I pulled the phone bill from my purse where I’d stashed it and smoothed over the crinkled sheet as best I could. The majority of the calls were ads, wrong numbers, people who thought we really could help them with their staffing needs. It was likely Jackal or Lou or even I had made calls to different people, one-offs, checking restaurant openings or other things that might be of use in our line of work. But Lou and the Lady would’ve talked frequently, a few times a week at least—daily, for all I knew. I ignored the pang of jealousy that stirred in me.

First, I got rid of any number from out of state—I couldn’t imagine that the Lady wasn’t local, or at least close to Los Angeles. She had too much knowledge of the city. That took care of most of the numbers.

I looked at what I had left. I was looking for a number that had been dialed more than once, and that had called our office more than once. I circled anything that came close. One of the numbers looked familiar and appeared over and over again in the records for the past month. Not the Lady’s number, but I felt uneasy. I stared at it. I could see my fingers punching in the number barely a week before, the crisscross pattern of my thumb on the keys.

Howdy, pardner, what’s on the mayhem menu today, Ellen’s voice chirped into memory, and then a cackle as she laughed to herself, knowing how much that greeting would annoy me. That same plucky voice pleading, No, no, please, I won’t, I’m sorry, I didn’t, it’ll be, just let me, no, no, no.

Ellen’s number. Of course. I gulped the water, shaking slightly, then crossed her number out, over and over until you couldn’t read it at all. I tore a small hole in one part of the invoice with the pen.

By the time I was done, there were only two numbers left. I wasn’t positive that I would remember what the Lady’s voice sounded like. I closed my eyes, tried to think. No accent that I remembered. More nasal than husky, more alto than soprano.

Nothing to do but try.