Smiley was in shirtsleeves—deep blue shirt—with his sky-colored tie loosened, one paw on the wheel, the other wrapped around a big fat cigar. The Saab’s windows were untinted but shut, and the interior was clouded with smoke. Not thick enough, though, to obscure the smile on Craig Eiffel Bosc’s SAG-handsome countenance.

Such a happy fellow, toking tobacco and cruising and grooving in his zippy little Swedish car on a sunny, California day.

On top of the world.

We’ll see about that.

Craig Bosc took Coldwater Canyon into the Valley. Medium traffic made the tail easy. Not that Bosc would be looking out for him. The guy was no motor-pro—a real ninny for showing himself in plain view on Milo’s block. The cigar and his grin said he couldn’t even imagine the tables turning.

At Ventura, the Saab turned right and drove into Studio City, where it pulled into the parking lot of a twenty-four-hour yuppie gym on the south side of the boulevard. Craig Bosc got out with a blue bag and half jogged to the front. One good arm push and he was through the door and gone.

Milo looked around for a vantage point. A seafood restaurant across Ventura offered a perfect view of the gym and the Saab. The surf-and-turf special sounded enticing—he was hungry.

Ravenous.

He indulged himself with an upgrade from the special: extra big lobster, Alaskan crab legs, sixteen-ounce top sirloin, baked potato with sour cream and chives, a mountain of fried zucchini. All that washed down with Cokes instead of beer, because he needed his wits.

He ate slowly, figuring Bosc would be in there for at least an hour, doing the old body-beautiful thing. By the time he’d asked for the check and was working on his third coffee refill, the Saab was still in plain view. He threw down money, hazarded a trip to the men’s room, left the restaurant, and sat in the Dodge for another half hour before Bosc emerged with wet hair. Back in his street clothes—the blue shirt and black slacks—minus the tie.

Bosc bounced over to the Saab, disarmed the alarm, but instead of getting in, stopped to check his reflection in the side window. Fluffing his hair. Undoing the shirt’s second button. Milo watched the asshole show off that big smile for the glass audience—Bosc actually turned his head here and there. Appreciating his own damn face from multiple angles.

Then Bosc got in the Saab and did an L.A. thing: drove less than a block before pulling into another parking lot.

A bar. Little cedar-sided cube stuffed between a sushi bar and a bicycle shop. A painted sign above the cedar door labeled the place as EXTRAS. A banner to the right advertised the psychic benefits of happy hour.

Half a dozen cars in the lot. Not too many happy people?