Contents

Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Epilogue
About the Author

Jon Cooper used to think he wanted a life free of complications, but that was before he got
involved with his roommate, Leander. Jon knows that the only thing he can't lose is what he
doesn't have, but where does that leave him?

Leander Thorne, on the other hand, is an easygoing bookworm, with an addiction to books and
cooking shows, and a soft spot for Jon, despite Jon's grumpiness. He also happens to be a psychic
specializing in finding lost pets and—more recently—lost people. He's good at it. Too good if you
ask Jon,

Unsolved crimes, missing people and bodies buried in the Mojave Desert make Jon's and
Leander's lives anything but uncomplicated. Jon is forced to dig into his soul and find a way to let
go of his past if he wants to keep Leander.

.

Copyright © 2013 Lou Harper

Cover Art by Lou Harper Copyright 2013

All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner

whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical

articles and reviews.

This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or

existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the

author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or

dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

CHAPTER ONE

The early morning sunlight splashed through the blinds, casting

stripes on the lumpy comforter. Oblivious to the world, the source of
those lumps kept snoring. If you could call it that. Bunny rabbits snored
louder than Leander—Andy to me and only to me. Propped up on an
elbow, I'd been watching him sleep for a good ten minutes, while my
heart filled with a confused mixture of affection and anxiety.

Leander and I had been roommates for roughly ten months and friends

with benefits for the last six or seven of those, but I still hadn't been able
to fall into the carefree routine where you take the other person's
presence for granted. Maybe I never would. I'd learned the hard way that
the only thing you couldn't lose was what you didn't have. A fear of Andy
flickering out of my life as abruptly as he'd entered it had burrowed into
the corner of my heart.

Andy snuffled and as his eyes opened they met mine. "Mmm…Jon,

were you watching me?" he muttered.

"You can't prove it," I said, embarrassed at being caught.
His lips curled. "You'd be creepy if you weren't so damn sexy.

Especially first thing in the morning." He rolled toward me and hooked a

leg over mine. "I had a nice dream." He rubbed his groin to mine in case
I wondered what he'd been dreaming about. I had a good guess. Andy
almost always woke up cheerfully horny. He pulled my head close and
rubbed his cheeks to mine. Our scraping bristles made the sound of
sandpaper. Andy smelled of citrus and sleep. Both his good mood and
horniness spread to me.

It took us a few seconds to strip off our shorts and press our bodies

together. Once, while hiking, I'd come across a pair of rattlesnakes
curled around each other, making sweet serpentine love. We had
nowhere near their grace but our bodies undulated with the same primal
urge, skin rubbing against skin. A bit too much friction with sweat as the
only lubricant, though, but not for long. Andy stretched for the nightstand
and after a brief fumbling got hold of the lube.

Our hands joined over our shafts and for a while the room filled with

our heavy breathing, grunts, and the squishy and slippery noises of body
parts rubbing against each other. Andy came first—he groaned and a
slack-jawed expression of bliss took over his face. Those sights and
sounds were what pushed me to the finish too. It was morning sex, pure
and simple, quick, dirty, and the best way to start a new day. And so
much more satisfying than my solo endeavors before Andy.

"That was nice," he said, echoing my thoughts. He stretched and his

eyes fluttered closed. Knowing him, he was about to go back to sleep.

I nudged him. "Might as well get up."
"C'mon, Jon, five more minutes. It's still dawn," he protested.
"Seven a.m. is not dawn."
"It sure is. It's not my fault you old people can't sleep."
Chronologically I was barely twenty-eight, only five years older than

Andy, but felt much older. He knew it and kept making fun of it. I figured
he'd be fine once I poured a cup of coffee in him, so I rolled out of bed
and let him be. But before I could beeline to the kitchen Andy's cell
phone on the night stand started to squawk. Seriously, who had parrot
sounds as a ringtone? And who'd call Andy so early—for him—in the
morning? It seemed to surprise him too. He stared at the number without
any sign of recognition before answering. "Leander Thorne," he said in a
tone between wary and curious.

I listened to his side of the conversation. "Yes, I am…she did?…

You are?… Of course, I can. Cats and dogs are my specialty…now?"
Resignation filled his voice. "I can be there in half—" I poked him hard
and shook my head when he looked at me. I held up my index finger with
emphasis. "I'll be there in an hour," he said while glaring at me. "Sure,
give me your address. Just a second." He sat up and cast his eyes around
till he spotted one of my sketchbooks and the pencil stuck into its spine.
"Okay, go." He wrote down an address and hung up. "I got a job," he
said yawning.

"I figured as much, but you're not leaving without a breakfast." I

headed toward the kitchen.

That's the thing about living with a psychic—they keep irregular

hours. Andy didn't tell fortunes and similar nonsense. No, he had a talent
for finding things—pets, lost objects, and whatnot. Of course, I hadn't
believed him when he'd first told me about his calling, but I'd changed
my mind after seeing him in action.

After feeding and caffeinating Andy, I sent him on his way, and I got

going too. While psychic business seemed like a hinky way of making a
living, I had no room to criticize. I once made an honest living in
construction but had sunk to the dubious status of art student after a car
accident had fucked up my shoulder and my life. At least I had a
respectable summer job painting houses, thanks to an old buddy from my
construction days. Jim and I hadn't been close friends—not the visiting
each other's homes kind—but we'd been friendly.

He'd always been an enterprising guy, and when the housing market

went south he started a business cleaning out foreclosed homes. It turned
out to be profitable but from what he'd told me, you needed a strong
stomach for that line of work. His wife ran the cleaning business now,
while Jim got into renovating those same houses—sometimes for the
bank, sometimes for himself. He was different from all those shady
house flippers who only cared about making a quick buck. Jim did
quality work; he'd never drywall over iffy wiring or use cheap materials.
He did everything to more than minimum code. And that's why he hired
me to do the painting—because he knew I'd do the job right. It wasn't
steady employment, but Jim promised me a fair amount of work for the

next few months.

***

I didn't see Andy again till that evening. I'd already had dinner and

was watching the evening news when he strolled in carrying a canvas
shopping bag with angular bulges. I suspected books. I was right.

He tapped the bag. "I stopped at Iliad." That was one of his favorite

book stores. He beamed prouder than a cat bringing home a freshly-
killed mouse.

"You're an addict. You consume those books like some people snort

coke," I niggled him.

"Nobody has ever overdosed on books."
"Touché. Okay, show me the score."
Andy dumped his loot on the coffee table. There was quite a variety

—mystery, nonfiction, historical. He wasn't fussy over genre or subject
matter. "I got you a Michael Connelly," he said, pushing a hefty
hardcover across the table. "I don't know why you like them so much.
The endings are always such downers. He solves the cases but nothing
gets any better."

"They're realistic. There are no happy endings in life."
He rolled his eyes and gathered up the rest. "Realism is overrated.

I'll put these in my room."

"Are you hungry?" I asked.
"Nah, I had tacos."
He disappeared into his room but tromped back a minute later

holding a single, thick paperback. He dropped sideways onto the couch
and tucked his toes under my thigh.

I circled a hand around one of his ankles and squinted at him. "You

know, there are these newfangled things called libraries."

"Really? Tell me more." He kept his face straight but his eyes

twinkled, like they always did when he was pretending to take me
seriously.

"If you keep bringing books home you might end up compromising the

structural integrity of the whole building." Actually, I didn't mind his
books at all but I had my reputation as a grouch to maintain.

He made a snort-laugh and changed the subject. "How was your day?

Anything interesting?"

"House painting is low on thrills, sorry. I had a McMansion in Van

Nuys—Navajo white in the living room, Shaker beige in the hallways,
and a very adventurous hawthorn yellow in the master bedroom."

"You live dangerously. Hurt your shoulder, didn't you? You're

working too hard."

I did manage to pull a previously injured muscle by lifting a heavy

paint can too fast with the wrong hand, but he had no way of knowing
that. "Are you psyching me?"

"Your aura has purple spots to the one side," he said with a tone of

such seriousness I knew he was yanking my chain. "Oh yeah, and you
smell like IcyHot."

Of course. "All right, Sherlock."
"You shouldn't have taken that job. It's too hard."
"It's only for the summer and it pays well. Did you find that cat?"
"Yup. Safe and sound. Muffin was three houses down with a

neighbor, having breakfast. She's a strictly indoor kitty and was gone all
night, so the owner's panic was reasonable. Oh, and guess who my client
was!"

"Uhm, Big Foot?" I sucked at guessing games.
"You're not even trying." Reproach tinted his cornflower-blue eyes.
I made an effort and said what seemed logical. "Some old lady with

twenty cats?"

"No."
"I give up."
"Mark Stevens!"
"The Mark Stevens?" Stevens was one of those up-and-coming actors

with star potential. He had the looks and charm and could even act. He'd
also come out as gay recently, although it had been pretty obvious even
before that. Well, maybe not to people living in certain other parts of the
country.

"In the flesh. He was totally friendly too. So not stuck up like some

other Hollywood types, not that I know any, except Myra Banks, and
she's not even B-list. Mark got my name from her, by the way. I told you
about her—lost Chihuahua in Runyon Canyon last year. Remember?"

"I sure do." I remembered everything having to do with Andy.
"Apparently, she sang my praises, even though I only found Caesar's

collar. Anyway, Mark was so embarrassed about the whole thing he paid
me double and we chatted about movies. He's really cool."

"Should I be jealous?" I joked. Sort of.
"Madly." He grinned and opened his book.
I slid my hand up on his calf. In my mind's eye I could see the golden

fuzz covering it. "Tomorrow is Saturday. I thought we could go down to
the beach. It's supposed to be a scorcher up here."

He peered at me over the edge of his book and I was surprised to

detect guilt in his eyes. "I thought you were gonna work tomorrow."

"I have until Tuesday to finish up the house and I'm mostly done

already. I can take a day off. You just said I work too hard."

Andy squirmed. "Uhm…I told Gary I'd go to the desert with him."
Gary, Gary, Gary… "Detective Lipkin?" My mood took a nose dive.
Lipkin had popped into our lives last fall, not long after Andy and I

became roommates. He'd asked Andy to help out on a cold case—a
decades old murder. It was Andy's first time doing something of the sort.
He did well, but I knew it took a toll on him. Finding people was
different than pets or lost keys. Humans with their messy emotions and
dramas got into Andy's head and I could tell the experience wore him
out.

Last time I saw him I let Lipkin know he could stay a stranger, and he

had. At least I'd thought so. "How long have you two been sneaking
around behind my back?" I asked.

Andy chuckled. "You're funny."
Hearing myself I realized I sounded ridiculously like a jilted lover.

Not only was Lipkin arrow-straight, Andy I weren't lovers. We'd never
talked any sort of exclusivity. I had nobody else, and before that moment
it hadn't occurred to me that Andy would. But technically I had no claims
over him. The realization bugged me more than I was willing to admit.
"You know what I mean," I said.

"First time, swear. He called me the other day to ask if I could stop

by the station and look at something for him. How could I refuse?" He
spread his hands and the book flopped onto his chest. "I always wanted

to know what a detective squad was like on the inside. Pretty
disappointing, if you ask me—no better than a messy office. He gave me
this gold watch to psych, and I traced it on a map from Vegas to
somewhere outside of Baker. But it's a big stretch of nothing out there, so
I told Gary I'd help him pinpoint the exact location. Otherwise he'd have
a hell of a time finding the…" He bit his lip.

"The body?"
"Yeah, probably. I know dead people make you cranky," he said with

a rueful expression.

"No, they don't. But I remember how much psyching for people wears

you out. Then you wake up in the middle of the night from strange
dreams. That makes me…concerned. You could've at least told me about
this jaunt." For an easygoing guy Andy had a stubborn streak a mile
wide, so I wasn't too surprised about his professional dalliance with
Detective Lipkin, but having kept it secret stung. He came to me for help
before, but I guessed now he had new friends.

Andy sighed. "Sorry, I shoulda told you but I didn't want you to get in

a bad mood. It's just…I have a talent for this stuff and I should use it.
You have your talent too."

"I never wanted to do advertising design or any other artsy-fartsy

stuff. My academic advisor tricked me," I said defensively.

"Well, it's a good thing she did. You have illustration skills some

people would kill for."

"Yeah well, I still think electricians have better job security." On this

point Andy and I were deadlocked, so I circled back to our original
topic. "It's your right to go hunting for corpses in the boonies, if that's
what you want, but I'm going with you."

Andy's eyes lit up. "Super! I didn't think you'd be interested."
Corpse hunting wasn't on the top of my favorite things to do, but

someone had to keep an eye on Andy and I didn't trust Lipkin with such
an important job. "Well, call the good Detective and tell him we're
leaving at six a.m. sharp. He can either meet us here or out there, but we
won't be waiting for him if he's late."

Andy's smile fell. "Six?"
"It'll take at least two hours to drive from Pasadena to Baker, and it'll

be hotter than hell on a sunny day out there. Not to mention, the sooner
we go the more likely we'll avoid the weekend gamblers rushing to
Vegas."

He sighed and pattered away to make the phone call.

***

The next day Andy spent the first hour or so of the drive gazing

sleepily out the window and sipping coffee from a thermos. Inevitably,
we had to make a few pit stops so he could use the bathroom.

"You need to start drinking water instead, or you'll get dehydrated," I

told him.

Our destination was the so-called high desert, northeast of L.A. This

is where the hot Santa Ana winds came from every fall to fan our
wildfires. Not many people lived out there, in such inhospitable land. I'd
made sure we had plenty of water, just in case our search took longer
than expected.

Baker was no bigger than a fly-speck on the map, existing solely to

service motorist driving to and from Las Vegas on Interstate 15. Its one
claim to fame was the world's tallest thermometer, rising above the
cluster of gas stations and fast food joints.

Andy sat straight up and kept scanning the town as if trying to take in

everything at once. "Holy shit, it's eighty degrees already?" he asked
after getting an eyeful of the thermometer.

"I told you it would be hot," I replied, and turned off the Interstate,

onto a side road out into the Mojave, and toward the spot Andy had
shown me on the map the night before. In the rearview mirror I saw
Lipkin's car behind us. I slowed down and glanced at Andy. A wide-
eyed tension had taken over his expression, and I knew he was on the
scent. "Just tell me when to stop," I said.

We crawled at twenty-five miles per hour for twenty minutes before

coming to a dirt road and then down on it for another ten before he told
me to pull over. The moment we stepped out of the cab the heat slammed
into us.

"Sunscreen," I reminded him. With his pale skin he'd burn in minutes.
While he slathered the stuff over his face and arms, I fished a

backpack out from behind the seats. At the end of the spring semester I'd

traded in my sedan for a used pick-up truck. It had some miles on it and a
few dents, but it was a sturdy thing with a bed liner and lockable
toolbox. The truck came in handy lugging around paint cans, ladder, and
stuff, but I'd lost out on cab space. Still, the so-called backseat was big
enough for a few bags and a cooler. I grabbed a couple of bottles of
water and stuffed them in the backpack too.

Lipkin pulled up behind us. He wasn't alone—a woman climbed out

of the passenger side. They made an interesting pair—a bulldog-faced
white guy well into his forties and an attractive Latina at least a decade
younger. She wore her curly, dark hair short, and her face serious,
bordering on sour.

"My partner, Detective Cruz," Lipkin introduced her.
She greeted us with tight-lipped civility. I had an impression

searching for dead bodies in the middle of nowhere with a psychic was
not her idea of either detective work or a fun way to spend a Saturday. I
understood the sentiment, but I wasn't happy to see her either. What the
hell was Lipkin thinking? Was he gonna bring along the whole damn
department next time?

Naturally, none of that ruffled Andy. He jammed a wide-brimmed

straw hat on his head. "Do you have the…thing?" he asked Lipkin, after
introductions.

The detective nodded and fetched a brown paper bag out of his car.

From it he pulled out a gold watch, the kind nobody wore just to know
the time. Too thick and heavy for anything but showing off.

Andy took the watch and just held it, eyes closed and head bowed,

for several long seconds. At last, he spun on his heels and started
walking, straight out into the landscape. There was nothing but dirt,
sagebrush, and the occasional Joshua tree, as far as the eye could see,
except for the line of mountains far off in the distance.

I took my place at Andy's side. He didn't pay much attention to his

surroundings when he got into the zone. He'd walk into a den of
rattlesnakes without noticing it. So I stayed next to him and I kept my
eyes on the ground. The coppers trailed behind. They were arguing under
their breaths. I couldn't make out the words, but caught the irritated pitch
of Detective Cruz's tone and the low rumble of Lipkin's.

We were about a hundred yards from the road when Andy's steps

faltered and he started ambling left and right. He stopped and a frown of
indecision took over his face. I expected him to take his shoes off, like
he had in a similar situation before, but instead he sat on the ground.
After taking his hat off he lay back. The earth here was coarse: rocky
sand, baked hard by the sun, but he paid no mind. He closed his eyes and
pressed his fingers onto the dirt.

For minutes nothing happened. I positioned myself to cast a shadow

over Andy's face. Lipkin had seen Andy at work before, so he waited
stoically, but Cruz kept fidgeting and giving Lipkin the hairy eyeball.
Once she opened her lips to say something but Lipkin gave her a look
and she closed them again. She scowled at him something fierce but not a
peep escaped her lips. We were all sweating like horses but we kept
waiting.

At long last Andy opened his eyes and pushed himself into a sitting

position. I saw right away he'd gotten wobbly so I helped him up. He
leaned on me for a moment, before tottering away another twenty feet.
The rest of us followed. He stopped and kicked the ground. "Right here."

I took off my backpack and first took out a bottle of water. Andy

gratefully took it. Next I pulled out a camping shovel, unfolded it and
handed it to Lipkin. He pulled a face but began to dig while the rest of us
watched.

Andy downed half his water in one go. "Lots of bones in the ground,"

he said.

Cruz snickered. "In the middle of nowhere halfway between Vegas

and L.A.? You don't say." Her expression said she wasn't about to be
bamboozled by a couple of shysters.

I ignored her and patted the dirt off Andy's back. He kept chugging his

water, and Lipkin kept digging.

"Hey, there's something here." Lipkin stopped and dropped onto his

knees.

To her credit, Cruz immediately crouched next to him, and the two of

them used their hands to carefully clear away enough soil to make sure
the blue piece of fabric was attached to an actual body.

She straightened up, glared at the ground, at us, and finally at her

partner. Her eyes narrowed. "Damn you, Gary!"

Lipkin stood too, the shovel dangling in his hand. "What did I do?"

Traces of a smug smile showed on his usually inexpressive face. I got an
inkling they had a habit of ribbing each other, like people working close
together often did.

Cruz put her hands on her hips. "You crazy cracker. You must be the

only cop ever to know a bona fide psychic to find a goddamn dead body
in the middle of goddamn nowhere."

