I put my contacts and sunglasses back on. I approached a groundskeeper and asked if he knew which of the funerals was Daniels's.

He shrugged. "Dunno."

I asked again in Spanish.

"Aya," he replied. "Con la chichona." Over there. Where you'll find the lady with the big ta-tas.

I thanked him and followed the direction of his finger toward a knot of people dressed in black. They faced a cheap casket covered with imitation wood paneling. I couldn't see if an unusually busty woman was among them. When I got close I heard a balding man in white ministerial vestments-embroidered with sunbursts, dolphins, and marijuana leaves-mention Fred Daniels.

The «minister» babbled in New Age argle-bargle about loss and the deceased moving on to a better place. I stood in the back and scoped out the mourners. Everyone wore the same dutiful somber expression. Mostly women, mid-to-late twenties. Lots of tattoos and piercings. Fellow porn stars, coke heads, or both?

After mumbling his final words, the minister nodded to a pair of men in well-worn suits on opposite sides of the casket. They tripped the lowering device and the casket sank into the grave. Counting me, there were two dozen present and not one sob or moist eye. I surmised the mourners were here to bank karma points so when it was their turn for the big sleep, they wouldn't get a lonely send-off.

A paunchy, bearded man wearing a ball cap and frayed necktie stood at the head of the grave. Mourners filed past. The minister handed out pamphlets and invited everyone to his "sanctuary." No doubt the church of the burning doobie.

From within the small crowd, a short blonde so top heavy she looked like an inverted bowling pin came forward. She took a pamphlet from the minister and shook hands with the other man. She attracted the gaze of every male, as if her enormous chest had the gravitational pull of two Jupiters. The woman walked on tiptoes to keep the sharp heels of her sandals from plunging into the sod. She wore sunglasses big as snorkeling goggles and carried a leather purse on a strap looped over her shoulder.

Though I was sure I had never met the woman, she seemed familiar. I followed her into the cool shade of a maple tree. She raised the sunglasses and unmasked her face.

It was JJ Jizmee, retired porn star, famous for her all-natural size 42J bust. I was fifteen and coming to grips, so to speak, with my sexuality, when a high school buddy loaned me a videotape featuring JJ. Since then, those humongous boobs of hers had hovered over my bedtime fantasies like a pair of zeppelins from the planet Sex.

JJ fanned herself with the pamphlet. Moist strands of brassy hair clung to the sides of her face. She wore a black blazer over a matching skirt that fell to her knee. Her gray blouse was open and showed enough cleavage to swallow a man's head.

Removing my sunglasses, I approached, smiling, which was easy. But it took a Herculean effort to look above her neck. I fixed on her blue-gray eyes and waited for the opportunity to remove my contacts. "I'm Felix Gomez."

She raised an eyebrow, furrowing one half of her forehead.

Her expression indicated, go on. Crow's feet wrinkled the corners of her eyes, and an uneven tan showed through her makeup. A softening jawline and neck, as well as a thick middle, completed her matronly appearance.

I offered a business card and told her I was a private detective investigating the death of Roxy Bronze.

JJ clasped the card between long ultramarine-blue fingernails. She read the card and pointed toward the grave. "If you've come to interview Fred Daniels, you're a little late."

"Maybe you can help me, JJ."

Her carmine red lips curved into that same smile she used to give to the camera before helping herself to a stiff cock. "JJ? I haven't been called that in years. So you're a fan?" She dropped my card into her purse and held out her hand. Heavy gold jewelry decorated her thumb, fingers, and wrist. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Gomez." Her grip was dry and firm.

"Felix, please. JJ, how well did you know Daniels?"

"I prefer my real name. Polly Smythe. I knew him well enough through the Open Hand in Reseda."

"Small world." Its staff was on my list of people to interview. Half of Roxy's insurance money had gone to Barrios Unidos, the other half to Open Hand.

"You've heard of it?" she asked.

"Sure have. Could you tell me about the half a million dollars Open Hand got from Roxy's insurance?"

The question blind-sided her. Polly blinked and worked her brow as her thoughts churned in surprise. "What are you getting at?"

"Someone dies and someone else gets a shitload of money as a result. Pretty strong motive for mischief."

Polly's complexion darkened. Her gaze stabbed me. "I ought to kick you in the balls for saying that. You've got no reason to be suspicious of me or anyone else at Open Hand."

I needed to zap Polly and lead her away for questioning. With my peripheral vision, I noticed several people staring at us. "JJ… Polly, I'm here to find out what happened to Roxy, that's all. I know that Open Hand and Barrio Unidos split the settlement. It's in your trust accounts."

Polly's eyebrows slanted outward.

"Don't look surprised, I'm a PI. Tell me you had nothing to do with her death and we'll go from there."

Her complexion lightened. "I had nothing to do with her death. I don't know who killed her, and you want to find out. Then let me help."

"You don't buy how she got killed?"

"There's a lot about Roxy I didn't understand. Think about it. Olympic hopeful turns surgeon, then winds up doing porn. Psychologically she must have been all over the map."

"That your professional opinion?" I asked.

"Only a casual observation from an acquaintance."

Polly certainly came across as forthright. I'd hold off on the hypnosis.

She fanned herself again with the pamphlet. "Who's your client?"

Normally I wouldn't say, but since Katz was missing, maybe Polly would mention if she knew. "Katz Meow."

Polly folded the pamphlet and shoved it into her purse. "She and Roxy were tight, as friends, I mean. Katz was bi-who the hell isn't these days-but she preferred men for romance. Roxy, on the other hand, was ambivalent about hooking up with anyone."

"You knew them well?"

"Roxy visited the clinic to help out and donate money. Katz, only because she hung around Roxy. Most porn stars I don't see until they've got problems."

"Have you seen Katz lately?" I asked.

"No. Why? Haven't you?"

"Not for a few days."

Polly's chuckle turned into a stinging laugh. "What kind of a bonehead investigator loses his client?"

"I haven't lost her…"

"Lost, misplaced, whatever. Hope you find her." Polly lowered the sunglasses over her eyes and started from the tree back toward the grave. She waved for me to tag along. "All right, Mr. Bad Ass PI. You came to ask about Fred Daniels. Let's talk to an expert."

We walked toward the paunchy man with the ball cap.

"You know how Fred died?" I asked Polly.

"An overdose, according to the coroner. Cocaine and that shit Rush Limbaugh was hooked on, OxyContin."

"How do you know?"

"A nurse on our staff has friends working the morgue."

"When did Fred die?"

"Wednesday night. Kaput in the men's room of a dive in El Monte."

That meant Fred died only hours after Coyote and I had seen him. "Who found him?"

"Don't know. Read last Saturday's Times. That's where I got the news."

"That's it?" I asked. "He died of a drug overdose. No foul play?"

"Not according to the coroner," Polly answered. "Didn't surprise me. See, Fred's house caught fire…"

How could I forget? Coyote started the blaze by pissing flames.

"Fred wasn't much for handling stress," Polly continued. "The least bit of anxiety would have him reaching for booze, pills, or nose blow. He'd been to my clinic several times."