The interview produced home and business addresses and phone numbers for Franklin Drummond, Attorney at Law, both in Encino, and the fact that, two years ago, Kevin Drummond had graduated from Charter College, a small, expensive private school near Eagle Rock.

“They sent me an invitation,” said Drummond. “I didn’t attend. It was an insincere offer.”

“What do you mean?” said Petra.

“No offer to drive me there. I wasn’t going to take the damn bus.”

It was nearing 4 P.M. by the time they got back to Kevin Drummond’s building. Still, no one home.

Time for Encino. As they drove north over Laurel Canyon, Petra said, “Randolph D. bother you?”

“He can’t stand his nephew,” said Stahl.

“Angry man. Estranged from his entire family. But can’t see any link to our case. Can’t see him moving round town on those crutches and offing artistic types.”

“He killed his wife.”

“You see that as relevant?” said Petra.

Stahl’s pale fingers interlaced. A stricken look washed over his face, then it was gone so fast that Petra wondered if she’d really seen it.

“Eric?” she said.

Stahl shook his head. “No, he has nothing to do with our case.”

“Back to Kevin, then. That comment about his being a star-fucker would tie in with Delaware’s theory. So would the history of failed projects. And attraction to fads. This could be one pathetic little loser who just couldn’t take not being talented and decided to act out against those who were.”

Stahl didn’t answer.

“Eric?”

“Don’t know.”

“What’s your intuition?”

“I don’t rely on intuition.”

“Really?” said Petra. “You’ve been pretty good with GTAs.”

As if taking that as an invitation, Stahl’s head swiveled toward the passenger window, and he studied the traffic flow. He stayed that way during the entire trip to the Valley.

They tried Franklin Drummond’s Ventura Boulevard office first. The “firm” was a one-lawyer affair on the tenth floor of a bronzed-glass high-rise. The waiting room was cozy, bathed in the same type of romantic music Randolph Drummond had played. The young receptionist was friendly enough when she informed them that Mr. Drummond was in court. Her nameplate said DANITA TYLER, and she looked busy.

“What kind of law does Mr. Drummond practice?” said Petra.

“General business, real estate, litigation. May I ask what this is about?”

“We’d like to talk to him about his son, Kevin.”

“Oh.” Tyler was puzzled. “Kevin doesn’t work here.”

“Do you know Kevin?”

“By sight.”

“When’s the last time you saw him?”

“Is he in trouble?”

“No,” said Petra. “We need to talk to him about his publishing business.”

“Publishing? I thought he was a student.”

“He graduated college a couple of years ago.”

“I mean a graduate student. At least that was my impression.” The young woman fidgeted. “I probably shouldn’t be talking about it.”

“Why not?”

“The boss has a thing for privacy.”

“Any particular reason?”

“He’s a private man. Good boss. Don’t get me in trouble, okay?”

Petra smiled. “Promise. Could you please tell me where Kevin attends grad school?”

“Don’t know- that’s the truth. I’m not even sure he is in grad school. I really don’t know much about the family. Like I said, Mr. Drummond likes his privacy.”

“When’s the last time Kevin was here, Ms. Tyler?”

“Oh, my… I couldn’t tell you. The family almost never comes in.”

“How long have you been working here, Ms. Tyler?”

“Two years.”

“During that time have you ever met Randolph Drummond?”

“Who’s he?”

“A relative,” said Petra.

“Publishing, huh?” said Tyler. “The police… what, some kind of porno- no, don’t answer that.” She laughed, ran a finger across her mouth. “I don’t want to know.”

They had her call Franklin Drummond’s cell phone, but the attorney didn’t answer.

“Sometimes,” she said, “he turns it off during the ride home.”

“The man likes his privacy,” said Petra.

“The man works hard.”

They drove out onto Ventura Boulevard. Petra was hungry, and she looked for a semi-inviting, cheap eatery. Two blocks west, she spotted a falafel stand with two picnic tables. Leaving the unmarked in a loading zone, she bought a spiced lamb shwarma in a soft pita and a Coke and ate as Stahl waited in the car. When she was halfway through the sandwich, Stahl got out and took a seat across from her.

Traffic roared by. She munched.

Stahl just sat. His interest in food matched his hunger for human discourse. When he did eat, it was always something boring on white bread that he brought from home in a clean, brown bag.

Whatever home was for Eric.

She ignored him, enjoyed her food, wiped her lips, and stood. “Let’s go.”

Ten minutes later they pulled up to the home where Kevin Drummond had pursued his ever-shifting fancies.

It was a beautifully tended, extrawide ranch house perched on the uppermost lot of a hilly street south of Ventura Boulevard. Jacarandas shaded the sidewalks. Like most nice L.A. neighborhoods, not a sign of humanity.

Lots of wheels. Three or four vehicles for each house. At Franklin Drummond’s, that meant a new-looking, gunmetal Baby Benz sharing circular-driveway space with a white Ford Explorer, a red Honda Accord, and something low-slung under a beige car cover.

The man who opened the door was loosening his tie. Midforties, stocky build, a broad, rubbery face topped by wavy salt-and-pepper hair, a nose that looked as if it had spent some time in the ring. Gold-rimmed eyeglasses sat atop the meaty bridge. Behind the lenses, cool brown eyes looked them over.

With three grown sons, Franklin Drummond had to be older than his brother’s forty-four. But he looked younger than Randolph.

“Yes?” he said. The tie was royal blue silk. It loosened easily, and Frank Drummond let it drape over his barrel chest. Petra noticed a wee gold chain dangling from the back. Brioni label. Drummond’s shirt was tailored and baby blue with a starched white collar, and his suit pants were gray pinstripe.

Petra told him they were looking for his son.

Frank Drummond’s eyes narrowed to paper cuts, and his chest swelled. “What’s going on?”

“Have you heard from Kevin recently, sir?”

Drummond stepped out of the house and closed the door behind him. “What’s this about?”

Wary but unruffled. This guy was a working lawyer. A one-man firm, accustomed to taking care of his own business. Any sort of subterfuge would bounce right off him, so Petra kept it straight and simple.

“It’s Kevin’s magazine we’re interested in,” said Petra. “GrooveRat. A couple of the people he covered have been murdered.”

As she said it, it sounded far-fetched. All this time searching for a nerdy little wanna-be, and it would probably turn into nothing.

“So?” said Frank Drummond.

“So we’d like to talk to him,” said Stahl.

Drummond’s eyes tilted toward Stahl. Unlike his brother, he was unimpressed by Stahl’s zombie demeanor. “Same question.”

“These are general inquiries, sir,” said Petra.

“So find him and inquire away,” he said. “He doesn’t live here anymore.”

“When’s the last time you saw him?” said Petra.

“Why should I get into this?”

“Why not, sir?”

“General principles,” said Frank Drummond. “Keep your mouth shut, flies don’t enter.”