“Address of Jerry Leventhal’s place.”

Cal narrowed his eyes behind his shades. “And why do we need that?”

“I never got a chance to question him about his visit to Blain in rehab.”

“I thought we agreed to leave this to the police.”

I shook my head. “I agreed to talk to the police. Do you have any idea how many homicides have taken place in L.A. County this year?”

“Two hundred and four.”

I raised an eyebrow his direction. Okay, so he did know. I was impressed. “Right. The police have their hands full. I, on the other hand, have all the time in the world to devote to catching this asshole.”

I turned to find Cal grinning at me.

“What?”

“Remind me never to piss you off.”

“Does that mean we’re going to Leventhal’s?”

Cal flipped a U-ey. “You’re the boss, Bender.”

A mere hour later we’d made our way onto Wilshire, a long street winding through the heart of Beverly Hills and flanked on each side by exclusive boutiques, towering penthouses, and high-rise office buildings that housed the movers and shakers of the big screen world. The Wilshire corridor was about as high dollar as real estate could get. Leventhal’s office was on the sixth floor of a huge glass and chrome building shared with a law firm, a cable network, and about fifteen other talent agents. Leventhal’s office was the last one on the right as we got off the elevators.

A slim, waiflike girl with unnaturally black hair sat behind a low reception desk as we walked in. Obviously an actress slash receptionist. Not that that was an anomaly. In L.A. almost everyone was an actor slash something. Even the janitor in our building had done a guest spot on House last season.

Actress Slash Receptionist was applying lip gloss in a little compact as we approached. “Can I help you?” she asked without looking up.

“We’re here to see Mr. Leventhal,” I told her.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“Uh…no.”

“Names?” she asked.

“Douglas. Lisa and Oliver,” I said.

“I’ll see if he’s in,” she said noncommittally, rising from the desk and crossing to a hallway behind her.

As soon as she was out of earshot, Cal leaned in. “Oliver and Lisa Douglas?”

“From Green Acres.”

I felt him smirk as the receptionist returned.

“Yeah, go ahead,” she said, waving us in the direction she’d just come from.

“Thanks.”

The hallway was short, a copy room on the left, an office on the right, and a dead end in a window that overlooked the Wilshire traffic below. The door on the right read “J. Leventhal.”

I quickly pushed through.