The byline of one of the articles she’d skimmed when she’d first sat down belonged to Jack Holliday, but he didn’t need to know that.

“You’re from New York, right?” he asked.

“Let me guess—Hopper told you that too?”

“Guilty as charged. But if you’re from New York, why are you working the Lavelle case? Plenty of good PIs right here in LA.”

Jessica gulped down a mouthful of whiskey, didn’t answer him.

“Are you even allowed to work here?” he pressed. “Aren’t there licensing laws about crossing states?”

Jessica set down the glass and looked at him coldly. “You asking to check my credentials? I’m a licensed PI with the state of New York. If a case takes me to another state, then I’m perfectly within my rights to continue my investigation outside of New York. Not that it’s any of your business.”

The truth was she had no jurisdiction to work this case in California—or any of the others she’d taken on while on the road—but staying in New York simply wasn’t an option. Jessica figured as long as she got results, her clients didn’t give a damn about paperwork and regulations either.

Holliday asked, “So can I assume this mystery client of yours is based in New York?”

“You can assume whatever the hell you like.”

“But you just said you can work in different states if the case originated in New York.”

“I was speaking in general terms. Not necessarily about this case. Yes, there are rules about this kind of stuff. No, I don’t always play by the rules. Why are you so interested anyway?”

“I’ve been looking into the case myself on and off for a while now,” Holliday said. “If I crack it, I figure there could be a Pulitzer with my name on it. Maybe even a publishing deal for one of those true crime books.”

He grinned as though he was joking, but Jessica suspected he was deadly serious about the prize and the book deal.

“I wish you every success,” she told him. “But if you don’t mind, I have work of my own to do.”

He nodded at the laptop. “You won’t find much online. Believe me: I’ve looked. Some anniversary pieces, half of which I wrote. Plenty of crackpot theories on internet forums. That’s about it.”

He leaned across the table. He smelled good. A mixture of soap and spicy aftershave and whiskey. “You spoken to the cops?”

“Not yet.”

“The detective in charge of the investigation was a guy called Bill Geersen. He retired a few years back. The others won’t let you anywhere near the files. It’s technically still a live case even though no one at the LAPD has taken any interest in years. And you’re from out of state.”

“I can ask.”

“They’ll say no.”