I also thought about how to approach Russ MacGregor. Would he want my help? Would he care about a six-month-old crime? Would he bother with a case that had never been reported to the police, where there was no physical evidence, and where the primary witness was a mentally disabled girl who had just abandoned her baby? I sorted through all these what-ifs because the morning’s conversation with Sarah and Louise Sanders had piqued my curiosity.

Then I remembered the last time I stuck my nose where it didn’t belong. A year of therapy and I could almost get through a session without breaking down. Progress was slow, and I didn’t need another trauma. I kept telling myself to play by the rules, but the old rebellious urges kept surfacing like bottles bobbing in the ocean. I guess that meant I was getting better.

At loose ends, I wanted to be anywhere but home. Once, I had loved my place, but now it was just a pit stop. I should have moved, but I didn’t want yet another upheaval in my life. So I slept and I ate and I pretended I was doing fine. With Dad gone, I felt very much alone. I put on a bright blue blouse, black wool crepe trousers, and four-inch-high black boots that adjusted my height to almost six feet. I made up my face and hit the road in my five-year-old black Lexus, courtesy of Dad and Mom. They had thought a big car would increase my sense of well-being. All it did was increase my gas allowance. I wasn’t complaining, though. My wheels had a drop-dead stereo and cushy seats with lumbar support, which helped my sore back as well as my bruised ego.

As I looked in the mirror, I struck a pose that said I hadn’t a care in the world. I was always an accomplished fibber.

From my apartment, I drove north on Beverly Drive, passing the green lawns and flower beds of suburban Beverlywood, through the shopping district of Beverly Hills—lots of foot traffic out today—into the astronomically expensive and bloated estates of Beverly Hills. From there, I continued north until I hooked a right onto Sunset. I cruised through West Hollywood in slow-moving traffic, passing all the hot clubs, one of them sporting long lines even though opening time was hours away. I drove by a half-dozen edgy clothing boutiques, a couple of live theaters, and a block filled with kissy-kissy restaurants offering sidewalk dining, overpriced grub, and lots of lost souls.

When I turned onto Hollywood Boulevard, I purposely avoided looking for any of my sources, figuring why screw if you can’t come. I opened the moon roof and enjoyed the heat and sunlight on my skin, the red downy hair of my arms bleached strawberry blond in the bright rays. Here, in the heart of old Tinseltown, pedestrians abounded. There were the tourists who gaped at the street show and snapped picture after picture of weirdo after weirdo. Joining the fray were scores of pierced and spike-haired kids, snacking on junk food, just hanging around. I even spotted some families out for the afternoon, reading the names on the famous star-studded sidewalks. I passed the Kodak Theatre, Mann’s Chinese Theatre, the El Capitan, the newly constructed shopping malls, the old kiosk gift shops, the tattoo parlors, the tacky lingerie boutiques, the sex shops, and other various and sundry scamsters including budget lawyers advertising special rates for bail bonds. Mixed into the scene were the ubiquitous high-rise office buildings. I turned left onto Western, riding the boulevard until it dead-ended at Griffith Park. More people and more traffic, but I didn’t care. I had a destination in mind, but I wasn’t in any hurry to get there.