Lipkin's lips twitched. I thought he might have been smiling. "I love

you too, Cruz."

"There goes our weekend." She sighed and cast her eyes around,

taking in the vast, scorching nothingness.

She turned toward us. "So, kid, can you tell us how he died?"
"Violently, I assume, or you wouldn't be looking for him. Am I right?"
"Don't be a smartass, kid," she said in her cop tone.
"The name is Leander, but you can call me Mr. Thorne, Detective.

And your guy has a bullet in his skull. That might have something to do
with the cause of death, but it's not my area of expertise." He smiled
sweetly and innocently but didn't fool anyone, least of all Detective
Cruz, who glowered at him for a few seconds.

In the end she shook her head and turned to Lipkin. "We might as well

call this in."

"Oh, you can have this back." Andy handed her the gold watch, which

she took with resignation. Unfortunately for her, Andy had more bad
news. "There's another one, over there, left of that Joshua tree. Body, I
mean." He pointed toward the direction of the mountains. "It's been there
longer though. Years."

Lipkin was instantly alert, like a dog spotting a squirrel. "How old?"
"Not sure. It's only bones. Not like him." Andy cast his eyes at the

patch of human visible in the dirt.

Cruz narrowed her eyes. "No fucking way. We could be digging from

here to Vegas and find a dozen bodies." She fixed Lipkin in her sights. "It
could be any old gangster from God knows when."

"It's a child," Andy said.
She turned back and scrutinized Andy's expression. A moment later

she snatched the shovel from Lipkin and marched off to the tree. "Here?"

Andy nodded. "Yup, right there. A couple of feet down."
I zipped up the backpack and hoisted it on my shoulders. I also

picked up the straw hat and shoved it back on Andy's head. "Nice job.
Now let's get out of here before we bake. You're already half-done."

"Where do you think you're going?" Lipkin barked.
"Back to L.A. We're done here. This is all police work now; you

don't need us. Oh, you can return the shovel later. Happy digging!"

He gave me a dirty look, which filled me with glee.
Andy leaned into me as we made our way back to the road. "You all

right?" I asked.

"Tired, but it'll pass. I don't envy them. They'll have a long weekend."

He tipped his head in the general direction of the detectives.

"They dug their own beds, now they can sleep in them."
He chuckled. "The king of mixed metaphors strikes again. You know

Gary's not a bad guy. Why are you always so aggro on him?"

"He's bossy, keeps dragging you into his old murder cases. What's not

to dislike? You almost got yourself killed last time."

"First of all, my life wasn't really in danger…" He ignored my

derisive snort. "Secondly, that had nothing to do with Gary."

He had me there, but it wouldn't have done to admit it. "Exactly. You

have plenty of talent getting yourself into trouble without his help. Is he
even paying you?"

Andy's silence was an answer enough.
"Oh great," I grumbled on. "You're giving him a freebie. Very

generous of you."

He wound his arm around my waist. "You're an old grouch, but I love

you anyway."

Now, that shut me up.

CHAPTER TWO

Back in the car Andy wolfed down a couple of bananas he'd brought

for snacks, and then immediately dozed off. I had plenty of quiet time to
chew over his casual use of the L-word. We'd made agreement last
winter to keep things light, and we had a good thing going—sex and
friendship. Why mess it up with the stickiness of emotions? At any case,
I had no reason to think his utterance meant anything more than an I love
you, bro between a couple of straight guys. After deliberation I decided
to leave it at that.

***

We made it down to Santa Monica the next day, after all. During

summer the pier turned into a miniature amusement park, complete with
all the trappings of its kind. Personally, I could've done without the
crowds and all the tacky tourist-baiting crap, but Andy went nuts, like a
kid at Disneyland. I let him drag me onto several rides and to play air-
hockey in the arcade. He wanted to take a lesson at the trapeze school
but all the slots were filled till the evening. I put my foot down when he
tried to drag me on a bumper car ride. I suggested a stroll all the way to
the end of the pier instead.

I'd made reservations at the Mexican restaurant there but we were

early, so we sat on a bench while we waited. Crisp air breezed through
from the ocean, making up for the merciless blaze of the sun.

"Great place for people watching," Andy said observing the

multitudes wandering by. They ranged from babies to senior citizens, and
came in all colors, sizes, and ethnicities. Lots of tourists with their
cameras and locals acting cool so as not to be mistaken for tourists. And
all of them milling around aimlessly.

"If you like the sight of people ambling around like rudderless

sheep," I commented.

As Andy laughed the freckles seemed to dance over the bridge of his

nose. I liked to watch him laugh.

"Have you ever been here in winter?" I asked.
He shook his head.
"It's dead. Hardly a soul around." I kinda preferred it then, but I kept

that to myself.

A troop of kids tramped by in matching orange T-shirts, herded by

harried adults. An older Hispanic man was fishing from the railing. I
wondered if he ever caught anything. And if he did, was it edible?

The squawking of Andy's phone interrupted my ponderings.
"Who is it?" I asked as he stared at the screen.
"I dunno. Maybe another new client. Two in three days—when it

rains it pours. You mind?"

"Go ahead." I wasn't crazy about the intrusion, but it was Andy's

living and who was I to mess with that? Especially since he'd had a
couple of lean months.

I had one ear on the conversation, another on a young couple talking

in a language I didn't recognize. I didn't understand a word but I could
tell he was smitten. Poor bastard.

"Hang on for a second." Andy muted the phone and turned to me with

a question mark expression. "The client would like to see me…us today.
He's from out of town."

"Can he wait till after lunch?"
Andy un-muted the phone. "At two-thirty… No, I'm afraid not… Yes.

All right. See you then." He hung up. "The guy's staying at the Chateau

Marmont. I've never been there. Have you?"

I knew of the place—a fancy hotel on Santa Monica Boulevard.

Supposedly a good spot for celebrity sightings. "Not one of my regular
hangouts."

"John Belushi died there, you know."
"I'd heard that. Please tell me you're not going to try to summon his

ghost or something."

He elbowed me. "I'm not a medium, dummy."
My phone dinged, reminding me it was time for our lunch

reservation. We strolled up to the entrance and the hostess seated us out
on the terrace. She put us in a nice spot right by the railing; from under
the shade of a big blue umbrella we had a grand view of the Pacific
Ocean and the spotless sky above it. A skinny guy with black hair and
tattoos down both his arms was playing a guitar and singing classic rock
songs. He had a bucket out for money.

Andy stretched his legs out under the table till they entwined with

mine. I didn't think he realized he was doing it. He studied the menu with
deep concentration. "This is kinda pricey."

"Yeah, but they don't charge extra for the view. Don't worry, I'm

buying."

He pursed his lips. "I feel like a kept man."
If only free lunches were all it would take to keep him for good.

"There's nothing wrong with that."

"Hopefully after this next job I'll be able to wine and dine you for a

change."

I shrugged. "If you wish. Who's your client anyway, and what did he

lose?"

Andy set the menu aside. "His name's Hayward. A lawyer from

Louisiana. He wants me to find a missing person."

I didn't like the sound of it. "Another body?"
"Sounded more like a runaway, but he wouldn't tell me much over the

phone. We'll find out when we talk to him."

We were interrupted by the waiter but once he scuttled away with our

order I figured I'd ask Andy about something niggling me since our trip to
the desert. Since we were on the subject already. "The stuff you did

yesterday was different than before."

"Stuff?"
"You know, the whole lying down on the ground. Usually you take

your shoes off and sort of putter around."

"Oh that. New thing—discovered it by accident while meditating in

the park. There I was relaxing and everything, and out of the blue I could
feel foreign objects in the ground. So of course, yesterday I was curious
if it worked for bodies."

"Obviously it did." I shook my head. "What kind of meditation were

you doing?"

"Oh, just the usual stuff—breathing, emptying your mind, relaxing

your body thing, and then the visualization. The last part is the key, I
suspect. I mean, you're supposed to think of pink bubbles, babbling
brooks, whatever relaxing image you can come up with. It used to be a
grassy patch in the woods for me but I got the idea of trying something
different."

"What?" I had an uneasy feeling—Andy's stress release ideas tended

to be unusual.

"I close my eyes." He closed his eyes. "And imagine my body turning

into dust." His eyes popped open. "Kinda like a movie special effect.
And then I imagine the dust blending into the ground."

I didn't find the image even remotely relaxing. "It sounds morbid."
He shook his head. "Not at all. It's incredibly peaceful—like being

one with the earth and it's so alive—I can feel worms digging around.
And strangely, I can sense things in the ground that don't belong. I wasn't
expecting it, but there it is."

"Don't meditate in cemeteries."
"Yeah…" He frowned. "I think if they're in the ground long enough,

they became part of it. Like, they give up resisting. You know what I
mean?"

I sighed. "You're a fruit."
"Yeah, we established that a long time ago. Tell me something new."

He grinned and the skin puckered in the corner of his eyes. He'd have
fine crow's feet there one day, long time from now. I caught myself
picturing him as an older man, and me with him. The fear burrowed

deeper into my heart, leaving an ache in its wake. I almost told Andy
about it, but the waiter arrived with our food and the moment vanished.
Probably for the best.

Andy looking for dead people, getting mixed up with police matters,

murders, they filled me with worry, but I didn't want to show it. I didn't
want to spoil our day out. "You could make a fortune hunting for
treasure," I joked.

"Sadly, my range is too small. So far I found a pocketful of change

and a matchbox car—a fire truck." His eyes glinted brighter than the
washed-out sky. "But you know what? You might be onto something. We
should take a trip to the Caribbean. If you get me within fifty feet of
buried pirate booty, I'm certain I can find it."

I smiled back. "Yes, it sounds like a surefire plan. I'll get right on it."
We tabled the ghoulish subjects for the time being. There were food

trucks and bodegas all across L.A. serving better Mexican food, but none
of them sat on top of the ocean. We talked about unimportant things while
we ate—books Andy had read recently, what movies we wanted to see,
and the guy with the guitar playing thirty feet away. I finished my plate
first—Andy was a slow eater—and leaned back in my chair.

But all good things come to an end, and the time came for us to drive

up to Hollywood. Leaving the restaurant I headed straight toward the
parking lot but he stopped me. "Hang on. Just a sec." He hurried off to
the back end of the pier. I strolled after and saw him drop money into the
busker's bucket.

"How much did you give him?" I asked when he rejoined me.
"Five. He played for us through the whole lunch!" he added catching

my expression.

"You're a softie." I grumbled as usual, but in truth this kindness was

one of the many things that made him what he was, and one of the reasons
he got under my skin so stealthily. I would've given an arm to keep him
this way and was ready to smack down anyone trying to take advantage
of him.

***

Some guy whose name I'd forgotten or probably never knew in the

first place had built the Chateau Marmont about a century ago to look

like something from Europe. I'd never been across the ocean, so I
couldn't vouch for its success. However, stealing architectural styles
from all over the world was a local tradition.

You could tell the hotel was a swanky place from the thick and tall

hedges shielding it from the riffraff of the outside world. The concierge
took one look at us and knew we didn't belong. Being the trained
professional he was, hardly any of his disapproval showed on his face.
He called our host to confirm we were indeed expected and gave us
directions to find him—not in the hotel proper, but in one of the
bungalows.

The trees and shrubbery surrounding the house filtered out the noise

and smog of the busy street on the other side of the fence. The living
room had a relaxed, cozy feel thanks to the dark wood and wicker
furniture. I could totally imagine a Hollywood star from the classic era
hiding out here for a secret affair. The man in the gray suit and rimless
glasses could've very well have been from another time. He introduced
himself as William Francis Hayward, Esquire. He had a voice like dry
leaves brushing against each other.

He offered us seats and refreshments and folded himself into a chair.

With his long limbs he reminded me of a praying mantis. His face was
long too, matching the rest of him.

This was business between him and Andy, so I put myself on the far

end of the settee and did my utmost to be unobtrusive. I'm a big guy and
some people find me intimidating. Not that Hayward seemed to have this
problem.

"You said you wanted me to find someone," Andy said to get things

moving.

Hayward made a slight nod. "Mrs. Graham assured me of your

aptitude for locating lost things."

Andy scratched his head. "If you don't mind me asking, wouldn't it

make more sense to hire a private detective?"

He flicked an invisible piece of lint off his trousers. "I have. Mr.

Baxter wasn't able to unearth anything useful." The lines on his face
rearranged themselves to suggest disapproval. "I remember the times
when detectives knocked on doors, talked to people. These days they

mostly sit in front of computers and play with electronic gizmos. I might
be old fashioned but to me nothing can replace the personal connection
—from what I hear it's precisely your province."

Andy blinked. "Ehrm, I guess you could say that. So who am I

supposed to find?"

"Have you ever heard of Clive Riddel?"
The name rang a bell to me—somewhere off in the distance. Andy's

face registered no recognition. "No, sorry. Is he the man you're after?"

"No, but I'd better apprise you of the entire matter and his name's

bound to come up. You see, Clive was my client's nephew. Also a
convicted killer. He was executed in Louisiana some years ago for the
murder of three young women."

My trouble alarm began to ping like crazy but I managed to keep my

mouth shut for the time being.

Hayward must've noticed me squirming. He raised a hand in a gesture

of peace. "Don't worry, the task at hand has nothing to do with the
murders. Clive had a young woman with him at the time of his arrest.
Her name was Emily Novak and she was four months pregnant with
Clive's son. It's the boy, Ethan, I'd like you to locate. Of course, he's not
a child anymore, but a grown man, twenty-five-years old to be exact."

"Why?" Andy blurted out the same question that was on my tongue.
Hayward adjusted his glasses. "Because he's to inherit a

considerable fortune. My client, Lionel Green, left most of his money
and property to his grandnephew—to the displeasure of the rest of his
family and hopeful beneficiaries, I might add." The upward curve of his
lips made me think he found this fact amusing. "Unfortunately, nobody
has seen or heard from Ethan in over seven years. Mr. Green's other
heirs would very much like to have him declared dead. However, there
were no signs of foul play at the time of his vanishing, as I understand.
Nevertheless, the procedure will no doubt be successfully completed,
unless Ethan Novak is found living and well. Mr. Green provided ample
funding for this endeavor before he passed away."

"Mr. Green must've loved his grandnephew," Andy commented.
Hayward's brow twitched as if he found the comment funny. "Lionel

Green had no love for anyone but his dog, and she was a mean bitch. He

would've left the estate to her, if only she hadn't expired already. I trust
his sole motive was to rankle his family one last time." He said those
things in the same dry tone he'd been using since we'd arrived.

"That's a strange thing to say about your client," I said, unable to keep

quiet any longer.

He turned his pale gaze at me. "I've worked for Mr. Green for thirty-

five years. He paid well, and I tended his affairs with more than due
diligence. However, he's dead, and I see no reason for undue
sentimentality. He wouldn't have any if things were the other way
around."

Andy cleared his throat. "Ahem. I'll need a few more details."
Hayward nodded. "Of course." He picked up a brown folder from the

table and opened it. "Ethan's mother, Emily, was implicated in covering
up the crimes, but because of her tender age and the lack of evidence
connecting her to the actual murders she was given a much lighter prison
sentence. Her sister, Sylvia, and her husband, Mike Brooks, legally
adopted Ethan, who remained with them even after the release of his
birth mother. However, at around the age of sixteen Ethan left his
adoptive parents and moved in with his maternal grandmother…" He
flipped the pages. "…Rosemary Novak. She was the last person to see
Ethan. According to her, Ethan simply packed his things and left."

"Could he have been murdered?" I asked.
Hayward closed the folder. "Mr. Baxter didn't think so. Ethan was

eighteen at the time and by some accounts a rebellious young man. It
stands to reason he simply ran away."

"But Baxter, your detective, couldn't find him?"
He turned his palms upward. "It's a big country."
Andy cleared his throat. "Well, I'll do my best, but you have to

understand, I can't guarantee a result. The thing is, I'll need a personal
object from Ethan first."

"That, I'm afraid I can't provide you with," Hayward replied
"A photograph?"
"Afraid not."
Andy spread his hands out. "Then there's nothing I can do."
Hayward handed the folder to Andy. "I was hoping you could find

such an item yourself. Everything Mr. Baxter found out, all the names and
addresses of relatives are in those papers. If you talk to them, perhaps
one will have something you can use."

"Why not have him do it?"
"As I said, he lacks the personal touch. I'm confident you'll have a

much better chance. Needless to say, I will compensate you for your
efforts." He pulled a check book and pen from his inside pocket. He
filled out a check and gave it to Andy. "This is an advance. You'll
receive an equal payment—plus expenses—upon completion of your
assignment."

Andy stared at the check, blinked twice, and put it away. "All right,

Mr. Hayward. How long are you staying in town?"

"I plan to stay for a couple of weeks to settle various matters. You

know my number."

I had one last question for him. "How did you hear about Leander?" I

asked as we all stood.

He looked down at me over his long, sharp nose. "My wife's family

is from here. Anjelica Graham is her niece."

I couldn't place the name at first but Andy tugged his right earlobe.

"Earring. Christmas party. Remember?"

I sure did. Andy almost got himself killed a few days later by poking

his skinny nose where it didn't belong, and the party was part of the
build-up. Andy and I still disagreed about the amount of danger he'd been
in, so I just nodded and said my good-byes.

***

"He was one peculiar guy," I said while we waited for the valet to

bring my truck around. "Are you sure you want to do this? It's not too late
to say no."

Andy pulled out the check and held it out to me to see. I whistled. It

was for a nice round sum.

"It'll buy a lot of lunches. Not to mention pay the rent," he said.
The valet pulled to the curb and we got on our way. Taking the side

streets back to Laurel Canyon was a bad idea. They were so narrow,
when another car came from the opposite direction we both had to pull
all the way to the edge of the curb. Our side view mirrors still came

within an inch of bumping each other.

"I couldn't imagine living here." I gestured toward the million-dollar

homes perched precariously on steep hillsides. "At the first big
earthquake they'll drop like rocks."

Andy wasn't paying attention. He'd buried his face into the papers.

"Hm. The mother…adoptive mother lives in Sherman Oaks. It's almost
right across the hills."

I knew what he was driving at. "A'ight, Sherman Oaks it is."

CHAPTER THREE

I drove and Andy navigated till we found ourselves in front of a nice

middle class house in a nice middle class neighborhood. Uniformly
green and severely shorn grass separated the house from the sidewalk. I
would've mistaken it for Astroturf, if it wasn't for the sprinklers.

Sylvia Brooks, nee Novak, was a stringy, pinched-faced woman in

her fifties. The mat at her front door said Welcome, but her expression
contradicted the sentiment. The way she blocked the doorway made it
clear we wouldn't be invited inside, and the sooner we cleared off her
property, the better.

