I took both phones and walked back to my bedroom, placing them carefully on my nightstand, right next to a picture of Dave and me, taken out on my patio.

I folded myself onto the bed and curled into the fetal position. I felt the bed gently shake as Lucy jumped up to take her usual position near my feet. She was excited that we were going to bed so early. I closed my eyes and waited for the Ambien to kick in and soothe me to sleep.

I dreamt of a cherry-red Mercedes. I was behind the wheel of my car but it wouldn’t move, and the Mercedes blew past me, leaving me in its fumes. I woke up with a start: I had been falling and flailing my arms as I was being sucked down to some terrible unknown fate. It was still dark outside. I looked at the digital clock and saw it was a little before 6 AM. At this point I also realized that I was fully clothed. I’d been in such a daze after getting home from the drive-by that I hadn’t even remembered to get undressed. Oy.

I padded into the living room and turned on my laptop. I knew there would be an e-mail or something to wake me up, a “Hey, baby” e-mail telling me I was being missed. But when I logged on, I found no message from Dave. I looked outside and the sky was just beginning to lighten. I grabbed my keys and banged out of the house. I just needed to check.

I pulled onto Dave’s street and drove at a regular pace toward his bungalow. I didn’t need to be careful driving down his street this time; it was too early for anyone to be up and notice me. There it was, the cherry-red Mercedes, still parked in the driveway with Dave’s Beetle behind it. It was almost like the Beetle was taking care of the Mercedes, protecting it from the evils of the world.

The effects of the Ambien were totally gone now, pushed aside by adrenaline.

I grabbed a napkin from the passenger seat and scrawled down the six-digit plate number. I had a friend to call.

NINE

NINE

It was before ten on a Sunday morning, and that was usually a no-call zone, but I couldn’t control myself.

I banged through my desk drawers and finally found the cast and crew phone list under a messy stack of bloody-crime-scene photos. Flipping through the pages, I dragged my finger down the list of last names, praying he would be there, even though he was a consultant. Cast and crew lists were confidential, and handed out with care, because they listed everyone’s home addresses and cell phone numbers.

Halfway down the fourth page I found it. Rich Pisani. Punching in his cell number, I prayed he’d pick up.