She stared at me, watchful and suspicious.

'I will not notify the authorities that three minors are living here alone so long as the three of you appear safe and in good care. Maybe your father will come home today, but maybe not. Maybe I'll find him fast, but maybe not. You're doing okay right now, and that's good, but if at any time I feel it's in your best interest to notify the police, I will do so. Are we clear on that?'

She looked stubborn. 'Will you tell me first?'

'I won't tell you first if I think you'll run.'

She liked that even less.

'I'm willing to let things stay as they are for now, but I won't lie to you. That's the way it has to be.'

She looked at me for a time, and then she looked at her papers. 'Are you finished with these things?'

I nodded. She took the checkbook, secured it to the bank statements and canceled checks with the same paper clips, and returned it to the shoe box. She did the same with the utility bills and the little pack of cash receipts all written in her hand. Fifteen.

'How long have you been paying the bills?'

She knew exactly what I was saying. 'My father is a good man. He loves us very much. He can't help it that she died on him. He can't help it that these things are hard for him.'

'Sure.'

'Someone has to take care of Charles and Winona. Someone has to clean the house.'

I nodded.

'Someone has to hold this family together.'

I thought there might be tears but her eyes were clear and sharp and hard behind the glasses. Determined. She put the remainder of her papers back into the box, put the top on the box, and again sealed it with the big rubber band. The matter-of-fact eyes came back to me and she dug out the wad of bills. 'We never settled the amount of your fee.'

'Forget it.'

The eyes hardened. 'How much?'

We sat like that, and then I sighed. 'A hundred dollars should do it.'

The hard eyes narrowed. 'In your office you said two thousand.'

'It's not as big a job as I thought. A hundred now, a hundred when I find him.'

She peeled off two of the hundreds and gave me both. 'Take it all now. I'd like a receipt.'

I gave her the receipt, and then I left to find her father.

I phoned information for Enright's address, then left Teresa Haines alone with her coffee and laundry, and headed south along La Cienega toward Culver City. I wanted to tell her not to drive, and to be careful if she walked to the mall, but I didn't. She had been living like this for quite a while, and I knew she would ignore me because I would be saying it more for me than for her. That's the way adults often talk to children. You know they're not going to listen, but you want to tell them anyway just so you know that you have.

Enright Quality Printing was located in a two-story industrial building just off Washington Boulevard three blocks from Sony Pictures. On the way down, I was thinking it would be a small copier place like a Kinko's, but it wasn't. Enright was a big commercial outfit with employees and overhead and presses that run twenty-four hours a day, the kind that does large-scale jobs on contract for businesses and government. The building occupied most of the block, and what wasn't building was a neat, manicured parking lot for their corporate customers and a loading dock for the six-wheelers that delivered their product. The loading dock was busy.

I put the car in the parking lot, then went through the front entrance into a little waiting room. An industrial rack was built into one wall, filled with pamphlets and magazines and thick heavy manuals of the kind Enright produced. There were chairs for waiting and a counter with a young woman behind it. I showed her a card and said, 'Is there someone in charge I might see?'

She looked at the card as if it were written in another language. 'Sorry. We don't do cards.'

I took back the card. 'I don't want cards. I'd like to speak with someone in authority.'

She squinted at me. 'You mean Mr. Livermore?'

'Is he in charge?'

'Uh-huh.'

'Then that's who I'd like to see.'

'Do you have an appointment?'

'Nope.'

'He might be busy.'

'Let's give it a try.'

If we're patient we're often rewarded.

She said something into her phone and a few minutes later a short, thin man who was maybe a hundred years old came out of the offices and scowled at me. 'You want something printed?'

'Nope. I want to ask you about a former employee.'

I gave him the card and he scowled harder. 'This is shit work. Ya oughta get your money back.' He handed the card back and I put it away. Just the way you want to start an interview, getting crapped on by an expert. 'You the cops?'

'Private. Like it says on-the card.'

He made a brushing gesture. 'I didn't get that far. I see shit printing, I gotta look away.' This guy wouldn't let up. He said, 'Listen, you wanna talk, I'll talk, but you gotta walk with me. I got some ass to kick.'

'No problem.'

I followed him along the hall and onto the floor of the printing plant, walking fast to keep up with him. I guess he was anxious to start kicking ass.

The plant itself was large and air-conditioned and brightly lit with fluorescent lights. It smelled of warm paper. Machines that looked like cold-war era computers bumped and clunked and whirred as men and women monitored the progress of paper and cardboard and bindings. The machines were loud, and most of the workers wore hearing protection but not all of them, and most of them smoked. A woman with a cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth was wearing a T-shirt that said EAT SHIT AND HAVE A CRAPPY DAY. 'I'm looking for an employee you let go three weeks ago, Clark Haines.'

Livermore made the brushing gesture again. 'Got rid of'm.'

'I know. I'm wondering if you have any idea where he might be.'

'Try the morgue. All fuckin' junkies end up in the morgue.'

I said, 'Junkie?' I think my mouth was open.

Livermore stopped so suddenly that I almost walked into him. He glared at two guys who were standing together by a large offset press, then made a big deal out of tapping his watch. 'What is this, vacationland? I ain't payin' you guys to flap gums! We got orders to fill!'

The two men turned back to their machines, Livermore set off again, and I chased after. So much ass to kick, so little time to kick it. I said, 'Are you telling me that Clark Haines is a drug addict?'

'Guy was a mess since day one, always runnin' to the John, always shakin' with the sweats an' callin' in sick. I knew somethin' wasn't right, so I started keepin' my eyes open, y'see?' He pulled the skin beneath his right eye and glared at me. Bloodshot. 'Caught'm in one'a the vans, Haines and another guy.' He jabbed the air with a stiff finger. 'Bammo, they're outta here. I got zero tolerance for that crap.'

I didn't know what to say. It didn't seem to fit, but then it often doesn't. 'Have you heard from Clark since that day?'

'Nah. Why would I?'

'Job reference, maybe? He told his kids he was looking for work.'

'Hey, the guy's a top printer, but what am I gonna say, hire a junkie, they give good value?'

Livermore beelined to a short Hispanic man feeding booklet pages into a binder. He grabbed a thick sheaf of the pages, flipped through them, then shook his head in disgust. 'This looks like shit. Redo the whole fuckin' order.'

I looked over his shoulder. The pages and the printing looked perfect. 'Looks okay to me.'

He waved at the pages. 'Jesus Christ, don'tcha see that mottle? The blacks're uneven. Ya see how it's lighter there?'

'No.'

He threw the pages into a large plastic trash drum, then scowled at the Hispanic man. 'Reprint the whole goddamn run. Whadaya think we're makin' here, tortillas?'