"I can't help you, but I said so already to that detective. I wish you

people would leave us alone. Nobody from that man's family has once
showed any interest in Ethan in twenty-five years. It's a little late to start
now." She said that man like she wanted to spit and only good manners
held her back.

"Ethan could be inheriting a lot of money," Andy said.
Her expression only grew more hostile. "It's none of my concern.

Good-bye."

"Could you at least give us a picture—" The slam of the door cut the

question short.

"Lovely woman," I remarked.
Andy sighed. "This isn't starting well, is it?"
I didn't want him to lose spirit so soon. "What about other relatives?"
"Well, the grandmother lives in Burbank, but she must be pretty old."
"C'mon, what do we have to lose? Let's give her a visit."

***

Rosemary Novak lived on a sleepy street lined with trees a couple of

blocks from Magnolia Boulevard. The house made a good impersonation
of a fairy-tale cottage. It was as small as a music box and surrounded by
flowers and shrubs. They were overgrown and their untamed state added
to the general atmosphere. We crossed the garden to a screened-in porch.
Through the mesh I saw faded patio furniture and an open door leading
inside. I couldn't see much beyond it, only shadowy shapes in the dusk.
There was no light on.

I knocked on the wooden frame. We waited. Nothing. I knocked

again, harder. "Mrs. Novak! We'd like to talk to you." There was no
response. "Maybe she's in the back," I said to Andy.

He wasn't paying much attention, too absorbed taking in his

surroundings. He brushed his hand over a plant and held his fingers to
his nose. "Grams loved lavender. When she got sick I filled her room
with it. Come on, Jon, let's leave. Maybe she's napping. I'll come back
tomorrow."

From the corner of my eye I sensed movement and turned back to the

house. One of the shadows moved inside, came closer, and resolved into
the shape of an elderly woman. Her face was like an old map, full of
lines and browned with age. Unlike her daughter, she wore her hair in an
unruly mess, fuzzy and white as cotton. Her eyes, though, they could've
belonged to someone half her age—they were clear and sharp.

"Can I help you?" she asked.
As we introduced ourselves and explained why we were there, she

unlatched the screen door to the porch. "You might as well come in," she
said. "Would you like some ice tea?"

It sounded like an excellent idea.
"I like sitting out here at this time of day. My husband built this porch

with his own hands," she said once we were sorted out.

"I love your garden," Andy said gazing through the screen. The

shadows were getting long outside. A woman with a dog walked by on
the other side of the street.

"I can't take care of it like I used to anymore with my arthritis, but the

neighbor's kid comes around to help. Nice boy. Ethan used to love
working with plants, even when he acted like it was a chore. I think it
took his mind off other things. That's why you're here, to ask questions
about him, aren't you?"

I nodded. "He left seven years ago, right?"
"Seven years last April."
"On his own accord?"
"How else? You don't think I'd turn him out? My own grandson? I

couldn't do that to his mother and she brought plenty of grief on us." She
took a sip of her ice tea. "They're so innocent when they're born, but you
don't know how they'll be when they grow up. Emmy used to be such a
sweet child. Never any problem with her. Not like her sister; Sylvia was
willful and stubborn. I was in labor with her for forty-two hours—she
didn't want to come out. As a child she'd scream for hours for no
reason." She sighed. "We never expected Emmy to run off with that…
man." Her head swayed side to side, sad and slow. "I've wracked my
brain ever since where we went wrong with her."

"Do you know where she lives? We don't seem to have her address."
"Nah, I never know where she is. That girl just can't stay put like a

normal person. She's always off somewhere, but she keeps coming back
every few years. Unannounced, of course. We're overdue for another
visit any time soon."

"When did you last see her?"
Her wrinkles grew deeper. "Now, let's see… It must've been five or

six years ago. She didn't stay long; she had a foul temper in her that last
time. Even got mad at me for letting Ethan go. As if I could keep a grown
boy from doing what's on his mind! I couldn't keep Emmy from doing all
her foolishness, could I? I told her that, but she didn't like hearing it.
Then she was gone again, didn't even say good-bye. And anyway, why
would Ethan stay?"

"What do you mean by that, Mrs. Novak?"
She took a slow drink from her tea, holding the glass with both hands,

before putting it back down on the small table besides her. I saw Andy
lean forward, ready to catch the glass if her grip slipped, but there was
no need. For someone in her late seventies at least, she was holding up
well. She laid her hand in her lap. "My husband had a saying, you are
what you make of yourself. I wish he was still alive. He was a good
man; he coulda been that father figure Ethan never had. Sylvia's husband,
Mike, he's not a bad man, I'd never say that, but he has no spine. I
would've taken Ethan back when they first brought him home, but George
was sick already."

"But he moved in with you later?"
"When he was about sixteen. He used to be such a good boy, but then

in a couple of years it all went wrong. He was acting out, fighting with
other boys. Sylvia was at her wit's end with him. So I took him in. He
was a smart boy, but very troubled."

"Why's that?"
"Well, why do you think? One the neighbors found out about Ethan's

real father and what that man and my Emmy did together, and told Ethan.
Called him names." Fury sparkled in her eyes. "I gave that son of a bitch
a piece of my mind that he wouldn't forget, but what was done was done.
Poor Ethan didn't even know he was adopted up till that day, let alone all
that terrible stuff. It's just too much for a fifteen-year old to take in. He
became obsessed with finding out everything about his father and those
murders. There are dark places in every man but he found his too early. I
worried about him."

"Worried how?" I asked.
The old woman didn't reply. She gazed out into the garden, or maybe

she was staring straight into the past. Silence wrapped around us. A
hummingbird flitted by, hovering in mid-air for a couple of seconds. Its
wings were a blur but the tiny body barely moved. Then it zipped out of
sight.

Andy cleared his throat. "Mrs. Novak?"
The faraway look left her eyes as she turned back. "Yes, young man.

What did you say your name was, again? My memory isn't what it used to

be."

"Leander."
"Leander. Pretty name. I'm afraid I can't be much help to you two.

One day Ethan packed the few things he had, said good-bye, and left."
She reached for her glass. "And I haven't heard from him since."

"Did he say where he was going?" Andy pressed on.
"I don't think he knew."
"Did you report him missing?"
"Why would I? He was eighteen; he could go wherever he wanted."

She closed her eyes. "I'm sorry, I'm tired."

Concern etched Andy's face. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Novak for tiring you

out. We'll be on our way. Just one last thing: do you have anything of
Ethan's? Something personal."

She opened her eyes and shook her head. "What he had he took with

him."

"A photograph?"
"Hm. I have one." She pushed herself out of the chair. Andy jumped

up and took her arm. She smiled and patted his cheek. "You're a nice
boy, but I can still move around on my own. Thank God for that. Sit
down and finish your ice tea."

She shuffled into the house and the two of us were left alone.
"I don't think she's telling us everything," I whispered to Andy.
"I can't blame her. It's probably painful to remember," he whispered

back.

We stayed quiet for the next several minutes till Mrs. Novak returned,

holding out a four-by-five color photograph, which she handed to us. It
was a family photo—I recognized Mrs. Novak and a younger version of
her daughter, Sylvia. They stood next to each other under a large tree. On
Mrs. Novak's other side stood another woman, roughly Sylvia's age, and
two teenagers sat on the grass in front of them. The girl showed the
family resemblance. The boy, camouflaged by his black Mohawk and
eyeliner stood apart. He was the only one outright scowling at the
camera but tension radiated from all of them.

"This was taken just after Ethan came to live with me. This is

Emmy," She pointed at the woman I didn't know. That's my other

daughter and my granddaughter, and Ethan."

"Nice hair," I commented.
"It was a phase. Sylvia, of course, didn't approve, but I thought it was

harmless."

"Can I borrow this for a few days?" Andy asked.
She hesitated, but then nodded. "Well, all right. But you must promise

to bring it back. That's the only picture I have of all of us together."

We made a promise and said good-bye.

***

As soon as we got home, Andy threw himself on the couch, took out

the photo and did his thing. Which mainly consisted of him pressing the
picture, face down, to his chest, while he lay very still and with his eyes
closed. Psyching was his catch-all term for many the odd little things
having to do with his abilities. This was one of them. I knew this could
take a while so I left him to it and shoved off to the kitchen. I needed to
get a start on dinner anyway.

He wandered in half an hour later, with a sad-puppy face.
"So?" I prodded him.
"Nothing."
"Maybe you're tired. You can try again tomorrow."
"I guess. It's weird though. I felt something about everyone else in the

photo except Ethan, even though he was the only one I concentrated on."

Being a layman I still had a hard time wrapping my head around that

concept. "What's it like? Feeling people in a photo?"

He wrinkled his nose. "It's hard to explain. Sort of a presence.

Almost as if I was there, in that moment, and they were around me.
Except Ethan. Just a big nothing where he should've been. Plain weird."

"So you think he's dead?"
"No, that wouldn't…shouldn't make a difference. More like he never

existed."

"You're right, that's weird."
"Very. I mean, if I didn't get anything at all from the photo that would

be one thing, but this is just…I dunno…"

***

On Monday morning I watched Andy over the rim of my coffee cup.

His head resembled a miniature haystack. After a hurricane.

"Your hair is a mess," I told him.
He ran his fingers through his locks, but it didn't improve the

situation. "I can't help it; it's my cowlicks."

I shook my head. "I've never met anyone with five of them before.

You're lucky the just-rolled-out-of-bed hairdo is in fashion. What will
you do when it goes out?"

"I dunno. Shave? Maybe I'll go bald."
"I hope not." I was fond of the blond haystack.
"What, you won't love me anymore if I'm bald?" he asked as he took a

big bite of toast.

I couldn't take the playful sincerity in his eyes, so I stood to wash my

mug at the sink. Love. That word again. The one that made me wanna
hide in a dark corner somewhere. The last person I loved had died, and
that still haunted me. Even worse, the image of Andy kept blending into
the memory, filling my insides with something heavier than lead. I
needed love like I needed a hole in my heart.

I focused on the water and soap. Never had a coffee cup been

cleaned so thoroughly. Behind me I heard Andy chomping on his toast as
if nothing had happened. I was saved by the doorbell.

"I'll get it," he said and bounded out to the door. A few seconds later

he was back with Detective Lipkin on his heels.

"Hi. I brought your shovel back." Lipkin handed me the item in

question.

"Coffee?" Andy asked him and filled the cup I'd just washed without

waiting for an answer. He even added two scoops of sugar. Lipkin took
it and dropped down into a chair that nobody had offered.

"Make yourself at home," I said, but my sarcasm bounced off him.
Andy put his dirty plate in the sink and pulled out another chair. They

were getting quite cozy. "Was I right about Tony? Was he shot in the
head?" he asked.

Lipkin put the cup down and squinted at him. "You know his name."
Andy seemed as surprised as us. "I guess I do. That came out of

nowhere."

I put the damn camping shovel down, folded my arms and leaned

back against the counter. I wasn't going anywhere; I lived there too, after
all. A brilliant idea popped into my head. I gave Lipkin a wide smile.
"So… Detective, maybe you can help. Leander was hired to find a guy
who disappeared seven years ago. Ran away, it seems. Any cop tricks
up your sleeve to help us find him?" My hope was that asking him for
assistance would send him packing.

He showed me his usual all-business face. "Does he have a criminal

record?"

I shrugged. "Dunno. Probably not."
"He's the natural son of Clive Riddel," Andy added. "You know, the

serial killer."

Lipkin scratched his chin and leaned back in his chair, showing no

sign of wanting to depart. "I remember the case. I was a rookie back
then, a street cop, and it happened in Louisiana but it was all over the
news. There was some difference of opinion about the trial among cops."

Andy's eyes shone with a cat's curiosity. "Really? How so?"
"The girlfriend…"
"Emily Novak."
"Yeah, that's the name. She was seventeen and pregnant at the time.

Looked even younger, practically a kid. Her lawyers made a deal with
the DA. In exchange for testifying against Clive, she was only charged
with accessory after the fact."

"What did Clive have to say about that?" Andy asked.
"He took the rap for the killings."
"So what was the difference of opinion about?"
"Well, first of all some cops thought there were more murders. Clive

and Emily had been in Louisiana only for a few months when they got
caught. Between her running away and the two of them showing up there
more than a year was missing. He refused to say anything about it, and
she claimed they'd spent the whole time in a cabin somewhere, she
couldn't say where."

"And you didn't believe her?"
"I thought it was suspicious. My old partner, McKenzie, he was

convinced Emily was guilty as sin. According to him women got away
with murder too often, because people just couldn't imagine them doing

such things. The way he saw it, women could perpetrate heinous acts just
the same as men. He had strong opinions on the matter. You see, he was
one of the uniform police at the scene of the second Manson murder."

"LaBianca," Andy piped in.
"Yeah. The Manson girls, it was a shock for a lot of people to learn

young girls like that could commit such bloody violence."

"They were under the spell of a psychopath. So maybe Emily was the

same?"

Lipkin's expression hardened. "Murder is murder. If you can't tell on

your own that plunging a knife into another human being is wrong, you
deserve to rot in hell. But that's just my opinion." He picked up his cup
and chugged. "At the time of the arrest Emily was wearing jewelry from
the victims," he said, putting the cup back down.

"Hm. How did they get caught?" Andy asked.
"Routine traffic stop. Pulled over for a busted tail light, if I remember

correctly. The cop noticed something looking suspiciously like blood on
the trunk lid. Clive and Emily had chopped up the victim into pieces and
were taking her out into the swamp for the alligators. The thing about
gators, they're not as great for body disposal as those mystery novels
would have you think. When the police searched the swamp they found
body parts from previous victims. Emily denied knowledge of them, of
course, and Clive didn't contradict her."

"But you don't believe her?" I asked.
"A year after the trial an eyewitness came forward, stating he'd seen

the second victim alone with Emily just before her disappearance. But
his words meant nothing by then—the trial was over. What I think is, that
seemingly sweet and innocent Emily Novak lured the victims to the place
where she and Clive murdered them. Together." He downed the rest of
his coffee in one go and put the mug down. "So it's their kid you're after?
Why?"

"Clive's great-uncle left him a bunch of money."
Lipkin shook his head. "That's some crazy shit."
"Mr. Hayward—the lawyer who hired us—let it slip that his late

client did it to piss off his family for one last time. Unfortunately, I'm not
getting anywhere," Andy said. I didn't miss Andy saying us. It

unexpectedly warmed the cockles of my heart—whatever they were.

Lipkin gave Andy a confused stare. "Why don't you just do your

psych thing?"

Andy's shoulders slumped. "I'd need something belonging to the guy,

the more personal the better. All I have is an old photo and it's gotten me
nowhere. Maybe because of all the other people in it. I dunno."

Lipkin ran his fingers through his thinning hair. "Hm. Seeing that I

owe you one…"

"A few," I interjected.
He shot me a look before turning back to Andy. "…A few, I could

check the DMV records." Lipkin peeled himself out the chair. "I'll call
you when I know something."

"I don't like this," I said when he was gone.
Andy sighed. "Which part?"
"The whole thing. The dead gangster from the desert or searching for

the spawn of a serial killer. And I especially don't like Lipkin waltzing
in here whenever he pleases."

"He was returning the shovel."
"He didn't have to stay for coffee."
Andy let out exasperated sigh. "You know, you're like a dog with a

bone sometimes—just can't let go. You haven't even—" He stopped his
hand in mid-gesture and shoved it into his pocket. He clamped his mouth
shut. "Never mind."

"What?"
He shook his head and avoided my eyes. Still the pang of pain in my

chest was uncalled for. "Nothing. Really. Gary's not forcing me to do
anything I don't want to. And anyway, it's none of your business what I
do. It's not like we were a couple or something."

I felt like he'd slapped me bringing up where we stood. I had to

remind myself it was what I wanted. I clenched my jaws and silently
counted to ten. When I opened my mouth again I tried to strike a
conciliatory tone. "You're right. I can't tell you what to do. But I can still
care as a friend."

At last he looked at me and gave me a watered-down version of his

usually bright smile. "Sure. I know you care. But the thing is, I find this

stuff exciting. Maybe it's a little twisted, but I get a kick from it I don't
get finding lost dogs. It makes me feel useful. Is that so wrong?"

Maybe I should've explained then about my anxieties, but then I

would've had to admit having feelings beyond friendship. I couldn't. So I
stuck to reason. "You keep getting yourself in trouble. Like at
Christmas."

A stubborn line appeared between his brows. "Jon, we've talked

about this—I wasn't in real danger."

"I disagree. Who knows what would've happened if I hadn't arrived

there just in time. I drove like a maniac."

His face softened. "I'm sorry. I swear I'll never go down into

suspicious basements again." The corner of his lips twitched. "Unless
you're with me. Okay?"

"Promises, promises. Fine. I need to get going. What are your plans

for today?"

"I have a show—a new family sitcom or something on NBC. It should

be over by six." Andy had a sideline as a paid audience member on talk
shows and sitcoms. It paid peanuts, but money was money, and it helped
to pay the bills when the psych business was slow. And to feed his book
addiction. "But first I want to see Ethan's sister. Maybe she has a better
photo or something," he added.

"Where does she live?"
"Monrovia."
I had absolutely no reason to suspect the sister had anything to do

with Ethan Novak's disappearance. However, last time Andy got tied up
and left for dead I had no reason to suspect the perpetrator either. I
couldn't help that my brain kept conjuring up similar scenarios. So I said,
"That's quite a drive. I'll be in the neighborhood anyway, why don't I
swing by her place instead?"

"In the neighborhood?" Suspicion colored his words.
I had a hunch he'd go just to prove me wrong If I revealed my true

motivations, so I spun my spiel in a different direction. "Roughly. More
than you. You said earlier that Hayward hired us. So let me help out.
God knows, I'm only good for foot work. I expect to finish painting early
and I'll have plenty of time to drop by to see the sister. All you need is a

photo or a personal object, right? I can handle that. She'll either talk my
head off like the old lady or tell me to go fuck myself like her daughter.
So how about it?"

"All right, partner. Now, don't get into any trouble." He winked and

gave me the address.

CHAPTER FOUR

As I'd expected, I finished early. With the plumber done and gone, I

could at last finish painting the bathroom too. After packing up my things,
I washed and changed but couldn't get all the paint spatters out of my
hair. Part of the job, unfortunately. I gave up trying and headed out to see
Ethan Novak's stepsister. It was around five when I parked the truck in
front of her house. I had paint cans in the back, but it wasn't a high crime
neighborhood. I threw the drop cloth over them, just in case, before
walking up to the door.

Julia Osborn, nee Novak, reminded me more of her grandmother than

her mother. She blocked the door the same way her mother had, but the
fifteen pounds of extra weight evenly distributed on her frame softened
the effect. That plumpness looked good on her. Her distrustful expression
notwithstanding, she seemed like a woman built for hugs.

