"I hope it works," Sandy said softly. "If it doesn't, you'll be on CNN, eating crow."

Herman and Sandy ordered food while Jack and Susan had coffee. Sandy Toshiabi started sketching on her paper place mat while waiting for the food to arrive. By the time they had finished dinner she had completed the drawing. She turned it around for all of them to see. It was a remarkably good sketch of the thing that had chased them into the pool.

"It really looks like that?" Jack asked, thinking it resembled a prehistoric man, but with a more intelligent face.

"That's exactly what it looks like," Herman confirmed.

After paying the bill they walked back to the lobby. Herman said he and Jack could share one room, Susan and Sandy the other. At Jack's suggestion, they stopped at the front desk to change the registration into Sandy 's name.

Jack said, "I wanna check on this address in Bel Air that Shane gave me. See who lives at 264 Chalon Road. I'll be back in two or three hours."

"I'm coming with you," Susan said. Jack started to refuse, but, the truth was, he was really enjoying her company, so he ended up agreeing.

They left Sandy and Herman plotting the lawsuit and got back into the Jag and drove south on PCH, then followed Sunset toward Beverly Hills.

What they were about to find wasn't as strange as Herman's chimera, but it sure as hell would change the events that followed.

Halfway to Bel Air, Susan opened the glove box and started searching around inside. "Whatta y'doing?" Jack asked.

"I want to see who, exactly, is gonna be charging you with grand theft auto." She pulled out the registration and read it. " 'Baxton Hammond Jr.' " She looked at Jack. "I think I've heard of him."

"You're kidding, right?" Jack said. "And the hits just keep on coming."

"Who is he?"

"Bax Hammond. The Orange County D.A. "

Suddenly, Susan started laughing. Whether it was just a release of tension or she thought it was really funny, Jack couldn't tell, but her laughter was infectious, and soon he was roaring as well. He had tears in his eyes. Hopefully they'd still see the humor after completing their two-and-a-half-year GTA sentences in Soledad.

Jack continued down Sunset. "That's it up ahead."

They were both still smiling as he turned into the Bel Air entrance. After driving for about six blocks up into the foothills they found 264 Chalon Road.

It was an impressive Spanish mansion, and there was some kind of a high-profile party going on. Black-suited security was checking every invitation at the foot of the pillared driveway. Valets in red coats scurried back and forth, jumping into arriving cars, pulling away fast, and racing them up the hill to park. A truck from Along Came Mary Catering was parked across the street.

Jack pulled up to the nearest attendant. "Is this the Goldbergs' party?" he asked a teenage boy, who looked like he had probably just started driving about a week ago.

"No sir, this is the Ibanazi house. Invitation only." The valet wrinkled his nose in distaste. Jack's wardrobe was finally dry, but it must have fallen well below the guest profile.

"Wrong blast. I'm going to Whoopi's. Sorry!" Trying for some payback.

Jack put the Jag in gear and pulled up a side street away from all the valet madness. As he looked for a place to pull over, he handed Susan the car phone. "Call 411 and see if he's listed."

She dialed Information and asked for Russell Ibanazi's phone number on Chalon Road. She scribbled it down and hung up.

Jack mulled options. Then he picked up her cell phone.

"What're you gonna do?" she asked.

"Gonna get us invited to this party." He dialed the number.

"Ibanazi residence," a pleasant-sounding woman said.

"Good evening, this is Mr. Wirta. Project supervisor for Along Came Mary? To whom is it that I might be speaking?" Saying it like he had a broom handle up his ass.

"This is Mrs. Dorsett. I'm Chief Ibanazi's record company vice president."

"Good. Right-o. I was in the neighborhood, just wanted to make sure all of your catering choices were delivered exactly as planned." Adding a tinge of Limey accent now for flavor.

"Yes, I guess. But I'm not the one who made the catering arrangements."

"Did the smoked-duck empanadas with caviar centers arrive?" Jack breezed on.

"Uh… I don't… did we order those?"

"Three trays. I specifically told John to have those over by five."

"Uh… John?" She seemed confused.

"How 'bout the Roma tomato bruschettas, and the brie en croute with raspberry walnut sauce?"

"Uh… well… I think I saw some shrimp scampi and some spinach quiche."

"Can't be. The quiche was for Warren and Annette's pool party. Don't tell me the cold octopus pie didn't make it?" Just sort of screwing with her now.

"Uh… cold octopus?"

"It seems there's been a horrible flummox. To begin with, please tell that wonderful Chief Ibanazi that we are absolutely not charging him for any of the things that he didn't order, and I will personally deduct twenty percent from the invoice for this horrible mistake. I'm going to dash right over to check into this personally. I'd appreciate it if you might notify your security people at the gate, that Mr. Jackson Wirta and Ms. Susan Strockmire from Along Came Mary will be along directly. In the meantime, could you be a dear and make an inventory sheet of what's already out so we can get this mess unscrambled?"

"But the catering was handled by Louis. I didn't arrange for any of this." Ass-covering, pure and simple.

"Not your fault, Mrs. Dorsett and it's not Louis's either-it's ours. And we can thank the Queen's butler, you and I caught it in lickety-split time." Jack almost said "Tallyho," but thought he was already over the top, so he just hung up.

"That Brit accent really stunk," Susan grinned.

"It got us into the party."

They waited a few minutes for Mrs. Dorsett to make the call, then pulled down within sight of the security/valet station. Jack waited until the first valet he'd spoken to whizzed off to park a Porsche Targa. Then he put the Jag in gear and pulled up.

"I'm Jackson Wirta," he said to another teenager as they both got out. "This is Ms. Strockmire. I think Mrs. Dorsett rang you up." Still using the phony accent.

"Right," the security goon said. "With the caterers. She just called. Go on up."

Jack took a valet ticket and then headed up the long, winding brick driveway toward a sprawling Spanish mansion with a red-tiled roof. There were at least four acres of manicured lawns with an Olympic-size pool and seventy-foot palm trees that swayed overhead, waving their giant fronds like skinny, fan-wielding eunuchs. Fountains gushed and spurted. Young Beverly Hills trophy wives clutched their geriatric keepers and mingled competitively.

Jack and Susan skirted the growing crowd of about a hundred and fifty guests. Across the pool, holding court under the cabana, sat the Indian chief.

Russell Ibanazi was a remarkably handsome man who, as Shane had mentioned, was only thirty years old. His dark good looks and Hollywood dress gave him a definite nouveau tilt. He laughed at something one of the women near him said, and when he did his smile sparkled like bone china. He was wearing an Armani suit with Gucci sunglasses hanging off his top shirt button. An Amstel Light was clutched casually in his right hand.

"Groovy-type Indian," Jack said.

"What were you expecting, a loin cloth?" Susan frowned.

"No, but I was hoping for a couple of hair feathers."

Jack began circling Chief Ibanazi like a reef shark scoping prey.

"He's so young," Susan said.

"He's also listed. In Beverly Hills, you're only in the book if you're still hoping people will call you. Sure sign of social insecurity. Could be a sucker for my Daily Planet thing."