she’d been cast aside—then texted:

have 2 deliver a script 2 casey cookmans assistant in w hollywood. U wanna do it???

It didn’t take Kitty long to respond.

7
No Crime Without a Body

Floyd Tallent’s funeral service was held at Inglewood Park Cemetery. It was a sweet and soulful affair, comprised of family and friends. Luke was there with Kitty, and he was grateful for her presence. She wore an off-shoulder black dress and her hair was braided, coiled at the back, which opened her face magnificently. Luke wore an old suit with a belt that he had to punch a new hole in—he really needed to put on some weight—and a yellow tie that Val Kilmer had given him one Christmas.

“You might want to walk ahead,” Luke had said to Kitty when they arrived, pointing out a small group of photographers that had assembled outside the chapel. “Being seen with me would not be good for your burgeoning career.”

“I came here to support you, Luke,” Kitty had responded, and had looped her arm through his. “And that’s what I’m going to do.”

Floyd’s great-niece sang Otis Redding’s “Pain in My Heart” with a second cousin accompanying on guitar. Every note rang hauntingly throughout the chapel, punctuated by sobs and snivels—Luke’s among them. There followed a gospel rendition of “The Old Rugged Cross,” then a reading from Thessalonians.

The pallbearers carried Floyd’s casket to a hearse lined with white roses. A winding train of mourners then proceeded to a plot in the northeast of the cemetery grounds, where Floyd was laid to rest within singing distance of his old friend Ray Charles.

Floyd had four ex-wives and no regrets. One of these exes—Doris, with a voice that could crack stone—invited everybody back to her house for a drink in Floyd’s memory. “We’ll play his music. We’ll cut some rug.”

“Sounds more like a party than just one drink,” Kitty observed quietly.

“Yeah,” Luke agreed, loosening his tie. “Won’t end till late, probably with the LAPD banging on the door.”