She crossed her arms and eyed me warily. "I've already told the other

man I have no idea where my stepbrother is. I haven't heard a word from
him since he left."

I didn't have it in me to badger her. "I'm sorry to have bothered you,

ma'am."

I started to leave but barely took three steps before she stopped me.

"Wait." I stopped and turned.

She looked at me, at the truck by the curb, and back. "You're not a

detective, are you?" she asked.

"I'm a house painter." I didn't think telling her about my status as a

student at the local community college was necessary.

"So why are you here?"
"Helping out a friend."
It was easy to see the warring emotions on her face. Deep down she

had to be a softie, because she said, "Well, come in."

She led me into the kitchen, saying she had a pie in the oven. We

passed through the living room, stepping over toys scattered around the
floor. A boy about four was building a Lego castle with deep
concentration on his face. He had caramel skin and hair in tight brown
curls.

Julia pointed me to the breakfast nook, and I sat.
"Would you like something to drink? Juice, soda?"
"Water would be nice, thank you."
She added ice to a tall glass and filled it with filtered water from the

fridge. She put it down and sat across from me. "I'm afraid there isn't
much I can tell you about Ethan, but you might as well ask away."

I should've just cut to the chase, but the case had woken up my

curiosity. "Why did he leave?"

"Why wouldn't he? He wasn't happy here. After people found out

about…you know, the whole thing about his parents, he had a lot of
problems. Kids at school said some very nasty things. Not that the adults
were much better. People can be cruel." Her gaze strayed in the direction
of the living room.

"Do you have any idea where he headed?"
She shook her head slowly. "If he didn't tell Grandma, he sure

wouldn't tell me. We didn't get along all that well. I've felt bad about that
for years now. Having a kid changes your outlook on many things. Do
you have children?"

"No."
"Just a moment." She stood and walked to the next room. I heard the

murmur of her voice talking to her son. She came back a couple of
minutes later and peeked into the oven before settling back down. "Poor
Ethan stuck out like a sore thumb to begin with. That didn't help."

"What do you mean by that?"
"Well, you know, his father's red hair. The rest of us are all blonds.

Except Ethan. Talk about a red-headed stepchild."

"Oh."
"Didn't you know?"
"I've only seen one picture and he had a black Mohawk in it."
"Ah, that. Mother was livid. I don't know what she would've done if

Ethan was still living with us. Grandma handled it much better. It's hard
to believe that mother and Aunt Emmy both came from her." She
frowned. "Now that I think back, all that acting out, being different, had
to be Ethan's way of trying to fit in. Hiding himself behind all that showy
stuff. I wish I'd been nicer to him. No wonder he left; we weren't a very
good family for him. Except Grandma. At least he was gone by the time
of the execution. Gosh, what a circus that was."

"Clive Riddel's?" So far everyone in the family avoided that name

like poison.

Rancor pulled at her features and for a second she seemed more like

her mother. "Yeah, him. That was, what, six years ago? Can you believe
he was on death row for seventeen years? It's crazy, dragging things out
like that. When the day finally came tabloid reporters were coming out of
the woodwork like cockroaches. They wanted to know how we felt.
How did they think we felt?" She huffed. "What a damn mess. So you
see, we're all a little suspicious when someone comes around asking
about Ethan."

"I can promise you, I'm not a reporter."
"You don't look like one," she said gazing at my hands. There was

still paint in the creases of my knuckles. "Do you think you'll find him?"

"I don't know. Maybe. Do you have a photograph of him I could

borrow?"

She shook her head unhappily. "After Ethan ran off, Mother had one

of her fits of temper and excised him from the photo albums. Not even a
baby picture was left. She'd always resented Aunt Emmy for bringing

shame to the family, as she put it. And she resented Ethan too, even if
she'd never admit it."

"Why adopt him then?"
"Because that was the proper thing to do and propriety is what my

mother cares about above everything else." She laughed and the bitter
sound bounced around the room. She stopped sharply, as if she'd
surprised herself. "Still, as messed-up as my mother is, Aunt Emmy was
worse."

Her last statement came as a surprise to me. "What do you mean?

Your grandmother said—"

"Pfft. She had Grandma fooled like most everyone else. She used to

be the baby of the family, could do nothing wrong in my grandparents'
eyes. At least that's what my mother thinks, and for once I tend to agree
with her. Every time Aunt Emmy visits we all end up at each other's
throats. She has this way of seeing where the cracks are and exploiting
them; she's a manipulator. I couldn't see it when I was a kid, because she
seemed always so nice to everyone. I recognized how she operates only
after I worked with someone who did exactly the same. They're snakes in
the grass, I tell you."

"Your aunt had a quarrel with your grandma last time, right?"
I could tell I stirred up her dismay even more. Her eyes got wide

with indignation. "Can you believe that? She blamed grandma for Ethan
leaving. She'd never made the slightest effort to take Ethan back, or gave
a damn how he'd been doing, but when he was gone she acted like a
grieving mother." Julia shook her head. "Ridiculous."

I knew I was at a dead end but I made one last ditch effort. "Do you

have anything that once belonged to Ethan? A book, a toy, anything?"

She shook her head. "Nah. Heck, I don't even have any of my own old

things. Mother chucked them all out too. Sentimental she sure isn't."

I thanked her and said good-bye. She walked me out. At the door she

stopped. "If you ever find Ethan, tell him I'm sorry," she said and went
back inside.

I walked back to the curb and checked on my paint cans. They were

all there. I set out toward Pasadena, but first stopped by Jim's place. I
gave him back the keys for the house and he gave me a check. He

promised to have another job for me in a few days.

***

When I arrived home Andy was eating ice cream out of the tub and

watching Gordon Ramsay swearing up a storm.

"He has some real zingers," he explained. "It can't possibly all be

spontaneous. Do you think he stays up at night thinking up those things?"
He licked Cherry Garcia off the spoon. "Maybe he has writers to do it
for him. Imagine that on your resume. Was employed for three years in
the capacity of insult writer for Gordon Ramsay."

"I wouldn't know. Have you eaten any real food today or just

desserts?"

He bobbed his head. "Gary bought me lunch, and they fed us on the

set. Are you hungry? I can zap you the leftovers from yesterday."

"I can zap them myself," I said and walked into the kitchen. Andy

trailed behind me.

At the fridge we turned into a clusterfuck. I opened the fridge door

and bent down to grab a Tupperware container from a lower shelf while
Andy opened the freezer door to put away the ice cream. In the middle of
the turning, opening, and me straightening up I managed to bang my head
on the freezer door. It all happened very fast.

I yelped in pain and clasped both hands on my forehead. Andy

suddenly became frantic. "Are you all right? Let me see. Is it bleeding?
Jon? Talk to me."

"Calm down," I groaned. "It's just a bump."
Normalcy returned to the kitchen. Andy pulled my hands away. "Let

me kiss it better."

I snorted at that but bowed my head and let him kiss the spot that

would probably swell into a nice lump by tomorrow. He placed the last
kiss on my lips and pushed me toward a chair. "Sit." He twirled back to
the fridge, pulled out a bag of frozen corn and gave it to me. "Put this on
your bump."

"I need a steak."
"As Grams would say, poppycock. Steak has no unique properties for

treating bruises. It's the cold that helps."

"How do you know?"

"I read it. Now just stay put. I'll fix your dinner."
Of course, all he had to do is microwave the food and put it on a

plate. "It's a good thing I'm not an invalid. We'd both live on ramen," I
grumbled because I was still a bit sore about being sore.

"You have no faith in me. I'd take good care of you and I'd make you

real soup." He slammed the door of the microwave and punched in the
numbers.

"You can't cook."
Andy put silverware on the table. "I'll have you know I'm excellent at

chicken soup."

"Then why were you always eating instant ramen before I started

feeding you?"

He shrugged. "It's quick, and I couldn't have eaten chicken soup—it's

only for when you're ill. When Grams got sick that's all she ever wanted.
That's how I got so good at cooking it." He fussed around some more till
the microwave dinged. Before putting the plate in front of me, he placed
a sprig of parsley on its edge. He must've learned that from TV. Totally
pointless but a nice gesture.

He plopped on the chair across. "Did you get a photo from the

sister?"

I shook my head and proceeded to give him a report between bites of

chicken and rice. By the time I finished Andy had a rumpled, deep-in-
thought expression on his face. "Hm. He has red hair. That would explain
my dream."

"You didn't tell me you had one." I kept my tone casual, not letting the

disappointment show through. On previous occasions when he'd had
these nighttime visions he hadn't hesitated to let me know, right then and
there. It was odd to feel a sting over not being awakened in the middle of
the night.

Andy absently plucked the parsley off my plate and twirled the stem

in his fingers. "I didn't realize it was relevant, until now." He stuck the
parsley into his mouth and chewed on it before making a face and
spitting it out.

"Are you gonna tell me now?"
"Oh. Yeah. There isn't much to it, really. I saw a naked figure with its

back turned and long red hair. I couldn't tell if the person was a man or
woman, but I guess it had to be Ethan. He was standing in a circle of
snakes. I felt such a terrible desperation, but it wasn't really me but him.
I was trying to walk around to see his face but suddenly there was this
big flame and it totally engulfed the figure. And I woke up. It was pretty
vivid though."

"Sounds ominous." I kinda hoped it didn't mean we were searching

for a dead man after all.

"I dunno. I didn't feel frightened. My dreams are probably talking to

me in code again. Freaking useless. What do snakes and fire mean?"

"Something to do with Indiana Jones? Harrison Ford kidnapped

Ethan? I dunno." Something from earlier in our conversation popped
back into my head. "You met Lipkin today? Did he have anything on
Ethan or his mother?" I managed to say the detective's name in a
completely neutral tone.

"Nothing. No DMV records on either of them. But he took me to the

morgue and let me touch Tony." He said it beaming like a kid would
about a trip to the toy store.

I swallowed the food already in my mouth and put the fork down.

"Why on earth would you do such a thing?"

He kept beaming. "Don't worry, most of him was covered up. I only

saw his feet and they were pretty much dried up. Kinda like a mummy."
He wrinkled his nose. "Yeah okay, it was sorta weird. I'd never been in
a morgue before. It wasn't like in the movies where they open a steel
door and pull out a drawer. The bodies were wrapped in white cloth and
lay on metal sheets on shelves along a wall, four bodies high, and I have
no idea how wide." He spread his arm wide, painting an invisible
morgue in our kitchen. "Those shelves made me think of a bakery—you
know, when they put the breads and pastries on metal trays. I worked in
a bakery for a short while. Two days. I couldn't take the heat. The
morgue was cold, though. The spookiest part was the matter-of-factness
of it. Oh, and I bought this in the gift shop." He hopped up, grabbed a
magnet from the fridge door and dropped it in front of me. It was in the
shape of a foot with a toe tag. Lovely.

"They have a gift shop?" I asked.

He plopped back onto his chair. "Sure."
"Remind me to strangle Lipkin for dragging you there."
"Don't blame him. I suggested it."
I groaned.
"Look, Tony wouldn't leave me alone. Ever since I held his watch

he's been in the back of my head. I got this impression he was a guy with
big appetites and big secrets. And I could swear I could hear him laugh
—deep belly laugh. I had to find out more about him, and maybe who
killed him."

His eyes pleaded with me to understand. I couldn't say I did, but I

gave in. "Did you?"

"I had a flash of his thoughts—I think from just before he was killed."
"How bad?"
"That's the thing—not bad at all. He had these extremely naughty

thoughts about a curvaceous blonde. For the first time in my life I
understood the attraction of boobs and that other stuff. Well, I wouldn't
say understood, but I got an inkling. It was very, very weird, but not in a
bad way. I'm afraid they were not the kind of insights useful for the
investigation. His fantasies ended abruptly. I think he died without
realizing what happened. That's not a bad thing, as death goes. Don't you
think?"

I sighed. "You got lucky. Next time you touch a stiff you might get a

blast of something very nasty."

"I know. It's draining too. And it makes me hungry. Gary took me out

to lunch and I ate more than he did. Then I came home and took a nap
before going to the show. So that was my day." He pulled my unfinished
plate in front of him and I watched him polish it off. He all but licked the
plate clean. "This sucks," he said when he finished.

"You ate it."
"Not the chicken. I meant not getting anywhere with Ethan—it's

frustrating. Not to mention, I would've liked that second check from
Hayward."

"You win some and you lose some."
"Hm. I'll give that photo another try." He trailed off into his room and

I was left with the washing up and my thoughts. I had a suspicion that I

was witnessing Andy coming into his own, his skills developing. I
should've been happy for him, but it only made me apprehensive. I hated
change with a passion because I feared what it might bring. Andy was
still young, still growing up in many ways. He could someday grow past
stick-in-the-mud old me. The thought alone left me feeling heartsick.

I spent the next hour staring at the TV screen trying not to envision the

many ways I could lose Andy. It was a relief when he emerged from his
room, still very much there.

I knew from the frown on his face he'd had no success. "It's a bust,"

he said reaffirming my suspicion. He dropped next to me on the couch
with a sigh. "I'll call Hayward tomorrow."

I pulled him into my lap. "Don't feel bad. You'll get the next one."
He squirmed himself into a comfortable position. "I feel much better

already."

***

The car spun and careened off the cliff. I was falling in slow motion

and a terrible sense of finality took over me. I woke up with my heart
pounding. The room was completely dark except for the faint streetlight
filtering through the window. Andy wasn't in the bed. The dream still
coursing in my veins, I had a moment of panic, but told myself to calm
the fuck down.

I found him in the kitchen, hunched over a map, eyes closed, index

finger slowly tracing on the surface of the paper. He halted a few times
and each time his brows furrowed in concentration. I waited quietly in
the doorway till he stopped, finger firmly pressing down in a spot. He
opened his eyes and picked up a red marker.

"Found something?" I asked.
He jumped, but kept that finger pressed on the map. "Jon, you scared

the living crap out of me." He lifted his finger and fixed the spot with a
red X. I sat next to him and took a peek. He'd marked a location
northwest of Griffith Park. "I had one of those dreams, but didn't want to
wake you up," he said, folding up the map.

"What was it?"
"I can't describe it—too jumbled. A span of grass, like a golf course,

murky water, and for some reason horses."

"Well, at least we might find Ethan after all," I said to be positive

about the matter, although I had a bad feeling about it.

He began to fold up the map. "Oh, it's not Ethan."
"No? Then who?"
"His mother, Emily."
"Dead or alive?"
Andy screwed up his face. "I don't think she's alive. I also saw a

knife in the dream and there was a sense of panic, and…well, I'm pretty
sure she's dead. When I woke up I thought I'd try tracing her from her
mother's house, and it worked. I'll drive over to the spot tomorrow and
we'll see what's what. Wanna come? Since we're partners and
everything?"

"As if I'd let you dig for corpses alone in the middle of the city.

You'd probably get yourself arrested." I could totally picture Andy
whipping out a gardening trowel and starting an exhumation in a
stranger's front yard.

"Ha! I didn't even think of that."
"See, I'm good for some things."
"You're good for many things," he replied. "I'll fix us a couple of

chamomile toddies so we can go back to sleep." He stood and started
rifling through a cabinet.

I watched him produce a cardboard box. "Such a waste of perfectly

good rum. Can I have mine without the chamomile?"

"No." He stopped and gave me a once-over. A smile of wickedness

played on his lips and I knew he was up to something. "However…" He
dropped the box onto the counter and slinked toward me. "There's
something else we could do to relax." He pressed himself to me, arms
looping around my waist and fingers skimming the waistband of my
boxers.

"Are you ever not horny?" I asked as I put my hands on his hips.
"It's your fault for being so sexy and irresistible." The way he gazed

at me, with playfulness mixing with adoration in his baby blues, so open
and vulnerable, it made my heart ache and yearn. I kissed him and
wrapped my arms around him. I wanted to possess him body and soul but
was too much of a coward to put what I felt into words.

We broke the kiss flushed and breathing hard. Andy's smile was now

soft and indulgent. "My big sexy bear."

The chuckle breaking out of my throat was on the edge between

tension and relief. "I'm not that big or hairy." My voice rasped.

"But you give a bear hug." He pulled back, out of my arms but

grabbed my wrist and tugged. "Come, make sweet love to me." His eyes
laughed and teased, and those corny words were just the right thing to lift
my worries.

I let him pull me into the bedroom and push me down onto the bed.

He tugged my shorts off wriggled between my thighs. Soft and firm wet
heat enveloped my cock. I had to prop myself up on an elbow so I could
watch him, his head bobbing up and down on my cock, cheeks flushed
and lips swollen.

I put my free hand on his head and dug my fingers into his unruly hair.

He flashed his eyes at me and let my shaft slip out of his mouth. Guessing
what he wanted, I reached to the night table for condoms and lube.

He tossed the foil package aside. "The other one."
So I tossed him a non-lubricated one. He opened the package and

rolled the condom down on my cock using only his mouth. He
swallowed me all the way down as he went, choking just a little. Even
through the layer of latex the tight feel of his throat made me groan. "You
need to stop that or it'll be too late," I croaked.

Andy eased off, pushed himself up and straddled my hips. He kept his

eyes locked with mine as he slicked up his fingers and reached behind
himself. I watched every ripple of muscle, every hitch of breath as he
prepared himself. He squirted a generous amount of lube on my cock,
grasped it and slowly eased himself down.

I lay my hands on his thighs and let him set the rhythm. For a little

while life became very simple as the world narrowed down to the two
of us. If only it could've always been like that. I chased the troubling
thoughts away and turned all my focus on Andy riding me like an
overeager skinny cowboy, and not coming too soon. The latter proved to
be a true challenge, and when Andy finally tightened around me, body
taut, face twisting in pleasure, I was beyond ready. Losing control, I
gripped his hips tight and thrust up hard a few times till release tore out

of me.

Andy let out a breathless laugh and collapsed onto my chest. My

softening cock slowly slipped out. He rolled off me, giving me a chance
to dispose of the condom. There was a good reason we kept a paper
basket near the bed.

He snuggled up close, throwing his thighs over mine. "I think I can

sleep now. How about you?" he mumbled.

"Mmm." I might've dropped off before my eyelids fully closed.

CHAPTER FIVE

I wanted to hit the road first thing in the morning, but Mr. Sleepy

Pants—he insisted on being called by that name—refused to vacate the
bed. I let him laze for a while. Later, when I tried to rouse him, I
managed to arouse him instead, and it led to other bed-bound activities.
All in all, we didn't leave till almost eleven. At least this way we missed
the morning rush on the freeway.

