Dmitri said, “You think this actor could be involved.”

“It's worth pursuing.”

“Because there is nothing else.”

“The timing of the suicide attempt and the fact that the boyfriend now works for Book is suggestive.”

“Maybe the actor and maybe Dement's son. Maybe the son is a nasty bigot like his father.”

“Wouldn't surprise me,” said Aaron.

“But that is maybe not relevant, the girl was white.”

“At this point it's hard to say what's relevant and what isn't.”

Dmitri chomped, got hummus on his meaty chin, swiped himself clean. “Five hundred dollars for ‘special communications.’”

The bribe for that weasel O'Geara at the cell phone company. Two-year relationship and the lowlife ups his rate fifty percent.

The excuse: Mario Fortuno's bust had “kicked up the danger level.”

Aaron said, “I don't think you want to know the details.”

Dmitri was amused. “You are engaging in KGB tactics?”

Aaron laughed. Dmitri's pudgy forefinger nudged the waxed paper beneath Aaron's burger. “You don't like All-American food?”

“It's great.” Aaron bit down to demonstrate, earned himself a moldy-laundry tongue. “Sir, has Mr. Frostig talked to you since I started on the case?”

“No. Why?”

“For the time being, I'd keep him out of the loop-not give him any details.”

Dmitri's brow furrowed. “You suspect him of something?”

“No, sir, I just want to be careful-truth is, when I talked to him he seemed… almost ambivalent. Like he wasn't sure how he felt about reopening the investigation. In my experience, that's an unusual response.”

Dmitri tented his fingers. “Okay, we will keep him out of the loop.” Tiny smile. “Perhaps the loop will turn into a parabola. Or a hyperbola. Or a Fibonacci series.” Rising to his feet, Dmitri waddled to his Volvo, drove away fast.

Leaving Aaron to clean up.

Merry Ginzburg had told Aaron to meet her at a place on Hillhurst, near her office at the ABC studio on Prospect. He got there on time. Fifteen minutes later, she still hadn't shown.

The ambience at Food Tube made up for all the self-conscious I'm-so-hip vibe Ivan's had lacked. Lime-green walls inlaid with glass tiles listed at weird angles. The ceiling was crimson vinyl, the floor was chartreuse cement. Aaron felt trapped in the guts of some giant reptile.

Gaunt, black-clad servers huddled in a corner, trying to avoid three middle-aged women tackling food that looked as if it had been reclaimed from a compost heap. Aaron and the trio made up the lunch crowd.

No one had offered to seat him, so he picked a corner table, waited a good five minutes until a six-two redheaded girl deigned to come over. His mint tea order made her grimace.

“Something wrong?”

“I just hate all kinds of that stuff.”

“Tea,” he said.

“Yeah.”

He sat there for another seven before the mug of hot dishwater arrived. Not his day for cuisine. Boredom was cramping his head.

When out to pick up women, he played coy if they asked what he did for a living, then dropped the truth strategically. What he never let them know was how much of the job was phoning and schmoozing and waiting around.

He wanted to get out there and do something.

Maybe he'd call someone tonight, go out for a decent meal.

He was still trying to figure out who the lucky girl would be when Barret O'Geara phoned from a number Aaron didn't recognize.

“Prepaid, what do you think? I'm gonna leave a trail?”

“What did you learn?”

“That maybe Mason Book's got social problems.”

“What kind of problems?”

“Stud like that,” said O'Geara, “you'd think he'd be texting, getting texted nonstop by chicks, the studios, producers, whatever. What I got for the last ninety days is he calls Movie Line, Blockbuster, Beverage Warehouse. And, oh yeah, he does communicate with Dement's kid's cell. Ax, huh? Chop chop. Ax calls for lots of takeout, likes Italian and Thai. Book's only other high-frequency contact is someone named Rory Stoltz who I first thought was a chick but then I looked him up because he's also got an account with us-paid for by Book's business manager, as a matter of fact, and the middle name listed on the account is Jeremy. So that's three guys yapping. We talking gay?”

Aaron said, “How often do Book and Stoltz talk?”

“Once, twice a day, sometimes as much as six. Sometimes late, like three, four a.m. Let me in on it, Foxy, we talking Queerios in a bowl with milk and sugar?”

“What else you learn, Barret?”

“Holding back, huh? Meaning Book really does bat for the other team, all that studly stuff is pure bullshit? Oh, man, there's nothing to believe in anymore.”

“You're way off.”

“Then what's the deal?”

“You don't want to know. Look up Rory Stoltz for the last year and get back to me A-sap.”

“Whoa whoa whoa,” said O'Geara. “First of all, you know I never trace past ninety days because after ninety everything's encrypted and sent to a separate data bank at our headquarters so the Feds can snoop on anyone they damn well please. Second, another romp is gonna cost you another five C.”

“Cut the comedy,” said Aaron. “It's all part of the same assignment.”

“Who's joking? Everything's recorded here, man, it's worse than the CIA. Each time I log in, I'm putting my job in jeopardy. Not to mention my nonfelony status and subsequent ability to vote in national elections for the sleazeball of my choice.”

“It's the same gig, O'Geara.”

“Says you.”

“A hundred more, period.”

“Five brings it alive.”

“Hundred fifty,” said Aaron. “You jerk me around, we're through.”

“Hear that sound?” said O'Geara. “It ain't rain, it's my tears.”

“Suit yourself,” said Aaron, clicking off.

Three minutes later, Merry still hadn't shown up when O'Geara called from a different number. “Two seventy-five or it's splitsville and I demand alimony.”

“Two even and get back to me yesterday.”

“Two twenty-five and would you settle for right now?”

“You've already got it?”

“Two twenty-five says I might-”

“Spit it out, Barret.”

“I managed to go back four months, don't ask how, but the picture doesn't change much. Back then Book's still getting a few calls from CAA, but then the agent yak dies. Stoltz and Book keep chatting regularly and, guess what, Stoltz sometimes calls Ahab Dement, I knew this was some faggot thing. Because the only other high-freq number for Stoltz is at the Peninsula Hotel in B.H., the three of them are obviously surfing the chocolate pipeline in some fancy suite, right? Am I gonna read this on Drudge tomorrow, meanwhile you sell the info and get a Ferrari?”

“No and no,” said Aaron. “Do one more thing, no charge.”

“Oh, sure-”

“Look at it this way, Barret: seven fifty in cash is coming your way unless something goes wrong with the mail.”

“You're threatening me? I did the match, you owe the scratch.”

“Bye, Barry.”

“Getting overly familiar,” said O'Geara. “Why do I sense you're intending to screw me over?”

“There's no reason for conflict, Barry, just do something simple. Seeing as you work so fast, I'll stay on the line.”

He spelled out the assignment. Cursing, O'Geara relented. Just as the info came back, Merry Ginzburg stepped into the restaurant, saw Aaron, waved.

Aaron said, “Check's in the mail,” cut the connection, switched off his cell. When Merry reached his table, he got up, did the double-cheek-peck bit.

Merry was thirty-seven, short and curvy and pretty with luxuriant auburn hair and the saddest blue eyes Aaron had ever seen. Once a Calendar reporter for the Times, she'd been hired by the network affiliate to cover the Industry, delivered occasional gossip bits at the tail end of slow-day news broadcasts. Budget cuts had led to a buyout of her contract in eight months. She hadn't been on camera in ages.