Eleanor had no visible piercings, tattoos, or birthmarks, in contrast to the permanent artwork stretching from the shoulder to the wrist of Jessica’s right arm and the tiny diamond stud in the left side of her nose.

Look a little closer, though, and she thought she could see some similarities. The same long, straight nose. The same rosebud mouth. The same sharply defined jawline.

Jessica picked up the Scotch and downed the lot in one go, wincing as the whiskey burned her throat and the fire hit her belly. She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples, where a headache was starting to bloom.

She heard someone slip into the booth on the seat opposite, the old leather creaking and cracking under the person’s weight, followed by the thunk of two glasses hitting the wooden tabletop. Jessica sighed heavily, fully expecting to see the middle-aged worker with the dirty ball cap sitting in front of her.

She opened her eyes. It wasn’t the guy with the hat. It was a man who was completely and utterly gorgeous. Proper Hollywood looks, like he had just walked off the set of a movie on the other side of town and had somehow ended up in Ace’s Bar instead of the Chateau Marmont.

He pushed one of the drinks, which looked and smelled like Royal Emblem, toward Jessica with the tip of his forefinger and grinned at her in a lopsided kind of way that probably got him laid often or into trouble a lot.

He was about forty, with green eyes and dark hair that curled at the nape of his neck. He wore a red-and-black plaid shirt. A battered tan leather messenger bag was slung over a broad chest and rested by his hip. His knees bumped against hers under the table, suggesting he had long legs. She guessed he was around six feet tall.

“You’re the private investigator,” he said.

It was a statement, not a question.

“Word sure travels fast around here,” she said.

“Hopper told me. I’m staying at the motel too.”

Jessica raised an eyebrow. “Is that so? I guess the twenty-five bucks a night doesn’t stretch to some discretion when it comes to his guests.”

The man took a sip of his whiskey and looked at her intently over the rim of the glass. “Don’t be mad at Hopper,” he said. “He’s a good guy. He was only looking out for me. He knew I’d want to know that someone was in town asking about the Lavelles. I’m looking into the case too, what with the anniversary just around the corner.”

“And you are?”

“Jack Holliday.”

“You’re a journalist.”

It was a statement, not a question.

Holliday looked surprised, then impressed. “How did you know?”

“I’m a private investigator. It’s my job to know stuff.”