The location Andy had pinpointed was right by the L.A. River and I

wasn't sure how close we could get on wheels, or which side street
would provide the best access. So I took an early exit and coasted down
on Riverside Drive. As Andy rolled down his window a thick aroma of
horses filled the car. I remembered it well from the time when Andy and
I rode up to the Hollywood sign. Well, more like above the sign; you
couldn't get right down to it, except on foot and trespassing.

"Welcome to horse country," I said as we drove past the stables,

single-family homes, and apartment buildings. It was an odd little
equestrian enclave wedged between the Disney and Warner Brothers
studios. For a stretch the bicycle lane turned into a horse lane. We were
driving along a small park when Andy became tense and alert. I saw a

side street at the far end of the park, going almost all the way to the river,
so I took it and parked at its dead-end.

"We better hoof it from here," I said, but Andy was already climbing

out of the truck.

I grabbed the backpack and followed. Being a local trip I'd packed

lightly—only a shovel, water, power bars, first aid kit, and
miscellaneous small stuff.

We made our way down to the bridle trail following the river. I let

Andy take the lead—he picked a direction away from the park. The
concrete trough of the river lay to our left and an overgrown hedge to our
right. We walked maybe fifty yards before coming to a stop. Andy took
his shoes off and wandered back and forth with an expression of
increasing frustration.

I had a feeling what he'd do next and stepped in. "You can't lie on the

ground here. You'll get trampled." Sure enough a group of riders
galloped by, giving us curious glances. We had to scamper to the side of
the path to get out of their way.

"Hm." Andy walked up to the rusty fence separating the trail from the

so-called river. I stepped up next to him and we both stared down into
the empty channel. Dirty water trickled by at the bottom. It didn't smell
too good either. Andy pushed himself off the fence and cast his gaze
around. "There," he said pointing at a hole in the hedge on the other side
of the trail not far away.

Naturally, as soon as we got there, Andy lay down in the dirt and did

his thing. Through the opening I could see a quiet residential
neighborhood, and realized I could've parked closer. Too late. While
Andy communed with the dirt, I stood guard, slightly worried about the
picture we must've made. Fortunately, no more riders passed by, saving
me from awkward explanations.

"Damn it!" Andy pushed himself up. His back side was covered in

fine dirt like a donut in powdered sugar. "She's definitely not here," he
grumbled while I dusted him off. "I'm sure this is the right spot, and it
matches my dream too. Horses, water, and the golf course." He glared
across the river at Forest Lawn.

"Technically, that's a cemetery. I mean, Memorial Park."

"Well, from here it could be a golf course." He sighed. "Aw, screw

it. I'm probably broken." He seemed tired, dusty, and disheartened.

"Let's have lunch," I suggested.
I didn't know the neighborhood well but after driving a few blocks

down on Riverside I spotted what seemed like a neighborhood eatery
and pulled over. It had a couple of booths inside but we chose one of the
plastic tables at the patio. We barely put our butts down when an eager
busboy supplied us with menus, and a minute later with glasses of water.
I liked these hole-in-the wall neighborhood places.

The waitress proved to be just as enthusiastic as the bus boy. I

ordered the grilled cheese sandwich with bacon marmalade, simply
because the latter spiked my curiosity. Andy went for the fish and chips
daily special.

It was a nice day, the gusts of cool breeze kept the heat from

sweltering. Andy stared off into nothing with a frown etched between his
brows. I knew if kept my trap shut the dead woman would be out of our
lives, and Andy would eventually get over it. But I couldn't stand the
defeat in his eyes.

"I don't think you're broken, you're just looking at this thing the wrong

way," I said.

He perked up. "What do you mean?"
"The couple of stiffs we found before were buried at remote

locations, right?"

"Yes."
"A horse trail in a fairly busy part of town doesn't fit the bill. No man

in his right mind would dig a grave there."

Recognition glinted in Andy's eyes. "The killer threw the body into

the river!"

"In the winter, there would've been enough water to carry it away."
Our waitress appeared with our food. "Are you guys writing a

script?" she asked smiling.

I stared at her blankly for a second before finding my voice. "Ah…

yes. A movie script."

"How cool. What is it about?"
Before I could figure out what to tell her, Andy cut in. "It's a gritty

crime drama about a handsome lawyer trying to clear his client, a sexy
blond. She's on death row for a decade-old murder. Think of LA
Confidential meets The Lincoln Lawyer." Andy was laying it on thick,
but the waitress didn't seem to find his spiel implausible at all.

"Sounds fantastic. Good luck with it. Come by and let me know when

it's made into a movie. I want to see it," she said and left.

"You're terrible," I whispered to Andy.
He grinned back. "Terribly good."
"Yeah. You should be in the movie business."
For a while we ate in silence. My sandwich was excellent,

especially the marmalade—the tang of sweetness strangely
complemented the bacon. I decided to look for a recipe online. As usual,
I finished first, so I sat back and watched Andy.

"We still have one problem," he said, mouth full.
"Only one?"
"One, having to do with this, uhm, script. We still don't have a body."
"There's a chance it washed up somewhere. The family doesn't know

she's dead, so she'd be just another Jane Doe."

"Maybe they killed her, and they're lying to us through their teeth."
"Are you nuts?" I asked.
Andy stopped chewing. "Well, not grandma, and I haven't met Ethan's

sister, but I could totally imagine Sylvia doing it. Emily mortified her for
the last time, so she iced her little sis. Extreme sibling rivalry."

"I think you've gotten too deep into your role as a Hollywood hack." I

shook my head. "We can Google for bodies found in the LA River."

"Or we can ask Gary. As you said, he owes me a few. See, there's an

upside to giving cops freebies," he added triumphantly.

I suppressed a groan. "Yes, I guess we could do that."
"Cool! I'll call him right now."
"No. You keep eating or we'll be here till dinner. I'll talk to him."
Andy returned to his fish and I dialed.
"Detective Lipkin," he barked into my ear.
"Good day, Detective. It's Jon Cooper."
"Anything happened to Lea?"
"Why would you think so?"

"Because the only time you called me before he was in trouble?"
He got me there. "Leander's fine. As matter of fact, he might be able

to help you to put a name on a Jane Doe." I heard Andy snort into his
Coke. Personally, I was proud of the twist I'd put on our plea for help.

"Is that so?"
"It would be a woman found in or at the banks of the LA River

sometime in the last six years. Andy thinks it's Emily Novak."

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line. "It's an

interesting theory. Why six years?"

"That was the last time her family saw her."
"Did they report her missing?"
"They haven't realized she is. She had the habit of breezing in and out

of town and had a big fight with the family last time."

"Hm. I'll check the records. I'll call you later. Bye."
Andy had been hanging on every word while I'd been on the phone. "I

just realized why you have such a beef with Gary."

"Really?"
"Really. He's just like you."
His comment rankled and I huffed up my chest. "In what way?"
"You both have a sexy macho thing going on." A twinge of jealousy

pierced me right through the heart, but then I saw Andy pressing his lips
together as if suppressing a laugh. "Oh, and neither of you say half of
what's on your minds and can't let go of things. You two are like a couple
of bulldogs growling at each other. Kinda funny."

I didn't have a retort, so I called for the check.

***

I was standing on the top of a ladder, applying the second coat of

eggshell white to the ceiling when my phone rang. I put the roller safely
down and fished the phone out of my pocket a second before the call
would've gone to voice mail.

"It's Lipkin," I heard from the other end.
"Hullo, Detective. What can I do for you?" Hearing his voice

automatically ruffled my feathers, but deep down I was pleased he'd
called me, not Andy.

"I think I found your body," he replied.

I knew there was a joke in there but I doubted either one of us would

find it amusing, so I left it unsaid. "You think?" I climbed down the
ladder, in case the conversation got lengthy.

"Timing, gender, and age fits, but she could still be anybody. Positive

identification will have its challenges."

"Wait a minute, can't you check the fingerprints against Emily's

records?" Then I remembered—the body had been in the water. Maybe it
didn't have fingerprints left.

"That would've been a good start if she had hands."
I wasn't expecting that. "She didn't?"
"Whoever killed her also dismembered the body. The torso washed

up in Lincoln Heights and was found by a man walking his dog. The
consequent search located most of the rest but not all of it. The head,
both hands and one foot were never recovered."

Unfortunately, my mind conjured up the image of floating body parts.

"That's gruesome."

If Lipkin felt any revulsion at all, his voice didn't betray it. "It

couldn't have been pretty, especially after a week in the river. There's
one disturbing part about it, though."

"I thought the dismemberment was the disturbing part." Apparently,

not.

"Nah, what bothers me is how similar this is to the Clive Riddel

murders."

I stood mentally scratching my head for a moment. "Copycat?"
"Maybe. Or just a coincidence."
"Do you really think so?"
"No."
"So… what now?"
"It's a cold case, but I have a friend at the cold case unit."
"You have friends in many places," I snarked, remembering his useful

connections at Parking Enforcement.

"I'm a friendly guy," he replied in a dead-pan voice.
"Right."
"With twenty-five years on the force," he added. "I'll call if I find out

anything." He disconnected before I could tell him not to bother.

Knowing him, he'd bother regardless.

***
I gave Andy the news later in the evening. He was about to open a

thick hardcover—used copy, bought cheap, he assured me—about some
queen or other but he put it back down. He made a hmmm sound and
went into his room. When he came back he had the folder from Hayward
in his hand.

He sat, opened the folder and, shuffled the pages back and forth.

"Hm."

"You said that already," I pointed out.
He ignored my jibe. "The timing's interesting. Ethan Brooks left his

grandmother's house seven years ago. His biological father, Clive
Riddel was executed the next spring. And Emily Novak, aka Emily
Harris disappeared later that year."

"Yes, so?"
"All these things happened within roughly a year. Don't you think it's

strange?"

"I don't think about it at all. In any case, what does it matter? We're

supposed to find Ethan, not Emily." I could've been talking to a wall.

"There must be a connection, and Emily could be the link to Ethan.

That sense of desperation from my dream of him, it sits in the back of my
mind, doesn't leave me alone. Nobody can go on long, feeling like that. I
have to find him, any way I can."

"I suppose you're right and Emily can lead us to Ethan. What do you

wanna do about it?"

"I dunno." He kept flipping the pages back and forth, but—judging

from his frown—got none the wiser.

***

If I thought Andy would leave it at that, I would've been wrong.
The next evening I found him in the kitchen. His attention was so

focused on the vegetables he was chopping, he didn't even notice me
standing in the doorway. This was very wrong—Andy loved food porn
on TV, but was practically a virgin in the kitchen.

"Who are you and what did you do with my…roommate?" I asked,

walking up. I almost said boyfriend but caught myself in time.

Andy put the knife down and gave me a searching look. "I'm making

dinner," he said after a moment.

"Why?"
"Because you were working hard all day, and it's time I started

pulling my weight around here."

"I had no complaints."
"Uh-huh. You made fun of my culinary skills just the other day."
"Sorry. Being knocked out by freezer doors makes me snappish."
He shrugged. "Either way, I found this cookbook at the used

bookstore." He motioned toward the open book on the table. "The photos
look so lush. I couldn't resist. Gillian let me have it for half-price
because I'm her favorite customer."

"I bet. So what are you making?" I turned the book around and

looked. "Burgundy beef stew. Good, something not too complicated.
Need help?"

"Nah, I want to do it myself. Trial by fire, and all that." He reached

for the onion.

"Hold it right there, Rambo. There's a secret to tearless onions."
"There is?"
"Yeah, stick it in the freezer for ten minutes. It works, trust me."
"Cool beans." He took the onion and put it in the freezer, next to the

ice cream. "So… I talked to Gary," he said in a casual tone, faker than a
stripper's boobs. Not that I've seen many of those.

"He called you?" My annoyance poked its head up.
"No, Jon. I called him. I wanted to know if there was anything I could

do to help."

"And?"
"Did you know unclaimed bodies are cremated and buried in a mass

grave after two years?"

"No, I didn't know." It was a relief—there were no gnarly body parts

for Andy to fondle. "It makes sense, I guess. Where do they keep the
bodies for those years?" I asked as my anxiety began to drain away.

Andy began to busy himself, clearing the table of vegetable remnants.

"Oh, I think the cremation happens much sooner. So anyway, Gary said
there was a piece of jewelry found with the body and it's still in

evidence, and I told him I'd give it a try, see if I can psych something out
of it." He pulled the Dutch oven out of the cabinet and plunked it down
on the table. He coulda whacked me on the head with the heavy, cast iron
thing, I wouldn't have been more flabbergasted. I'd thought the Emily
Novak thing was over, but I'd been so wrong.

"Oh." I said, words temporarily knocked out of me.
There must've been something in my expression, because Andy's gaze

went soft. "Don't worry, Jon. It's not a big deal. I just want to know how
the story ends."

"No one hired you to find Emily Novak, it was a bonus. You don't

have to solve her murder too. Leave it to Lipkin and his cohorts to deal
with it. They are the detectives, let them detect."

"They don't have a lot to go on and I might be able to come up with a

clue. See, to me it's like reading an Agatha Christie mystery. Hercule
Poirot has summoned all the suspects into the drawing room and is about
the reveal the identity of the murderer. You can't stop reading there." His
eyes gleamed as if he was envisioning an episode of Masterpiece
Mystery right then.

"Why not? They never make any damn sense anyway," I grumbled,

but I already knew I was losing the argument.

"Sacrilege!"
"Tell me Murder on the Orient Express is even remotely plausible."
"It doesn't have to be."
"Why not?"
He gaped at me for a second. "Because…because it's fiction!"
"That's a fine excuse. Wait, what are we arguing about?"
"I forgot. No, wait, I got it—me psyching a piece of evidence so we

find out what happened to Emily Novak."

"What if it doesn't turn out as you expect? Will you get upset again?"
"Maybe. Listen, I wanna to do this. I might be able to get something

useful for the police. In which case all is good. Or I may not. In which
case I wasted a bit of their time."

"I can talk till I'm blue in the face, can't I? You already made up your

mind, right?"

Wordlessly, he gazed at me, lips pursed, eyes smiling but full of

determination.

"You know for someone looking so sweet and innocent, you're a

stubborn son of a bitch," I said.

He batted his eyelashes. "You think I'm sweet?"
I huffed. "Fine, tell Lipkin he can have his seance here."
"I was gonna go to the station."
"No way. Cops are suspicious bastards. Some of them might get the

wrong idea, like you had something to do with the murder and lock you
up since you're already there."

"Fine, I'll call Gary and tell him. Now get out of the kitchen. You're

distracting me." He cast his gaze around the table. "Where did I put that
damn onion?" Before I could tell him he slapped his forehead and
opened the freezer. I left him to it.

CHAPTER SIX

Lipkin arrived just before six and yet again not alone. This time the

woman beside him was closer to him in age, with a smattering of gray in
her brown hair.

"This is Detective Bennett from the Cold Case unit," Lipkin

introduced her.

She gave me brief handshake. "Mr. Cooper. I've heard a lot about you

in a short time." I could imagine.

I didn't get to say anything more, because Andy showed up at the

door. "There you are. Come on in!" he said cheerily.

I moved out of the way, and we all flocked into the living room

where the round of introductions finally concluded and we got to sit
down around the coffee table. Of course, Andy, being Andy, wasn't
happy till everyone had the beverage of his or her choice and the
chocolate almond scones he'd picked up just for the occasion at Trader
Joe's.

After a short session of niceties Bennett brushed the crumbs off her

hands. "So, Gary tells me you have some sort of special talent," she said,
eyes fixed on Andy. I read mistrust in them.

He beamed back at her. "Gary probably exaggerates, Detective."
Her smile was more polite than heartfelt. I got the impression she

was humoring all of us. "Call me Cora. I've known Gary for fifteen
years, and he's as serious as toothache. What is it exactly you do?"

Andy spread his hands. "I'm a psychic. Not the fortunetelling kind or

a medium. It's just I have a talent for finding things. Usually pets and
things like that, but occasionally people."

"But this Jane Doe is not lost."
"Well, holding objects belonging to a person and concentrating on

them occasionally gives me an insight. Especially if there was trauma. It
sharpens the impressions. It doesn't work with just anything though.
Unless Santa Ana winds are blowing—for some reason they make me
super-sensitive. Such a drag, always gives me a headache." Andy was
rambling now. I could tell he was getting nervous under Bennett's stern
gaze. So I reached out and gave his shoulder a squeeze. It seemed to
relax him.

She kept interrogating him. "What are these insights like?"
Andy pulled up his shoulders. "Oh, you know, kinda between a dream

and bad home movie—one of those old ones people used to make on
film. So it's kinda jumpy and mostly out of focus but I might get a few
clear details."

Lipkin pitched in. "Leander provided useful information in that case I

told you about." His tone was full of meaning only he and Bennett were
privy to.

She nodded and pulled back, but the look on her face must've been a

good approximation of mine when Andy had first told me about being a
psychic. That don't-aggravate-the-crazy-person expression.

Lipkin picked up the slack. "We'd like you to look at the jewelry

found on the body. You think you can do it?" he asked Andy.

"Well, I can try but I can't promise anything," Andy replied.
"It's fine." Lipkin turned to Bennett, who kept her face straight while

fishing a small paper bag out of her pocket and shaking its contents out
onto our coffee. It was a silver ring.

My alarm bells rang. "Wait a minute. If she didn't have hands how

could she wear a ring?" I gave Lipkin a full dose of my distrust.

"It was on her toe. On the one foot recovered," he explained.
"Hm."
As Andy picked up the ring I leaned close and noticed the silver band

twined in the shape of a snake. It gave me pause, remembering Andy's
description of the circle of snakes in his dream.

Oblivious to all eyes focused on him, Andy turned the ring around in

his hand. He even pulled it onto his little finger and wrapped his other
hand around it. He closed his eyes and leaned back, holding his hands to
his chest.

For a long while nothing happened. Lipkin sank into his chair and

waited patiently, almost bored. Bennett stayed still as well, but I could
sense tension under the surface. Her eyes narrowed when Andy's trance
—for a lack of better word—started.

I knew he was getting somewhere when his breathing became fast and

shallow. The muscles in his face twitched, then went slack. This went on
for a while, till he jerked and took a sharp breath at the same time. He
held the pose, unmoving for many seconds before releasing his breath
and opening his eyes, which seemed paler and tired.

"She was stabbed," he said holding the ring out to Bennett.
"How many times?" she asked.
"I don't know. Many. The man was very angry."
"Right. Angry man with knife." Bennett stole a sideway glance at

Lipkin. From where I was sitting the glance said, you dragged me here
for this?"

Lipkin cleared his throat. "Leander, are you sure the victim is Emily

Novak?"

"I'm sure it's the woman from the photo."
"What photo?"
I went and got the picture we got from Ethan's grandmother and

showed it to the detectives. They agreed one of the younger women in the
photo was Emily.

