“I’m sorry I missed it. I was at a strip bar in Hollywood last night.”

“Okay, your Saturday night sounds way more fun than mine.”

“Would you believe me if I said it was work related?”

“Not for a second. Hey, I’m sorry I can’t help with a number for Jim Johnson, but you have my cell phone number if you do fancy lunch or drinks while you’re in town. Or another visit to that strip club. I’m easy.”

Jessica laughed. “Sure thing.”

She ended the call and booted up the laptop.

Jim Johnson had his own website, but Garrett Thomas was right: the man was now effectively retired. According to his bio page, he’d started out as a cub reporter at the Reformer in the late ’70s before working his way up to the role of senior reporter. The latter part of his career had been spent covering the crime beat for the Los Angeles Times. He’d officially retired last year and returned to his native England, where he was still available for the occasional freelancing opportunity.

Jessica figured journalists were just the same as PIs and cops. Never quite able to give up the job completely. Her old boss, Larry Lutz, still had a ways to go before retirement, but she knew he would be one of those guys, just like Jim Johnson, who would still be available for “freelance opportunities” when the time came to clear out his desk.

Jessica? She’d make like Bill Geersen and spend her twilight years sipping mojitos on a cruise liner somewhere exotic. But hopefully without the excess baggage of unsolved cases weighing her down.

Johnson had a contact page, but there was no cell phone number. The only way of getting in touch with him was by sending a message via a contact form. It was already Sunday evening in the UK, and Jessica had no idea how often Johnson checked his messages. She composed a brief note anyway, explaining who she was and how she wanted to speak to him about the Lavelle case. She submitted the form.

The contact page was illustrated with a photo of Johnson and two other men at what appeared to be some sort of press awards ceremony. All three men held crystal trophies, their faces flushed with booze and triumph, their bow ties slightly askew. All three looked like they were in their sixties, with plenty of miles on the clock. Jessica was about to close down the web browser when the caption below the photo caught her eye.

She felt her heart stop.

Jessica reread the one-line sentence, unable to believe what she was seeing. She opened Google, typed in a name, and searched for images. The results provided confirmation of what she suspected, and her cheeks flamed with anger.