The Murder Book

He edged even closer to Milo. Said something. Milo turned and answered.

Smiley nodded.

Milo picked up his food and returned to the table.

"Friendly sort?" I said.

"Who?"

"The guy behind you. He's been smiling since he left that Jeep."

"So?"

"So what's to smile about?"

Milo allowed his own mouth to curl upward. But he let his eyes drift back to the counter, where the smiling man was now conversing with the counter girl. "Anything other than that bother you about him?"

"He was standing close enough to you to smell your cologne."

"If I wore any," he said, but he continued to watch the goings-on at the counter. Finally sat back and sank his teeth into the third chili dog. "Nothing like health food." He regarded my half-finished wurst. "What's with the anorexia?"

"Just out of curiosity, what did he say to you up there?"

"Oh, boy…" He shook his head. "He wanted to know what was good, okay? I told him I liked anything with chili. Heavy-duty intrigue."

I smiled. "Or flirting."

"Me?"

"Him."

"Oh, sure, strangers always come up and hit on me. The old fatal charm and all that."

But he hazarded another glance at the counter where Smiley was still gabbing with the girl as he paid for his dog. Plain, no chili. He sat down at the table closest to ours, unfolded a napkin over his lap, flipped his hair, beamed at Milo, said. "Chickened out on the chili."

"Your loss."

Smiley laughed. Tugged at his lapel. Took a bite. A dainty little bite that didn't alter the shape of the hot dog.

I mumbled, "Fatal charm."

Milo said, "Enough," and wiped his face.

Smiley continued to nibble without making much progress. Dabbed his chin. Showed off his dental work. Made several attempts at catching Milo's eye. Milo moved his bulk around, stared at the ground.

Smiley said, "These really are a mouthful."

I fought back laughter.

Milo nudged my arm. "Let's go."

We stood. Smiley said, "Have a nice day."

He got to his feet as we reached the car and jogged toward us, sandwich in one hand, the other waving.

"What the hell," said Milo and his hand sidled under his coat.

Smiley reached into his own jacket and all at once Milo had interposed himself between the stranger and me. A flesh barrier, immense; tension seemed to enlarge him. Then he relaxed. Smiley was still waving, but the something in his hand was small and white. A business card.

"Sorry for being so forward, but I… here's my number. Call me if you'd like."

"Why would I do that?" said Milo.

Smiley's lips drew back, and his grin morphed into something hungry and unsettling. "Because you never know."

He dangled the card.

Milo stood there.

Smiley said, "Oh, well," and placed the card on the hood of the Seville. His new face was serious, vulpine, purposeful. He trotted away from us, tossed the uneaten hot dog in the trash, got into the Jeep, and sped away as Milo hustled to copy down his license plate. He picked the card off the hood, read it and handed it to me.

Off-white vellum with a faintly greasy feel, engraved letters.

Paris M. Bartlett

Health Facilitator

Below that, a cell phone number.

" 'Because you never know,' " said Milo. "Health facilitator. Do I look sick?"

"Other than stains on your shirt you look perfectly put-together."

"Health facilitator," he repeated. "Sounds like something from the AIDS industry." He pulled out his cell phone and jabbed in Paris Bartlett's number. Frowned again. "No longer in service. What the hell…"

"Time to DMV the plates?" I said.

"DMV'ing is illegal when I'm on vacation. Using departmental resources for personal reasons, big no-no."

"John G. would disapprove mightily."

"Mightily." He made the call to State Motor Vehicles, recited the plate, waited a while, wrote something down. "The plates belong to a two-year-old Jeep, so that's kosher. Registered to the Playa del Sol Corporation. The address is right here in West Hollywood. I recognize it. Parking lot of the Healthy Foods market on Santa Monica. There's a post-office box outlet there. I know because I used to rent there myself."

"When?"

"Long time ago."

A safe. A POB. All the new things I was learning about my friend.

"Dead number, shadow address," I said. "Playa del Sol could be nothing more than a cardboard box in someone's apartment, but it does have the ring of a real estate outfit."

"As in the Cossacks." He studied the card. "That and the call about my vacation time. Right after we talk to Marlene Baldassar. Maybe she can't be trusted."

Or maybe he hadn't covered his trail. I said, "It could be just a pickup attempt." But I knew that was wrong. Paris Bartlett had bounded out of his car with clear intention.

He slipped the card in his pocket. "Alex, I grew up in a big family, never got much attention, never developed a taste for it. I need some alone time."

I drove him back to his place, and he hurtled out of the Seville, mumbled something that might've been, "Thanks," slammed the door, and loped toward his front door.

I made it to my own front door thirty-five minutes later, told myself I'd be able to walk right past the phone. But the red blinking 1 on the answering machine snagged me, and I stabbed the message button.

Robin's voice: "Looks like I missed you again, Alex. There's another change in schedule, we're adding an extra day in Vancouver, maybe the same in Denver. It's crazy around here, I'll be in and out." Two-second delay, then several decibels lower: "I love you."

Obligatory add-on? Unlike Pierce Schwi

I phoned the Four Seasons Seattle again and asked for Ms. Castagna's room. This time if they gave me voice mail, I'd leave a message.

But a man answered. Young, one of those laughing voices. Familiar.

Sheridan. He of the ponytail, the cheerful outlook, and the Milk-Bone for Spike.

"Robin? Oh hi. Yeah, sure."

Seconds later: "This is Robin."

"And this is Alex."

"Oh… hi. Finally."

"Finally?"

"Finally we co

"Everything's peachy," I said. "Am I interrupting something?"

"What- oh, Sheridan? No, we were just finishing up a meeting. A bunch of us."

"Busy busy."

"I've got time, now. So how are you? Busy yourself?"

This was too much like small talk, and it depressed me. "Muddling along. How's Spike?"

"Thriving. There's a bunch of other dogs along for the ride, so there's a nice ke

"Does the ke

She laughed, but sounded tired. "So…"

I said, "So are you getting in any social time?"

"I'm working, Alex. We're putting in twelve-, thirteen-hour days."

"Sounds tough. I miss you."

"Miss you, too. We both knew this would be difficult."

"Then we were both right."

"Honey- hold on, Alex… someone just stuck their head in." Her voice got muffled and distant; hand over the phone. "I'll see what I can do, give me a little time on it, okay? When's sound-check? That soon? Okay, sure." Back to me: "As you can see I haven't had much solitude."

"I've had plenty."

"I'm jealous."

"Are you?"

"Yes," she said. "We both like our solitude, right?"

"You can have yours back anytime."

"I can't exactly walk out on everyone."

"No," I said. "As Richard Nixon said, that would be wrong."

"I mean I- if there was some easy- if that would really make you happy, I'd do it."

"It would ruin your reputation."

"It sure wouldn't help it."

"You're committed," I said. "Don't worry about it." Why the hell is Sheridan so happy?