Lipkin turned back to Andy. "This man, did you see his face?"
Andy nodded vigorously. "Well enough to have Jon draw him."
I sighed and pushed myself up from the couch again. "I'll get my

sketchpad."

When I returned from my room Andy was stuffing his face with

scones and washing them down with coffee. I sat down next to him.

Lipkin stood. "I'll just have a cigarette outside," he said and shot a

pointed glance at Bennett.

"I'll join you," she said.
"I don't think either of them actually smoke," I said when the door

closed behind them.

"Gary quit years ago," Andy replied. "Ready?"
"As ready as ever."
First, Andy gave me an overall description while squeezing his eyes

shut. I did a rough sketch, which I kept improving detail by detail under
his directions. As we worked he slumped against me. I could practically
feel his energies seeping away. I would've liked to pull him into my
arms, but my hands were full and we had guests.

Sometime during the process Lipkin and Bennett returned from their

alleged cigarette break and settled back into their chairs. I didn't know
what had transpired between them but Bennett wore a disgruntled
expression, which Lipkin seemed to pay no heed to. He was chomping
down biscotti with the self-possession of a horse eating its…well,
whatever horses ate.

When Andy declared it done I held the drawing at arm's length. "Hm,

seems familiar," I said scrutinizing the picture of a middle aged man with
a stubborn jawline and a scar cutting through his mustache.

Lipkin took it from me. "Looks like Mike Hammer but with less hair."
"Who?" Andy and I asked at the same time.
He shook his head with a disappointed expression. "You youngsters.

Mike Hammer was the most bad-ass private detective on television. I
forget the actor's name…"

"Stacy Keach," Bennett said and took a glimpse at her watch. She

took the drawing from Lipkin, didn't roll her eyes, and gave us a
professional smile. "Well, we've used up enough your time already. We
should be going." The last part was more directed at Lipkin than us.

I saw them out and coming back found the living room empty. As I

expected, Andy was in my…our bed, lying face down on top of the
comforter.

"Tired?" I asked.
"Mmm."
I leaned over and placed a kiss on his temple. "Take a nap."
"Jon."
"Hm."
"Lie with me."
I climbed behind him and he squirmed till our body parts nestled

together back-to-front. He threaded his fingers with mine. "Thanks for
doing the drawing."

"No prob. I'm getting good at it. Good to know that if advertising

design doesn't work out I can probably get a job as a police sketch
artist."

He squeezed my hand. "You never give yourself credit. You're good.

More than good."

"If you say so." I pressed my lips to the nape of his neck. "How bad

was it?"

"The thing with the ring? No worse than a bad dream. There's

something I didn't tell Gary—I saw Emily, but other women too. They
morphed into each other, and there were jumbled up emotions."

"I don't want you to have bad dreams."
"I know, you want to protect me, even from myself." He huffed and

nestled in tighter. "Silly goose."

I listened to his breathing slow, felt his chest rise and fall, and stayed

awake guarding against invisible monsters.

***

I called Lipkin the next day. "Your friend doesn't believe in

Leander," I said.

"She'll come around," he replied, without a trace of concern.
I didn't much care if she did or not, but I knew how invested Andy

was with this stupid case. "You think she'll just chuck the drawing?"

"Cora's thorough. She'll chase down even the remotest tips. That's

what makes her so good at cold cases. But if nothing else, she'll do this
for no other reason than to indulge me."

"Hm. I'm not crazy about you bringing in more and more people."
"Don't worry, neither Cora nor Cruz will tell a soul. I'd be laughed

out of the staff room if the others knew I visited a psychic. It'd be even
worse for a woman."

"You get partnered with women a lot?"
"It happens time to time."
"How come you call your current partner by her last name, and the

former one by her first?"

"None of your business."
I realized I'd overstepped the boundaries and quickly backed off.

"Okay." I couldn't help but wonder if there had once been something
romantic between Lipkin and Detective Bennett. Lipkin the ladies' man?
It was hard to imagine. But anything was possible. "Ehrm, so you think
there's any way to prove the body was Emily's?"

"There might. At the time when the body was found there was a

promising match with a missing person's case, so the detective in charge
ordered a DNA test. It turned out to be negative, but the results are still
in the file."

"So you just need to check it against the family?"
"Exactly. Cora will need to convince a family member to provide

their own DNA sample."

"Tell her to ask the mother first. I'd bet against the sister."

***

There was nothing to do but wait. Since neither Andy nor I had

anything pressing to do on Monday afternoon, I suggested we do
something outside of the apartment.

"You remember that spot in Griffith Park you took me to once?" Andy

asked. "The one with the view of Glendale."

I sure did—we went there after his first case with Lipkin. "You

wanna go there?"

"It's a good spot for thinking."
"Okay. But this time I'm bringing a blanket."

***

The place hadn't changed since our last visit. A narrow footpath led

from the bridal trail to a clearing among gnarly pine trees. A pink layer
of smog hid the view of Glendale this time. We stretched out on the
blanket, not saying anything for a long time. Andy had been right—thanks

to the lack of distractions the brain worked better there.

My thoughts revolved around Andy and his habit of touching bones

and dead bodies to get impressions from them. I didn't understand how
he still managed to remain so bright and carefree. I feared he might
change.

"Jon, you're thinking of death," he said, shocking me out of my

ponderings.

"How do you know?" I had a secret suspicion he could read minds,

and not only when the Santa Ana winds blew.

"You keep twisting your wedding ring."
Oh. So I was. I stopped guiltily and laid my hands down by my side.

"Bad habit."

Andy stared off into the branches above us, probably looking and the

speckles of sky showing through. "I was little when my parents died."

"You've never told me how it happened."
"Winter, icy roads, a semi."
"I'm sorry."
"They went out to visit friends and never came back. Grams tried to

explain later, but I had no concept of death. I threw tantrums demanding
them to come back to me right away. Most of the time, though, I felt their
presence around me. Maybe because Grams and I stayed in the same
house. Everything was as my parents last left it, all their things. Stuff got
moved around in time, of course, but that was a gradual change. At times
I was certain my parents were in the house—just in another room or
maybe out in the back yard. At night I used to have these incredibly vivid
dreams of them sitting at the edge of my bed, reading from my favorite
book."

"So you think they stayed behind in spirit?"
"I don't believe in ghosts and life after death."
"No?" I asked surprised.
"Nope."
"That's weird considering what you do. Don't you think?"
"Not at all. My theory is that objects can soak up the essence of the

people around them. Just as clothes absorb our smell. The rest is up to
the brain—it's a strange and mysterious thing. I'm convinced I

subconsciously conjured my parents as a defense against loss."

"Is that it? Your whole explanation?"
"You know that bright light at the end of the tunnel people see when

they're dying? Dead loved ones waiting for them?"

"Yeah. What about it?"
"It's not real, the whole thing is in their heads. I think it's wonderful

there's a mercy switch inside your brain to make sure you don't spend
your last moments in fear and despair. Instead, there's a relief, a
knowledge that everything will be all right."

"For a psychic, you're awful pragmatic. How do you explain this

special talent thing you have?"

"I don't."
"Wait a minute. Isn't it a cop-out?"
"Nuh-uh. The stuff about objects absorbing people's essences is as

far as I go. And it's pure conjecture. Anything more and I'd be making
shit up like, I dunno, a medieval alchemist or something. I don't know
what this thing is but that's okay. I mean, go back five hundred years and
try to explain electricity to someone, to the smartest person living then.
You'd probably end up burned on the stake. It doesn't mean electricity
didn't exist."

"So you're saying your talent is part of some future branch of

science?"

"Well, if it is, it's probably a very primitive version."
"Hm."
He sat up and pulled his shoes off. For a second I worried he'd walk

around searching for people in the ground, but he lay back, nestling
closer this time. He propped one foot up on the other knee. As we rested
there, surrounded by insects buzzing and the distant murmur of the
freeway a bird landed on a branch above us—something small and gray.
It flicked its head left and right and then hopped into the air and flew
away.

Andy wiggled his toes. Blond hairs on his big toe knuckle caught the

light. He sighed contentedly. "This is nice. Santa Monica was fun, but
doing nothing is seriously underrated. You see way more when you slow
down. That's what I love about living in Pasadena—you don't have to

drive everywhere. I can walk down to the park or the comic book store.
There's so much stuff along the way you miss when you drive."

"True," I said.
"Are you still thinking of death?"
"I wasn't."
"I was. It's weird how we approach death in general. Considering it's

the only sure thing in life. We walk around it, as if it would go away if
we just didn't make eye contact."

"So that's what you do, make eye contact?"
He chuckled. "I guess. I'm the corpse whisperer. I might as well,

since I have this gift. Oy, that sounded cheesy, didn't it?"

"A little. I'm worried it'll change you, make you hard."
He rolled on top of me. "Hey, are you saying I'm soft?"
"Now you're twisting my words."
"Because I'm not." He was now straddling my thighs and our cocks

were rubbing against each other through several layers of fabric. Andy
canted his hips and the sensation grew stronger.

"Stop it or we'll both be hard," I said.
"So? What's wrong with that? All this talk of death makes me want to

enjoy living."

I couldn't argue with his logic, especially after he pushed my shirt up

to my armpits and attached his lips to my left nipple. We made al fresco
love under the trees, only half-undressed, stifling our moans, and rutting
against each other in a stubborn reaffirmation of life.

CHAPTER SEVEN

I drove to Mrs. Novak's house the next afternoon to return her photo.

This time she invited me all the way into the living room. The whole
house—at least the parts I could see—seemed like it had gone untouched
by time or interior decorating efforts for decades. Its dark wood paneling
had gone out of fashion in the seventies. An ancient Singer sewing
machine stood in the corner next to a bookcase. The fireplace was red
brick, and strangely, had fresh ash in it. In the middle of summer.

Rosemary Novak settled into an armchair only half as old as she was.

On a table next to her she had open photo albums and a cigar box full of
knick-knacks.

She waved me toward another chair, and I sat. "A police woman was

here today. She thought Emmy might be dead. She showed me a ring and
asked me if it was Emmy's. I told her maybe, but I couldn't be sure. When
she left I felt the urge to take out the old albums."

I handed her the family photograph Andy and I had borrowed earlier.

"I brought this one back."

She studied the photo for a minute before dropping it on the table.

"She and Sylvia were really at each other's throats last time Emmy was

visiting. Mind you, the two of them never got along, even when little."

"What did they fight about?"
"That TV show. Sylvia made such a big deal of it. She accused Emmy

of dragging the family name through mud again for a pocketful of
change."

"What TV show?"
"You know, one of those true crime things with actors playing out

what happened and interviews of the real people involved and their
friends, relatives. They're on TV all the time."

"Emily was on one of those? I didn't know that."
"No reason you should. It was years ago. After they finally sent that

man to the gallows.

"Clive Riddel?"
She winced at the name. "Yes, him. And Emmy was in it too, telling

her side of the story, how she was terrorized by that monster and made to
do terrible things. And why couldn't she clear her name? People accused
her of all sorts of nasty things. Sylvia, of course, saw it differently. She
was mad as a hornet."

"And that was the last time you saw Emily?"
"Yes. I thought she'd gotten angry and taken off without saying a

word. But suppose I was wrong? The police woman who came, she
showed me a drawing of a man, asking if I knew him. Do you think he
killed her? Why would he do such thing?"

"I don't know, Mrs. Novak. Did you recognize him?"
"Never seen him in my life. He reminded me a little of that actor on

TV. I told her."

Now I winced. "Ethan left the year before all this happened, right?"
"The summer before. At least he missed all the drama. Emmy blamed

Sylvia for chasing Ethan away, but she was wrong. Ethan left for his own
reasons."

"What were those?"
"Well, you know, people judging him without knowing him. The

worst part was he began to believe his father's evil was in him too. I
tried to tell him it was foolishness; one doesn't inherit evil. His father
must've had one of those conditions where things go wrong in a man's

brain. In the old days he woulda been said to be possessed by demons.
Who knows, maybe it was demons."

"Maybe." I didn't put much stock into evil spirits, but some people

were just plain evil, that I knew.

"I told Ethan about his real family, especially my George. See, my

husband died when Ethan was little, but Ethan resembled him a lot. Even
the hair."

"He had red hair too?"
"Not as bright as Ethan's, more russet, but red still. They were

similar in other ways too, both dreamers. George was in France in the
war and always talked about taking me there one day. We never had the
money, with the kids and everything. The furthest we ever got was
Niagara Falls on our Silver Anniversary. Ethan reminded me of him,
only less robust. Yeah, he was a sensitive boy."

While she talked my gaze strayed to the table. I saw a stack of letters,

yellow with age, bearing foreign stamps. Lying next to a dried rose, I
noticed an unusual military ID tag—it had a notch cut out on one end.

Mrs. Novak saw me looking. "That's my husband's from the war."

She picked up the piece of metal and traced the stamped-in letters with
the tip of her finger. "I gave it to Ethan to remind him where he came
from. The ancestry which mattered. He never took it off." She dropped it
back into the box and closed the lid. "I shouldn't be keeping you with my
nattering. I bet you have better things to do."

I recognized her words as a dismissal, but I wasn't done yet.

Something Jim had once told me about dog tags niggled me. I needed a
minute alone in the room. I dutifully stood and said, "Of course. Could I
bother you for a glass of water before I go? I'm awful thirsty."

"Oh my goodness, where are my manners? I haven't offered you

anything." She hefted herself out of the chair and shuffled out toward the
kitchen.

Once she was safely out of the room I opened the cigar box and

snatched the dog tag. I shoved it into my pocket and strode across the
room to the fireplace. Crouching down I inspected the ashes, but they
didn't tell me much. All I could pick out was a corner piece of paper,
something heavy, like card stock.

By the time Rosemary ambled back I was in my previous spot, acting

innocent. I thanked her for the water, drank it all, and said my good-byes.

***

"What's this?" Andy asked when I dropped the metal tag into his lap

an hour later. A paperback about bugs lay splayed face down on the
coffee table, forsaken in favor of Iron Chef America on the TV.

"That's George Novak's World War Two dog tag," I explained.
He rubbed his fingers over the letters a lot like the old lady had.

"Rosemary Novak's husband?"

"Yup." I slumped into the chair and watched confusion ruffle Andy's

face.

"Did she give it to you?"
"I borrowed it."
He stared at me with wide-eyed confusion. "You stole it? Why?"
"I'll take it back to her later. I had a hunch she wouldn't let me have it

if I asked."

Andy shook his head as if trying to get water out of his ear. "I don't

understand."

"She told me she'd given the dog tag to Ethan, and he'd never taken it

off."

Andy held up the piece of metal. "Well. Obviously, he must have at

one point."

"Not necessarily. They come in pairs, you know."
"They do?"
"Uh-huh. My friend Jim served in the army for a few years, and still

wears his. He explained why they had two: if the soldier dies in combat,
one is taken off—for record keeping, I guess—and the other is left on the
body for identification."

"Oh. It makes sense."
"Last Christmas you found Anjelica's one missing earring using the

other one, right?"

"Things in pairs want to be together." His face lit up. "Ha! I know

where you're going with this. You think if Ethan's still wearing the other
tag, I can find it, using this one."

"And locate Ethan as a side effect."

Andy grinned wide, showing his pearly whites. "Jon, you're a genius!

Wilier than Wile E. Coyote."

"Ugh. I'm not crazy about your comparison. If I remember correctly,

he had lots of boulders and anvils fall on him."

"Just stay away from fast-running, skinny birds, and you'll be fine."
I narrowed my eyes and pointedly looked him over. "You're skinny.

I'm not sure about the bird part. How fast can you run?"

"Beep, beep," he said and followed it up with another ear-to-ear grin.

His open face made my heart trip. I wanted to bundle him up and never
let him go.

The flush of emotion must've shown on my face because Andy's

expression turned into an expectant question. "Jon?"

I pulled myself together. "I'm gonna go clean up and then call the

ACME Corporation about a reliable rocket while you do your thing."

His face closed like a book. "Sure."
I headed off to the bedroom and the shower, leaving Andy to psych in

peace. When I returned a map covered the coffee table and Andy was
busy frowning at it.

"Success?" I asked and sat next to him on the couch.
He nodded and showed me the map. It was one of those foldable

paper ones, with a red X southeast of us, a spitting distance from the
Mexican border. People called it the low desert, as opposed to the high
desert to the north. Different elevation, and probably other things too, but
I was no expert.

"So, pardner, how ya' feel 'bout going on a ride down there to them

badlands?" he asked with a strained accent.

"Only if you promise to talk normal."
"What? You don't like my cowpoke dialect?"
"It's terrible. Where did you learn to talk cowboy? New Jersey?"
"From the Prairie Home Companion."
"Public radio. I shoulda known."
"So…how about it? If you don't want to, I can go by myself, no

biggie."

"Oh, hell no." Picturing Andy and his clunker of a car in the middle of

fucking nowhere made me break out in a cold sweat. It's not like it was a

dangerous area per se—nothing like the other side of the border—but
Andy had a knack for finding trouble even in genteel Pasadena, and I was
good at being paranoid. "We're a team; we go together, pardner."

His eyes lit up. "Cool. It'll be a road trip. We haven't had a real one

since last fall."

"That time we found the bones of a girl in the woods," I reminded

him.

"Well yeah, sure, but it was fun up till that point, and she'd been dead

for a long time."

"It'll be even hotter than the Mojave was."
"I can handle it if you can," he said with bluster.
I had my doubts but kept them to myself. "I can't do it tomorrow; need

to finish up a paint job first."

"Day after then. I'll get supplies—you know, water food, whatnot.

You can leave it up to me."

"And we'll have to leave early."
His mood wilted and he sighed. "Fine, but none of that cheerful

morning crap from you."

Having settled the matter we sat back and ate dinner in front of the

TV. Because we could.

***

I busted my ass the next day to finish the house, and didn't get home

till after dark. I had a small storage space in the garage, and before going
upstairs I grabbed a couple of sleeping bags from there to put them in the
truck. They were part of the camping stuff I hadn't had the heart to get rid
of, even though the last time I'd been camping had been with Alicia. My
late wife—it had such a strange sound. I didn't think I'd ever get used to
it.

Guilt ran me through like a knife. She was dead and I was not only

alive but with someone else. It felt like betrayal of everything we'd once
had. I wondered if she'd have liked Andy. Of course, Andy and I
would've never happened if Alicia hadn't died in that accident. I froze in
place, struck by the understanding of how completely our lives changed
in a blink of an eye on a narrow mountain road. If only I was quicker, if I
just… I shook my head and stuffed the sleeping bags into the truck's lock

box. Andy had been right—I couldn't let go of things. I glanced at my
wedding ring and couldn't say why I hadn't taken it off already. I tugged
on the ring but it seemed stuck. I'd deal with it another time, I decided.

