"No, thanks."

The room opened into another at the back of the house. It was fixed with a large art table, jars of brushes and colored markers, and a high-end PowerMac. Classical music came from the back, and the house smelled of Marks-a-lots and coffee. His home felt comfortable. Dersh was wearing pressed chinos and a loose knit shirt that showed a lot of chest hair, some of it gone gray. Ink smudges tattooed his fingers. He'd been working.

"This won't take long, Mr. Dersh. I only have a couple of questions."

"Call me Gene. Please."

"Thanks, Gene." We sat on an overstuffed taupe couch.

"Don't feel you have to rush. I mean, what a horror for that poor girl, murdered like that. If there's any way I can help, I'm happy to do it." He'd been like that in the interview with Watts, anxious to cooperate. Some people are like that; thrilled to be a part of a criminal investigation. Riley Ward had been more tentative and clearly uncomfortable. Some people are like that, too.

He said, "You aren't the first today. When you called, I thought you were more of the TV people."

"The TV people called you?"

He had some of the coffee, then put his mug on the table. His eyes were bright. "A reporter from Channel 4 was here this morning. Channel 7 called, too. They want to know what it was like, finding her body." He tried to make himself sound disapproving, but you could see that he was thrilled that newspeople with cameras and lights had come to talk with him. He would dine out on these stories for years.

"I'll check it out this evening. See if I can catch you."

He nodded, smiling. "I'm going to tape it."

"You were up at the lake on Saturday as well, weren't you, Gene?"

"That's right."

"You recall seeing a red or brown SUV up there, like a Range Rover or a Four-Runner or one of those things? Might've been parked. Might've been coming in or going out?"

Dersh closed his eyes, thinking about it, then shook his head, looking disappointed. "Gee, no, I don't think so. I mean, so many people drive those things."

I described Edward Deege. "You see a guy like that up there?"

He frowned, thinking. "On Saturday?"

"Saturday or Sunday."

The frown turned into a squint, but then he shook his head again. "Sorry. I just don't remember."

"I knew it was a long shot, Gene, but I was just wondering."

"Did that man or the car have anything to do with what happened?"

"Don't know, Gene. You hear things, you have to follow up, you know?"

"Oh, sure. I just wish I could help you."

"You know anyone else who might've been up there on Saturday?"

"Uh-uh."

"Mr. Ward wasn't with you on Saturday, was he?" If Ward was there, I could ask him, too.

"No. Riley came with me on Sunday. He'd never been up to the lake before. Can you believe that? Here's Riley, a native for chrissake. He lives, what, two miles from the lake, and he's never been there."

"I know people who've never been to Disneyland."

Dersh nodded. "Amazing."

I stood, and thanked him for his time.

"That's all you wanted?"

"Told you it wouldn't take long."

"Don't forget. Channel 4."

"I'll watch."

Dersh brought his mug of Kenyan coffee to the door. "Detective Cole? Are you going to be, ah, seeing the girl's family?"

"I will be. Yes."

"Would you tell them how sorry I am? And give them my condolences?"

"Sure."

"I thought I might drop around sometime, since I was the one who discovered her body. Me and Riley."

"I'll tell her father."

Dersh sipped at his coffee, frowning. "If I remember anything else, I'll be sure to call. I want to help you. I really want to help catch the person who did this."

"If you remember anything, give Stan Watts a call. Okay?"

"Stan, and not you?"

"It'd be better if you called Stan."

I thanked him again, then went out to my car. I hadn't really expected that Dersh would have seen the SUV, but, like I told him, you hear something, you have to run it down. Especially when the cops won't.

I said, "What was so hard about that, Krantz? It took fifteen minutes." The detective, talking to himself.

I worked my way out of the foothills south to Franklin, then east toward Hollywood. Traffic was terrible, but I was feeling better about things, even though I hadn't learned much. Doing is better than watching, and now I felt like a doer, even though I wasn't supposed to be. I thought that I might phone Dolan and tell her that Krantz needn't go back to Dersh about the car. I could probably sound pretty smug when I said it, but Dolan probably wouldn't be impressed. Also, they would find out I'd gone to see Dersh sooner or later. I thought my telling them would make Krantz a little less apoplectic, but you never know. I was hoping it would make him worse.

I left Franklin trying to get away from the traffic, but the roads stayed bad. Another sinkhole had appeared in Hollywood like an acne crater brought on by the subway construction, and Cal Trans had several streets blocked. I turned down Western to pick up Hollywood Boulevard, found the traffic even worse, then cut onto one of the little side streets there, hoping to work my way around the worst of it. That's when the same dark blue sedan that I'd been seeing in my rearview since I'd left the hills turned in behind me.

At first I thought it was nothing. Other cars were turning to get away from the traffic, too, but those cars hadn't been floating behind me since Franklin.

Cars were moving a little better on Hollywood. I passed under the freeway, then turned north and pulled to the curb in front of a flower kiosk with huge signs printed in Spanish. Rosas $2.99.

The sedan pulled past, two men in the front, both with sunglasses and both yucking it up and doing their best to pretend that they weren't interested in me. Of course, maybe they weren't. Maybe all of this was a coincidence.

I copied their tag number, then bought a dozen red roses for Lucy. Serendipity should not be ignored.

I waited for a short Salvadoran man to finish with the pay phone outside the flower stand, then called my friend at the Department of Motor Vehicles. I asked her to run the tag, and waited some more.

She came back in a few seconds. "You sure about this?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"It came back 'No ID.' You want me to run it again?"

"No, thanks. That's fine."

I hung up, took the roses to my car, and sat there.

"No ID" is what you get when the car is registered to the Los Angeles Police Department.

The sun was settling over the city like a deflated balloon when I got to Lucy's apartment. I had stopped for groceries after the flower stand, and then a liquor store, all the while watching my rearview. The blue sedan didn't return, and if anyone else was following me, I didn't spot them. Just the kind of paranoid experience you want before a romantic evening.

When Lucy saw the roses, she said, "Oh, they're lovely."

"Do you see their tears?"

She smiled, but looked confused. "What tears?"

"They're sad. Now that they've seen you, they know they're not the prettiest things on earth."

She touched the flowers, then sighed playfully. "They'll just have to get used to it, I guess."

Lucy brought a small overnight bag as we went down to my car.

"Ben get off to camp okay?"

"Once he met a couple of the other kids he was fine. I set my call-forwarding to ring at your place. I hope you don't mind."

"Of course not. You sure you don't want to take your own car?"

"This is more romantic. My lover is spiriting me away for a night of passion at his love nest in the mountains. I can come back for my car tomorrow."

I had never thought of my house as a love nest, but there you go.