I was so busy running around on my socialization work that I missed the breaking story — Nelson Portillo was wanted for questioning in the murder of Morgan McIlroy. She was apparently last seen with him leaving a restaurant in Silver Lake. They had a school photo of the Portillo boy and despite the menacing words “Wanted for questioning” emblazoned over it, the kid still didn’t look like he could kill another human being. There was no mention of Jeanette in any of the articles.

I foolishly put a call in to Detective Ricohr and unfortunately for me he picked up.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Restic? Do you want to confess?”

“No, but you have the wrong person in the Portillo boy.”

“Now why would you know anything about that?” he asked, surprised. “Maybe you should be a person of interest in the girl’s murder.”

I hadn’t thought through the phone call and was now getting myself entangled in a difficult situation. Previously, when I met with Detective Ricohr, I was not forthcoming with the details around Jeanette’s disappearance because of some vague notion of client privilege, if there even was such a thing. But now having been summarily dismissed from my role as private investigator, so too was I released from any obligations to Valenti and his precious privacy.

“I may not have given you all of the facts when we first met,” I confessed.

“I’m sure of it. Care to make amends?”

I told him what I knew — most of it, anyway. I explained the reason for meeting with Morgan in the first place and was clear the missing girl I was after was in fact, Valenti’s granddaughter.

“You have a way of tangling with some pretty powerful people,” he commented but it sounded more like a warning than anything else.

I purposely avoided mentioning the original payment Hector made to Nelson’s brother. I knew how quickly this would be misinterpreted as further proof of Nelson’s potential guilt. And I conveniently left out the part where Nelson tried to run me over and the time he tried to escape out the window and then stood me up in the Rally’s parking lot. Reviewing all of the stuff I left out of the narrative made me half-wonder if Nelson should be a suspect after all.

The other big piece that was conveniently left out of what I told Detective Ricohr was any mention of Hector Hermosillo — the knife fight in the street and the prior arrest for murder in 1963. From what I knew about Detective Ricohr, he wasn’t your typical cop. He was a pragmatist and didn’t follow the easy route. But despite all that, I withheld the details about Hector because reasonable or not, cops tended to latch onto things and not let go. The last thing I wanted was the full weight of the Los Angeles Police Department to come down on my little magician friend. He didn’t deserve that kind of treatment.

“I’m only telling you all this because I have met with the Portillo boy and there simply isn’t any way he could have done what you are saying.”

“I never said he did,” Ricohr corrected me.

“Come on, Detective, his face is plastered all over the news. No one is going to split hairs when they see his mug in connection with the girl’s murder. Right now, in the eyes of the public he is already guilty and it’s only a matter of bringing him in for his punishment.”

“You can’t base police work on a ‘feeling’ someone has for a suspect after meeting them for five minutes,” he chided but his heart clearly wasn’t in it. He was a decent soul and he was a better detective. “So you think the girl’s murder is connected to the disappearance of the Valenti girl?”

“I do. There’s something deep running under all of this that I haven’t yet figured out. It could be about money.”

“It often is. This Gao Li — he sounds pretty motivated to get back at the old man.”

“Very motivated. His family hasn’t had the best of experiences with Valenti, to say the least. That shouldn’t surprise anyone. Most people who do deal with Valenti come out on the short end.”

There was a short pause.

“You still holding some anger towards the old man?” he asked me straight out.

“I may hate the man,” I told him, “but not enough to do what you’re implying.”

My word seemed enough for him and he let it go.

“Why hasn’t the family contacted the police?”

“Publicity.”

“That sounds thin,” he ruminated.

“Or selfish.”

“Or both. I could alert my colleagues in Missing Persons, if you think that would help. We don’t necessarily need the family to file a report if we think the girl is in danger, but it doesn’t make it easy without the family’s involvement. Especially this family,” he added.

I reasoned that it might do more harm than good. I didn’t want to spook Jeanette by having her face plastered all over the news along with Nelson’s and provoke her into doing something drastic.

“I’m glad you said that,” he admitted. “Seven years from retirement and the last thing I need is to get run out before I’ve reached the eighty percent mark.” Detective Ricohr and I shared the golden handcuffs also known as a “secure retirement.”

“There’s nothing much I can do about the Portillo kid now,” he continued. “Maybe I was a little hasty but let’s remember, he is the last person to see the victim alive.”

“Other than her killer,” I amended.

“We’ll see about that.”

“I’m going to prove you wrong,” I told him, feeling my oats.

“Listen, pal,” he fired back, “I’m letting it go that you lied to me when I first approached you about the girl’s murder. But I am going to be very clear right here and now — if you pull that again, I am not going to be in a forgiving mood. You learn anything about anyone, you call me first. And if I hear otherwise…”

“There’ll be hell to pay.”

“Fuck off,” he said and hung up on me.

THE SILENT SCREEN

I caught Jeff as he was about to leave the office. By the way he bustled about and didn’t make much effort to actually settle down for a second and speak to me directly, I got the sense he wasn’t in the mood to make much time for me. It wasn’t but a day or two ago that we were best friends, united in our work to bring home his daughter. Now I was the guy with the clipboard out front of the grocery store — if he didn’t make eye contact then he wouldn’t have to stop and sign my petition.

When faced with people in a rush, I have the annoying habit of slowing things down to a glacial pace.

“There was one thing…I, uh, wanted to…talk to you…about.”

“Sure, but I’m in a bit of a rush so if it’s quick, then let’s walk and talk,” he suggested and assumed I would be in agreement because he hurried out of the room before I could answer. I didn’t move from the spot where I was standing and patiently waited for him to come back. It took longer than I expected but he eventually reappeared in the doorway and put on his best annoyed impersonation. “Okay, what is it?”

“Did you ever get ahold of your daughter?” I asked.

“I did not. But I am not sure how that is any of your concern,” he replied, pushing his way into his office and closing the door behind him. “I thought you weren’t helping out on this anymore.”

“So are you and the old man on speaking terms again?” There was no way he could have known that unless they were. My suspicions were confirmed when I looked back at the blank screen where the now-silenced video installation was supposed to be.

“Yes, it’s common that family members talk once in a while,” he said, taking on a snarky tone. Jeff seemed to jump between two personas — the Average Joe from the Valley or the High Society dabbler — depending on his current standing with the old man. By the way he kept addressing me like a servant, I assumed things had been temporarily patched up between them.