Once upstairs I learned Andy had been busy too—when I opened the

fridge a heap of sandwiches greeted me on the top shelf. He also had a
bagful of snacks and fresh fruit from Trader Joe's ready and waiting.

"We're not going for a week," I told him, surveying the pile of goods.
"Yeah, I know, I've gone a little overboard, haven't I? Sandwiches

are my specialty."

"After ramen?"
"Don't knock ramen. There are a lot of things you can add to them—

eggs, cheese, fish sauce."

"I'll take the sandwiches," I said with a shudder and took one.
"Hey, that's for tomorrow!"
"Hay is for cows," I said and parked my ass on a chair.
Andy crossed his arms. "Horses."
"Says you."
He watched me peel the ham and cheese out of its plastic skin. He

attempted a disgruntled expression but failed. Probably didn't have the
facial muscles for it. "Your shoulder hurts again, doesn't it?" he asked.

"A little," I admitted. Actually, it was a bitch.
"Take your shirt off, I'll rub some IcyHot on it. After you're done

eating," he added.

***

Not only didn't I need to drag Andy out of bed half-conscious the next

morning, but he was up before me. I didn't know what woke me, only that
I was deep in slumber one moment and wide awake the next. My first
sight was Andy sitting up in bed and chewing on his thumbnail.

"A dream again?" I asked.
He nodded.
"About Ethan?"
He shrugged. "No, but it might have to do with him. I was in the

desert and saw a guy walking toward me, slowly, like someone who's
not in a hurry. With the big, empty landscape behind him it was very
spaghetti western. You know what I mean?"

I pushed myself up into a sitting position and tucked the pillow

between me and the headboard. "Yeah, I've seen them. So what
happened next?"

"Not much. He kept walking. I couldn't see his face, but I knew he

was watching me. He wore snakeskin boots. He came all the way up to
me and I still couldn't make out his face. He held out his hand toward me
and he was holding a snake. You were looking for this, he said. And
that's when I woke up."

"How long have you been up?"
"Ten, fifteen minutes? I dunno. I was trying to figure out what the

whole thing means."

"Let's see… that time when you dreamt of driving in a storm and a

bird crashing into the windshield, it turned out to be about a Ford
Thunderbird."

"Yeah, I know. I've been wracking my brain. Snake-eyes, snake in the

grass, snake charmer, snake oil." He threw his hands up. "I give up.
Symbolic dreams are the suck. Wouldn't it be nice if this subconscious
ESP future-science one-way radio whatsamajig in my head spoke in
plain English?"

I patted Andy's thigh. "Forget about it. We'll go down there and find

whatever we find. And since we're both up, might as well get moving."

Andy hopped out of the bed with a zest I'd rarely seen from him so

early in the day. "Road trip!"

***

The first couple of hours of driving were dull as dirt. Not till after

we passed San Bernardino did the mini malls, gas stations, and fast food
restaurants lining the freeway thin out and give way to an actual
landscape. We came upon a forest of wind turbines along the highway,
and Andy went gaga over them.

"They're so elegant, like egrets standing very still, waiting for the fish

to swim by," he said.

"Sandfish?"
"Yeah, sure, why not?"
The land became flatter and flatter and the mountains receded to the

background. The highway skirted around Palm Springs.

"Have you ever stayed there?" Andy asked as he stared out the

window toward southern California's gay resort.

"Too fancy for my wallet. How about you?"
"Nah."
I got an idea—maybe if the painting went well and I saved up some

money, Andy and I could spring for a weekend at Palm Springs at the end
of summer, before school started again. Why not? It could be fun. I was
sure Andy would enjoy it.

We drove on through towns progressively less posh, some of them

barely more than a fart in the sand. "All right, Andy, you're the
navigator," I said as we got closer to Salton Sea.

"Okie-dokie." He pulled out his map. "Somewhere east of the lake.

Hopefully, I'll know where exactly when we get closer.

At Mecca—never a town less deserving of the name—I took the left

fork in the road and soon the big blue body of water came into view to
our right.

"Jon, go down there," Andy pointed at a blue sign coming up. Salton

Sea State Recreational Area, it said.

I took the exit and stopped at the completely empty parking lot. "Do

you feel something?" I asked.

"Nope. I just wanted to sightsee. Let's go down to the shore."
So we did. Unnatural calm smothered the land. Not a ripple in the

water, not a breeze in the air. It was hot too. I checked my phone—100
degrees and climbing. I couldn't see a living thing in any direction, other
than a few scrawny brushes. The sand crunched under our feet. I
crouched down for a better look. It wasn't sand, it was pulverized fish
bones.

"Lovely place," I said.
Andy stared out to the water that could've been a pool of lead for all I

knew. "I saw a documentary about this place once. I don't remember it
all that well, but I think this lake was created by accident—flood or
something. It was a popular vacation spot for a while in the fifties. But
then the salt content went way up and the water became poisonous. The
fish died and the birds too. And the vacationers stopped coming. Hard to
imagine now they were ever here. The place is so completely dead."

Places too, lived and died like people, I thought. "It's like one of

those post-apocalyptic movies. Depressing."

"It has a sort of peace. A lot of people like the desert."
"Do you?"
"Nah. I'm more into mountains and forest and all that green stuff. But

this is…well…interesting."

I noticed his freckles were getting a pinkish hue. "Put on more

sunscreen and let's go find our guy."

CHAPTER EIGHT

We got back on the road and kept driving. In twenty minutes we saw

only two other cars on the road, and a freight train rumbling by from the
opposite direction. The tracks ran parallel to the highway.

Andy had his hand on the map, one finger rubbing the same spot,

while he stared out the window.

"Are we close yet?" I asked.
Andy wrinkled his nose in frustration. "We're getting close. I think. I

wish I had a bigger map. Just keep driving."

"All right, but when we reach the border I'm turning around." I didn't

intend to cross into Mexico.

"It's out here somewhere." Andy motioned toward the vast

nothingness away from the water. "Take the first left turn you find."

I didn't come upon one till we reached a small town. I took a left on

Main Street and drove five dusty, run-down blocks, crossed the train
tracks and we were back in the desert again. The two-lane blacktop
seemed to lead straight to nowhere—a perfect location to lose a body. I
started to mentally prepare for the aftermath—the cops, the questions, the
story we'd have to concoct to explain what the hell we were doing there

in the first place. Cops were distrustful; they always wanted to know
why you decided to dig a hole in the middle of nowhere.

I was busy coming up with a plausible excuse when our adventure

began to skid offtrack. It started when a small hill—or rather a very big
pile of dirt—came into sight just off the road. Somebody with lots of
dedication had painted it in bright colors. Red and pink letters
announced that God was love. I wasn't a believer, but I respected the
sentiment—so much better than all those God hates this and that signs
self-righteous assholes liked to shove into your face.

"People make God in their own image, don't they?" Andy commented.
"Stop reading my mind," I grumbled. "Where are we going?"
"Keep driving. We're close, I can feel it."
A few miles later we ran into more strangeness: there were signs of

life, some sort of haphazard settlement scattered around on both sides of
the road. RVs, buses, vans—some with solar panels on their roofs. I
noted a few human figures too in the distance, but nobody close by. We
crept past a raised platform. In front of it stood rows of seats, everything
from folding chairs to old car seats.

"Is that a stage?" Andy asked staring.
"Must be the theater at the end of the world. Bizarre. Where the heck

are we?"

"I have no idea."
Just then I spotted a man ahead and pulled up alongside of him. "Hi,"

I said. "I'm Jon, and this is…Andy." The man squinted at me from under
a bushel of dirty wool he had for hair. He made a grunt. I took it as an
encouragement, and went on. "We're from L.A. searching for a friend.
His name is Ethan. He's about twenty-five and has red hair. Do you know
anyone like that around here?"

He shrugged and made to turn, but Andy leaned across me. "Excuse

me. Sir? Do you know a man who wears snakeskin boots?"

The guy turned back, looked at Andy and gave a gap-toothed grin.

"You want Boots? Why didn't you just say so? He's probably in the
library."

"Library?" I asked nonplussed.
He clearly saw nothing unusual about such an institution in the middle

of God-forsaken nowhere. "Yeah. Take this road to the end and turn
right. It'll be on your left. You can't miss it."

***

He didn't lie. We found the place where he'd said, and it indeed was

hard to miss. For starters, it had a sign announcing its presence in hand-
painted letters. And then there were the rows of empty bottles lining the
dirt path leading up to the door. Somebody had taken great care to
arrange those bottles in two straight lines, all of them an even distance
from each other and half-buried in the sand to keep them securely in
place. Green bottles to one side, clear ones to the other.

The blacktop had run out by then and we were on an unpaved road. I

pulled off onto a patch of hard dirt not covered in scrub brush. The soil
here was a lot like in the Mojave—hard and coarse—nothing like the
smooth sand of the beach.

"It's close, I can feel it," Andy said in hushed tones as we got out of

the truck.

"Why are you whispering?" I whispered back.
"I dunno, habit. Plus there's something about this place," he said at an

almost normal volume this time.

"Well, let's see what's in there." I braced myself for whatever might

come and strode up to the door that had once belonged to a motor home.
It creaked as I pulled it open. I poked my head in. "Hello?"

No answer. Andy pushed past me to get inside. Although inside was

a relative term, as I discovered right away. Technically, the building—if
you could call it that—had walls and a roof—made out of scraps of
plywood and a corrugated fiberglass. However, the roof had long gaps,
and entire sections of the wall were simply not there. Andy had veered
right and I followed him to the far end. There the structure had a ten-foot
gap, providing a view of sand and a rusted-out school bus.

Still, the books represented order. They sat, organized by genre and

lined up neatly on mismatched shelves. Among them loitered an
assortment of other items—a glass vase, old medicine bottles, animal
skulls, and other bric-a-brac.

Andy seemed taken in by the place—not a surprise considering his

book addiction. He slowly turned three-sixty, while taking in the

surroundings inch-by-inch. I sensed an odd kinda peacefulness there. The
shade couldn't have tempered the heat by more than a couple of degrees,
yet it felt less oppressive and more drowsy. Laying back in a hammock
and taking a nap seemed like an appealing idea. Alas, I saw no
hammocks and we were there to find a guy, dead or alive.

Andy pulled the dog tag out of his pocket and closed his fingers

around it. I watched as he bowed his head and stood statue-still for a
long spell. Even when he finally moved, he did so slowly, keeping his
eyes shut. He inched past the shelves, his free hand outstretched and
skimming the spines of books. He stopped as his fingertips brushed
against a mason jar full of seashells. He curled his fingers around the jar
and opened his eyes. I watched him stick his hand into the jar and dig
around. He pulled out a piece of metal. I recognized it—the other dog
tag.

Andy let out a huff of breath and his shoulders slumped. "Well, there

goes that idea."

Another setback, what a surprise, I thought, but didn't want to

discourage Andy even more. His spirits seemed to droop. "It's not so
bad. We're closer now than we were before—Ethan was here at one
point, maybe still is. We'll ask around, knock on every door if we have
to. There's bound to be someone who knows something," I said as
cheerily as I could muster.

"I dunno. I'm not a detective, I'm a psychic. What am I supposed to

say?"

"I'll do the talking."
Andy took a deep breath and pulled himself straight. "You're right.

Let's do it." He gave me a smile.

We headed back toward the door but a voice stopped us dead in our

tracks. "So you found it. I knew you would."

We both spun on our heels to the direction of the voice.
A few steps from us the library transitioned into a makeshift

courtyard, fenced in by rusty mattress springs. Off to one side, in an
alcove created by a tree, hid a bench. The man sitting on it watched us
with flint-black eyes. An unlit cigarette dangled between his lips.
Unbothered by our stares, he clicked a lighter and held the flame to the

tip of his cigarette.

"Who are you?" I asked and stepped closer.
He took a deep drag. Smoke poured out of his nose and mouth as he

spoke. "Names don't matter here. They…" he gestured behind him,
toward the ragtag settlement, "…call me Boots. You might as well too."
He slipped the lighter into his shirt pocket.

I glanced at his feet and saw the snakeskin boots. The plot had

thickened, it was for damn sure.

Andy stared at the man transfixed. "You were in my dream."
Boots took the statement in stride. "That's possible. Why don't you sit

down?"

I glanced around, saw a couple of plastic chairs, and pulled them up

—one for Andy, one for me. We sat, Boots kept smoking, and we all
studied each other. Even up close I couldn't get a fix on the man's age—
he could've been a weather-beaten fifty or a well-preserved hundred.
His face was like old leather—tan, worn, and creased. With his boots,
jeans, and gray flannel shirt he did bring to mind the image of a cowboy
from old movies and cigarette ads. Something about the line of his nose
and cheekbones made me think he had a dose of Native American blood
in him.

Meanwhile Andy had the sparkle in his eyes he always had when he'd

caught the scent of secrets. Times like this he tended to forget about the
world around him and had no sense of possible dangers. He needed
someone to make sure he was safe.

"What's this place?" I asked Boots.
He squinted at me through smoke. "The end of the road. People come

here because they lost their way or they have nowhere else to go. Some
come to lose themselves, running from the past."

"Is that why Ethan came?" Andy asked sharply.
"He tried, but he was holding onto the wrong things." He flicked the

ash from his cigarette. "Letting go is the hardest thing."

"Letting go of what?" I asked.
Boots fixed his sharp gaze on me. "Anger, shame, guilt, fear. Take

your pick. Ghosts of the past. Some folks will grab onto the pain and
won't let go even when it's pulling them under. The one called Ethan

hated almost everything about himself. He thought losing himself in the
desert would be the solution, but it was just the opposite."

"So what happened to him?" Andy asked.
"He found himself instead."
"How?"
Boots lips pulled sideways in sort of a smile. "By shedding his skin."
Andy slapped his forehead. "Snakes, rebirth! Duh!"
I narrowed my eyes at Boots. "How exactly does a man shed his

skin?"

"That's for me to know, and you not to be concerned about. But I was

speaking metaphorically. In case you wondered."

"So that's why I can't trace him," Andy cut in. "He's not Ethan

anymore."

"Does this new person have a name?" I asked.
Boots tossed the cigarette to the ground and ground it out with his

boot heel. "I wouldn't tell you if I knew."

Andy laid a hand on my forearm. "It's all right." He turned back to

Boots. "He's far away from here anyway, right?"

"In body and spirit."
Andy nodded and I watched him digest all the new information. He

was out of a chunk of money without Ethan, but he didn't seem too upset
about it. Of course, he'd never had any money sense. He shrugged. "I'm
starving. Mr. Boots, would you share lunch with us? We packed too
much."

Boots rubbed his jaw with the back of his fingers. "Don't mind if I

do."

***

We unpacked the contents of the cooler and canvas shopping bag onto

an upturned cable spool serving as a table. There wasn't much said
during the meal, but Boots wolfed down most of the cherry tomatoes.
"That was a good sandwich," he said, popping another tomato into his
mouth.

"Thank you. It's my specialty," Andy said, giving me a sideways

glance. "The secret is the right balance between bread and the other stuff.
And of course quality ingredients." He spoke with the solemnity of a

college lecturer.

Boots nodded. "Balance is the key for most things in life." He stood.

"Well, I must be going."

"Do you live here?"
"Nah, I don't stay in one place anywhere, but I pass through here now

and then. It's been nice meeting you, Leander." He held his hand out and
they shook hands. They locked eyes and Andy smiled. "You too," Boots
added, facing me, but didn't offer his hand, only nodded his head. "Feel
free to stay as long as you want. The library's open 24-7."

He left and I moved over to the bench he'd vacated. Thanks to the

Indian blankets, it was much more comfortable. "Well, he was an
interesting character," I said.

Andy picked up an apple and bit into it. Clear juice dribbled down

his chin and he wiped it off with the back of his hand. "I think he's a
shaman or something."

Movement caught my eye and through the mattress-spring fence I saw

a coyote slinking by outside. "He's something all right. He knew your
name, and neither of us told him."

"Oh, right. I didn't even notice. Funny that. When he held my hand I

saw Ethan's face. He's handsome. And the despair was gone; I felt a
wave of excitement instead."

"You and your paranormal…I mean future-science buddies. I'm just

happy we didn't have to dig."

Andy beamed at me triumphantly. "See! There are happy endings in

this business."

"You won't get paid," I reminded him.
He shrugged. "It's okay. Something will come up."
"What are you going to tell Hayward?"
He pulled his mouth. "I'll make up something. What about this: Ethan

drowned in Salton Sea. He made a drunken bet with a Mexican drug
dealer that he could swim across to the other side. He lost. It would
explain why I couldn't find a body."

"For someone so innocent looking, you have quite an imagination."
"Comes from reading books."
"Yeah, I bet. I'd cut down on the details, though, if I were you. You

can just tell Hayward you could feel the body in the lake. He'll be more
likely to believe you."

Andy grimaced. "Oh, fine. I'll do it your way, Mr. Practical." He

finished his apple and stretched. "I'm sleepy."

I patted the bench next to me. "Lie down and take a nap."
"What about you?"
"I'll be fine." I pulled one of the chairs closer, put my feet up, and

leaned back, making myself comfortable. "Normally I'd say let's find a
hotel in Indio for the night, but I have another house to start tomorrow.
Jim only told me about it yesterday. He wants it done quick."

Andy lay down, putting his head in my lap. "It's okay. I'm sorry to

make you drive all the way here and back for nothing."

"It wasn't for nothing—we closed a case. If you're happy, I'm happy.

And I don't mind driving, but next time we go searching for someone,
living or dead, let's do it somewhere less hot, okay?" I put my hand on
Andy's chest and through the thin layer of cotton I felt the ridges of his
ribs, his chest rising and falling. A sweet ache spread through my
sternum.

He laced his fingers with mine and peered up. "You got it, pardner."
***
The next day, on my way home I made a detour to see Rosemary

Novak again. I got there at dusk and found her in the front yard watering
her plants with a hose.

"You could have sprinklers put in to do the watering for you," I said.
She shook her head. "What a horrible idea. This is my favorite thing

to do in the evenings."

She finished while I watched. Turning the water off, she said, "Come

on in now. I'm getting quite used to you coming by. I was thinking about
you earlier."

"You were?" I followed her into the screened-in porch. She sat on

one wicker chair and I took the other.

"Oh, you know, my mind wanders. When you get this old there isn't

much else you can do but think. And your head is full of memories but
nobody wants to hear your stories. Sometimes, when my granddaughter
comes to visit, I tell them to my great-grandson. He has no idea what I

blather on about, but at least he doesn't roll his eyes at me. And here I go
again, talking and talking. Go on, tell me what you want to know now."

I cleared my throat. "I have a confession to make, Mrs. Novak. I took

something from you last time," I said.

