It was the same blithe, painfully fair approach she'd taken when they were young. Seemingly oblivious to her losses, the money problems that forced her to double-shift. The acid stares and mutterings of neighbors each time she moved her curious multiracial family into a newly rented dump.

When they lived in Crenshaw, it was the black folks who derided. In the Valley, the Puritans changed skin tone but not intent.

Maddy had been raised by racist hypocrites, knew all about mindless resentment. She went about her business, wrapped in an imaginary blanket of righteousness and self-determination. That worked, but it took its toll. So did constant laying on the love to her two little hooligans.

If Aaron and Moses had been able to crawl into her head, they'd have found a surprising, alarming place crammed with dark corners, shadows, dead ends. The decaying memorabilia of a lifetime of adventure and misadventure that had tapered to boredom.

Now she was set up financially, with the house, the travel, the hobbies du jour.

Empty space in the king-size bed.

Could she take twenty, thirty more years of this torpor? No challenges, nothing to rebel against?

Two kids who looked like men but had never grown up?

Was the psychic abyss dividing them somehow her fault? She didn't think so, she'd always been so-

Stop. No way would she introspect and get all dopey-mopey about their issues. She deserved better than that.

Her therapist agreed with her.

She said, “Ready for dessert, boys? Vanilla cherry for Aaron, chocolate ripple for Mosey. You two are nothing if not ironic.”

When the table was clear, she took them to her second-story studio and showed them the huge, bicolor canvases she'd been working on. Variations of light/dark. If either of them got the joke, they didn't let on.

Mosey said, “Nice, Mom.”

Aaron said, “Really nice, Mom.”

Maddy noticed a thin spot on the edge of one of the paintings. Squeezing pigment onto her palette, she sat at her easel, began filling in.

The boys stood around as she daubed, stood back to gauge, painted some more. The paint was not sitting right, bad-quality acrylics, she'd noticed a definite change in the last few batches…

Squeeze, moisten, lift brush, lay it down…

When she looked up, half an hour had passed and the house was blessedly silent.

Moe said, “So what's this big-time lead?”

The sun was down and the courtyard cobbles were a strange, deep purple. A sad color. Moe wanted out of there.

Aaron kept his reflexive reply to himself. What's this big-time attitude? He recounted Rory Stoltz's Hyundai adventures.

Moe said, “So?”

Aaron tamped down frustration by touching the fabric of his sport coat. Super 200s from Milan, silky-smooth, nothing better. He'd bought the jacket in three shades.

“You looked at Stoltz early on, but he came across clean-”

“He didn't come across, he had an alibi.”

“Stayed behind at Riptide even after Caitlin left. But that doesn't mean he couldn't have met up with her later. But he's not top of my list. I hear Riptide catered to celebs back then. I don't know who got Rory into ColdSnake but it had to be a VIP, I'm still working on that. That means Rory has an attraction to that world. What if some famous type did Caitlin and Rory protected him?”

Moe thought: Mason Book was skinny, made perfect sense. “Rory allegedly loves this girl but he allows her killer to go free so he can run dope errands?”

“Dope errands and maybe more, Moses. He was still in that house until well after three. Maybe sleeping in. That says he's wormed his way into a higher income bracket.”

“As a gofer.” Who wants to be an entertainment lawyer or an agent. Makes perfect sense.

Aaron said, “He thinks it's a start.”

Moe said nothing.

“You're not impressed by any of this.”

“You saw Stoltz chauffeur two club-rats. We don't know if they're in the Industry.”

“How about this, then? The house he drove them to belongs to Lem Dement.”

Moe's arms folded across his chest. “You're letting info out in dribs and drabs?”

“I need you to be interested before I waste my time, Moses.”

“I'm busy. Spit it all out.”

Aaron forced himself calm. “One: Dement owns the place. Two: I have a source says Dement beats his wife. Neither of the two guys was Dement, but he does have a slew of kids. Seven to be exact, and five are sons. Boys learn how to treat women from their daddies.” Or from having no daddy. “I worked the Web, found photos of three junior Dements. The two oldest fit the build of the heavier guy I saw.”

Moe pulled out his pad. “Names?”

“Japhet and Ahab.” Aaron grinned. “Japhet is twenty-five and Ahab's twenty-eight. Ahab used to be a heavy-metal dude, goes by Ax. If you find a criminal history on either of them, I'd appreciate hearing about it.”

“Meaning you didn't turn up anything.”

“If they're bad boys, they've avoided the press. All I found were a couple of party photos with Ax trying to get his face in the shots.”

“Where were the parties?”

“Not at Riptide, if that's what you mean. I'm talking Oscars week, the Grammys, the usual post-ceremony crap-the Standard, the Design Center, Skybar, everyone stoned, pretending they want privacy but they're really out to make the tabs.”

“Any genuine celebs in the shots?” said Moe.

“You better believe it. Tom, Julia, Sean, George, the old see-and-be-seen. In one picture, Ax was trying to make it look like he was a pal of Mason Book.”

“Trying how?”

“Book's all snuggly with a hollow-cheeked supermodel and Ax is leaning in between them, a fifth wheel-what?”

Moe said, “What do you mean, what?”

“Your eyes just dropped like lead sinkers.”

“I was just thinking. Book's tall and skinny. Maybe he's the other guy you saw.”

“Sure, but there are tons of skinny guys in L.A.” Aaron stood back. “Why am I getting that Book interests you?”

“Because Rory works for Book. As a P.A.”

Aaron's jaw grew rigid. “Now who's dribbing and drabbing?”

“I just found out.”

“When? How?”

“I don't need to explain my methods.”

“Your methods…” Aaron's smile was unsettling. “You change your mind about the Peninsula then the moment I'm gone you probably went over and reinterviewed Rory's mommy. Fine, you're the man and I'm hired help grateful to be clutching your coattails. But keep with that attitude and good luck closing Caitlin.”

Swinging his car keys violently, he headed for the Porsche.

Moe said, “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Aaron stopped, turned. “The point you seem to be missing is I do have confidence in you, Moses. If I didn't, I wouldn't waste time sharing info and believe me there's plenty of brain-dead morons with gold shields I wouldn't give the time of day. Caitlin's iced over, bro. You've got parts of the puzzle, I've got others. The smart thing would be to cooperate. Like that damned song you always listened to on Sesame Street.”

“I hated Sesame Street. That was you.”

“No, no, no, Moses. Electric Company was my thing. Morgan Freeman at his best.”

“So we play share-zies,” said Moe. “Maybe I get my clearance up, either way you rake in nice dough.”

“Like that's a felony?”

“You play too loose it could be felonious. I can't afford to jeopardize the investigation.”

“Like I'm going to infect you with something? Give me a break, Moses. I worked the job, I know the drill. And the hard truth is, either way, I'm going to keep digging. As in, looking into Mason Book the moment my ass hits my desk chair. Because there's more to him than you're telling me. He bugs you and I'm going to find out why.”