"Stealing from an old woman? That's not very nice," she chided me

but her eyes twinkled.

"I brought it back and more." I pulled both dog tags out of my pocket

and dropped them into her hand.

She held them with her arthritis-bent fingers and sighed. "I have a

houseful of mementos. I wonder what'll happen to them when I die."

There was melancholy in her voice but no sign of distress over

seeing two dog tags instead of one. It strengthened the suspicion bugging
me all day. "You've known all this time Ethan is alive and well, haven't
you?"

She tipped her head in bird-like fashion. "So what if I have?"
"You could've told us. You said you didn't know where he was," I

said with trace of disgruntlement.

She pursed her lips. "Well, I don't know where exactly he is right

now—he travels around a lot. And you boys were so determined, I didn't
want to take the wind out of your sails. It's good to see young men who
have a purpose. That's what was wrong with Ethan—no aim in life, just
a bushel of trouble. He had terribly dark moods. Teenagers are too
vulnerable—they feel everything so much stronger and don't know how
to cope with it."

"I'm sure you did your best," I said.
She sighed. "I was terribly worried about Ethan and with good

reason. He came home late one night, making such a racket it woke me.
He'd been drinking and talked about killing himself. I made him go to
bed and stayed up all night watching him, making sure he didn't do
anything foolish. Then the next morning I sat him down and we had a
good talk."

She curled her fingers around the flat pieces of metal as if she was

pulling strength from them, and gazed off into the distance of time. I kept
very quiet, barely daring to breathe.

She turned her eyes back at me. "I told him about the first man I'd

ever loved. I was very young then, fifteen. His name was Harold—such
a handsome boy, and so bright. He could've achieved anything he
wanted. But he was called into the war and never came back—died
somewhere in Belgium. It broke my heart. All I have left of him are a
few letters. In the last one he wrote about all the things he wanted to do
after the war. My heart mended in time, and I met my George later and
fell in love again, but I never got over the sadness of all those lost boys.
There were so many of them; friends, schoolmates, my girlfriends'
brothers, neighbors." She touched her face as if brushing away cobwebs.
"These days I can remember what happened sixty, seventy years ago
better than what I had for lunch. You have to grab life by the scruff when
you're young because you never know how much time you'll have. I told
Ethan my Harold didn't have a say-so whether he lived or died. Young
people killing themselves is a sin, not because the Bible says so, but
because it's such a terrible waste."

"Did you get through to him?"
She nodded. "Ethan didn't really want to die, just didn't see any other

way out of his misery. We had a good long talk, and in the end we agreed
it would be best for him if he left this town and never came back. I gave
him money and wished him luck."

"And he keeps in touch?"
"He sends me postcards—signs them as Harry, short for Harold.

Nobody sends postcards anymore and it's a shame. When I was young
you'd get all those different cards from relatives and friends when they
were travelling, or just to let you know how they were doing. It was a
different world then, and I'm a relic."

"Were you burning Ethan's cards when I came by last time?"
She tittered. "Well, aren't you a smart one? When the detective

woman came by I panicked. I thought maybe the lawyer of that stupid old
man could find a way to drag Ethan back if they knew where he was."

"The police are only interested in Emily."
"I know that now. They told me she might be dead." She gently shook

her head. "It's sad when a parent outlives a child, but I fear I lost Emmy
many years ago. I often wonder if there was something we should've
done differently with her. With both of them. My husband was a strict

man, but always fair. Well, too late now." She seemed worn and tired
and I felt bad about troubling her.

I pushed myself up. "I should go. I promise I won't bother you again,

Mrs. Novak."

"It was no bother—I have far too few visitors these days. Stop by any

time you want. But first, promise me something."

"Yes?"
"Take good care of yourself. And live your life, because you're only

young once. Tell it to that other young man too, the one who was with
you the first time."

"You got it, Mrs. Novak, and you take care of yourself too."

CHAPTER NINE

I gave Andy the gist of my visit with the old lady later that evening.

He was sitting in the middle of the bed sorting and folding laundry.

"The old fox was holding out on us. Just goes to show you—you can't

trust old people." He snickered. "You shoulda known Grams."

"I wish I had," I admitted without thinking.
Andy stopped rolling up a pair of socks and looked at me. "She

would've liked you. Because you're so serious. Grams would've yanked
your chain any chance she got."

"Well, I see where you got it from."
He blew me a raspberry.
I was stripping off my clothes, getting ready for a shower. I threw my

shirt on the bed and it earned me a scolding. "Hey! Don't mix your dirty
rags with the clean ones."

"Can't I just leave it there till I take off my pants? I'll put them in the

hamper."

"No. Drop them on the floor."
I grudgingly swept the offending shirt off the bed. "I miss the times

when you were all quiet and stuff."

"Do you really?"
I shook my head. "Nah. You're fine just the way you are." As far as

confessions went, it was a lame one but it still left me feeling awkward.
I turned away, unbuckled my jeans, and let them drop on the floor.

"And so are you."
I picked up the double entendre in his tone and glanced over my

shoulder. I caught him staring at my behind, so I gave him a good view of
it as I bent over to bundle up my dirty clothes.

"Mmm… come here," he practically cooed.
"What about the laundry?" I asked, staying where I was.
He huffed. "Screw the laundry."
"Sorry, not my kink."
"Screw me?"
"Maybe later. I'm sweaty."
"I like you sweaty. And dirty. C'mon." He pushed himself up on his

knees and began to unzip his jeans.

I had to laugh because…well, Andy had that effect on me. His pose,

equal parts seductive and playful, and the silly grin on his face, filled my
chest with a fuzzy kind of warmth. I had a hankering to rub my sweaty,
stinky body over his, but stayed firm. On my way out the door I turned
around and chucked my rolled up shirt at him. It hit him square in the
face.

"Asshole!" he shouted after me but we both knew he didn't mean it.
A few minutes later I was busy rubbing soap on my privates when the

shower door slid open. Andy poked his head in. His eyes focused on my
hands and what they were doing before moving his gaze up. "Detective
Bennett's on the phone. She says they found Emily Novak's killer."

"Oh? Who is it?"
He rolled his eyes. "She's being secretive. Wants to meet us for lunch

or dinner tomorrow. Can you do it?"

"Not lunch—I need to finish up the job, but I can do dinner."
"A'ight. I'll tell her." He sauntered away without bothering to close

the shower door. So I did, but a minute later it opened again. Andy
poked in more than just his head this time. He was stark naked.

"I'm feeling dirty. Very dirty," he said and pushed inside.

***

I woke up in the middle of the night but there was nothing new about

that. No, the less than normal part was me standing in the middle of the
kitchen. The first time Andy had caught me sleepwalking it was in the
kitchen too. Pricking my ears, I listened for sounds but there were none.
At least I hadn't woken up "Mr. Sleepy Pants" with my nocturnal
adventures. I wondered what the hell had brought me here. The comfort
of food? I clicked my tongue but tasted nothing but the wooly mouth
you'd expect.

I inched my way across the room in the dark. The moonlight helped a

little. I opened the fridge and drank milk from the carton. When I put it
back on the shelf I caught a glint of gold from my wedding ring and it
brought back a fragment of my dream—something about driving. I had a
lot of those, driving dreams—always frustrating.

I left the fridge door open and by its light stepped over to the sink.

The dishwashing liquid made my finger slippery and my wedding ring
slid off without resistance. I carefully rinsed both my hand and the ring
and wiped them with the kitchen towel. On my way out I shoved the
fridge door closed.

In the bedroom I dropped the ring into the drawer of the night table

and stole back under the blankets.

Andy stirred and mumbled something incoherent.
"Shh, everything's fine. Go back to sleep." I nudged him onto his side

and spooned behind him.

I physically felt the absence of the ring, so I tucked my hand under

Andy.

***

We met Detective Bennett at Roscoe's House of Chicken and Waffles

in Hollywood. I didn't know who'd chosen the venue, but I suspected
Andy. Out of the three of us only he had waffles on his plate—smothered
in butter and maple syrup, sitting next to a chunk of fried chicken. Bennett
and I had made more conservative choices. We'd gotten a table in the
back corner and it provided some privacy.

"I saw Little Richard here once," Bennett said between bites.
"What was he like?" Andy asked.

"Exactly like on TV. Smelled like far too much cologne though. They

ushered him and his entourage into the back room, so we didn't get to see
much of him. Gary wasn't all that impressed."

"When was that?" I asked.
"Oh, about fifteen years ago, when we were partners."
I studied her for a few seconds. She wasn't a bad looking woman at

her age and must've been outright fetching when younger. "You're fond of
him."

"He's an old friend," she said in a tone hinting at more.
"He doesn't strike me as a ladies' man."
My bluntness didn't appear to bother her. "He has his charms, and

he's persistent."

"Good trait for a cop."
"Sure is. That reminds me. We checked Jane Doe's DNA against

Rosemary Novak's. It's her daughter, no question about it."

"Andy said you have the killer too."
"Yes, but the Bronville Police are taking credit for that one."
"In Louisiana?" Andy asked from around a mouthful.
"Yup."
"Okay, I usually don't care, but in this case I'm really curious how it

all came about," I asked.

"Pretty simply, actually. It had to do with the sketch you drew."
I was about to shovel a forkful of chicken into my face but put it back

down. "Of Mike Hammer?"

"The man who resembles the actor playing the title role in the TV

show, yes." She stared me straight in the eye. "I'll be honest, at first I
thought you both were full of shh…crap, and the only thing I couldn't
decide was if you were scamming Gary or were genuine lunatics. You
meet plenty of both kinds in this town. Either way, Gary had to have gone
soft in the head at his old age. I properly chewed him out about it."

"I would've liked to see that," I admitted.
She made a tsh sound. "Gary… He just did that poker face thing of

his and told me to follow through no matter what I thought. So I said to
myself fine, I'd do it for old Gary, because we'd been partners once and
he used to be a good cop. I showed your drawing to the family members.

Mrs. Novak didn't recognize him but her daughter Sylvia identified the
man as someone knocking on her door and asking questions right around
the time Clive Riddel was executed. She thought the man was another
reporter."

"Interesting."
"It got my attention. I debated putting the picture in the paper, but

decided to try something else first. I called the Bronville Police
department and got contact info for a detective who'd worked on the
Riddel case back in the eighties. He's retired now but remembers the
case well—as if it happened yesterday. Those murders were the biggest
thing in that town in the last hundred years. I faxed him the sketch and he
identified the man right away."

"It was the father," Andy said and shoved a forkful of waffles

dripping with butter and syrup into his mouth.

I stared at him, wondering what he meant.
Bennett stared too, but without my confusion. "Yes, it was the father

of one of Riddell's victims. How long did you know?"

"I dreamt about alligators last night and when I woke up, I just knew

it."

"You didn't tell me," I said.
"Sorry I forgot. You were in such a hurry this morning."
It had been his fault—distracting me with sex again—but I wasn't

gonna mention that in front of Detective Bennett.

She cleared her throat. "Right. His name is Todd Grayson. Emily

Novak was wearing his daughter's jewelry when they arrested her and
Riddel. The detective remembered the father well from the trial and
afterwards. A lot of people were angry over Riddel's death row stay
dragging out so long. Todd Grayson was the most upset. Bronville is not
so big a place for these things not to get around. Grayson's marriage went
to hell after the trial; the wife left him and he became too ornery even for
his closest friends."

"He became obsessed?" I asked.
"Seems so. The retired cop I talked to still had enough friends in the

department to convince one of the younger detectives to go out to
Grayson's house. You know, just to ask a few questions, get an

impression." Bennett lifted her glass and took a drink of her soda. She
must've known we were on pins and needles. I bet she enjoyed it.

Andy lost his patience first. "So what happened?"
She put her glass down and smiled. "The way I've been told, the

detective barely opened his mouth when Grayson said, It took you long
enough. He confessed everything right then and there. He'd probably
wanted to tell someone for a long time. Apparently, he'd never believed
in Emily's innocence and was mighty upset about her getting off so
lightly. After Riddel's execution and the TV show she was in, something
just snapped in him and he decided to take justice into his own hands."

"How did he find her?" Andy asked.
"Plain bad luck for her. Over the years he dug up enough information

to know where to find Emily's mother and sister. After the sister sent him
packing, he went to Mrs. Novak's house, but before he could talk to the
old lady Emily showed up. The rest was a cinch. He grabbed her
leaving, killed her, and chopped her up. But here's the interesting part…"
She took a dramatic pause, soaking in our impatient glares. "He didn't
kill her right away. He extracted a detailed confession out of her,
regarding her involvement in the Riddell murders. It's all there, on a
yellow legal pad in her own handwriting, and signed."

"He had her at knife point; he could make her write anything," I said,

to play the devil's advocate.

"There were details only the police knew. The old detective I talked

to thinks it's genuine. Not that any of it makes any difference; I doubt the
judge will even allow it as evidence in Grayson's trial."

"So she wasn't such a victim, after all."
"Seems to be that way."
Andy's brows knitted. "Why did Grayson throw her body into the

L.A. River?"

"It was symbolic for the swamp his daughter's body was dumped in.

He took her hands and head with him though."

"So she couldn't be identified?"
"That and to keep them in his tool shed as trophies."
"Lovely. Thanks for waiting to tell us this part till we finished eating.

Mostly," I said, grumbling.

"You're welcome." Her expression made me think she was humoring

us civilians. "Gary said you were searching for Emily's son. Did you
find him?"

"Nah. He's…gone. For good," Andy said more to the remains of his

chicken than to Bennett.

"Just as well. The Grayson case is hitting the news as we speak."
We ordered coffee and watched Andy finish his plate at his own

pace.

"So, I assume you telling us all this means you no longer regard us as

a couple of grifters," I said, aiming my words at Bennett.

She leaned back in her chair. "I did background checks on both of

you. You're so clean you squeak. Nothing worse than a few parking
tickets. I also talked to Cruz, and Gary again. I looked at you from every
possible angle. Theoretically, you could've been there when Gary's CI
was put into the ground, but that other body…"

"Wait a minute, Tony was an informant?" I asked.
She nodded. "Snitched for Gary since before we first became

partners. Anyway, as I was saying…the other body had been there for
decades. You were still toddlers then. And then there's the Novak
woman. You'd have to be a baby-faced serial killer and his body guard
to pull it off. And that shit only happens on TV. So I must concede you
have some sort of insight that's beyond normal."

"He does. I don't," I said inclining my head toward Andy. "I know it's

hard to digest; I was the same way. Anyhow, apology accepted, and
thanks for dinner." I pushed my chair back.

"Just hold on for one second."
I stopped.
"The other body you found out there in the desert…"
"Yeah?" I had a bad feeling where she was going with this.
"We have an ID on it. A kid who disappeared eighteen years ago."

She took a deep breath and fixed her eyes on Andy. "I thought you might
wanna…you know…do your thing, see if anything shakes loose."

I expected Andy to jump right on it, so I was surprised to see him

hesitate. "The dead people, they get into my head. I dream about them,
get flashes of their memories, emotions. It hasn't been too bad so far,

but…" He pulled his shoulders up. "A murdered child, I dunno…I'm not
sure I want those things in my head. I have to think about it. Do you
understand?"

Bennett schooled her features so her disappointment hardly showed

through. "Of course." She pulled out a business card and put it in front of
Andy. "This has my cell number. Just in case."

***

The time was past rush hour when we left the restaurant but

Hollywood hustled and bustled as always. It made me eager to get
across the hills.

"At least Detective Bennett paid for the dinner," I said.
Andy tilted his seat back and put his feet up on the dashboard. "I'm

surprised you let her."

"Hey, I have no problem with women picking up the check—equality

and so on. Especially when she's a cop and we just helped her to solve a
cold case. She should be paying you."

"I could be on the payroll. Consulting Psychic—I like the sound of

it." He chortled. "That'll be the day."

"You'll take the job, the one with the kid, won't you?"
"Yeah, probably," he said in a quiet tone. "It seems wrong not to. But

I need a break first. Oh, and the next dinner's on me," he added. "I got a
check from Hayward—for expenses and my trouble. Not as big as the
first one but it'll buy a few meals."

On the freeway people like us hurried to their many destinations.

Everybody was busy—places to go, things to do. Just thinking about it
made me feel tired. I wanted to stay still for a little while. Passing
Glendale I had an idea.

"Do you mind taking a detour?" I asked.
Andy shrugged. "Whatever you want."
I switched freeways and kept driving north on the Angeles Crest

Highway. Up, up, into the mountains.

Andy gave me a puzzled look. "How far are we going?"
"Just till we find a quiet spot."
The two-lane road carved into the mountainside kept sneaking up

higher and further away from the city and people. We drove past charred

skeletons of trees that didn't survive the last big fire, but scruffy new
shrubs clung to rocks. Life went on. The twilight morphed into darkness
just as we reached the top. The ranger station was closed and its parking
lot empty. I pulled into it.

"Here we are," I said.
Climbing onto the truck bed, I pulled the sleeping bags out of the

toolbox. I laid one out and I left the other one rolled up. "C'mon," I told
Andy who was watching me with curious eyes. He hopped up.

The moon shone bright enough for me to see him grin. "This brings

back high school memories," he said.

"Really?"
"Well more like fantasies. I mix them up sometimes."
I stretched out on top of the sleeping bag using the other one as a

pillow. Andy lay beside me, snuggled close and resting his head in the
crook of my arm. The night sky hung above us in stately indifference—it
was here before us and would be long after we were gone.

I adjusted the sleeping bag under my head. "I wish we coulda spent

the night in the desert. Out there away from all the cities the sky is
completely different. It's darker than dark and there are so many more
stars. You can even see shooting stars. Even up here there's too much
light pollution."

"I've never seen a real night sky," Andy replied.
"Not once?"
"I've told you, Grams didn't like staying overnight in the great

outdoors."

"That settles it, we're going camping."
Andy squirmed excitedly. "Really? When?"
"Week after next."
"Don't you have to work?"
"I'll tell Jim I need a few days free. The job's fairly flexible anyway.

You better not have any lost cat emergencies, though."

"They'll just have to find themselves. Where will we go?"
"Not the desert, that's for sure. Somewhere north, close to the ocean.

Big Sur's nice, but all the sites will be full at this time of year. Los
Padres has some off-the-beaten-track sites. If we go during the week we

can avoid the crowds. I'm warning you though: I don't do glamping. We'll
be roughing it, sleeping in tents, on the hard ground."

"I'll bring my yoga mat."
"I don't think I've ever known a guy who owned a yoga mat before."
"Well, it's time you consorted with a better class of men."
I snorted. "Whatever. You can only bring one book. We'll be doing

stuff instead of reading about it."

He laughed. "I won't bring a single one. I can totally do it. Don't you

believe me?"

"Now, now, let's not be hasty. You're an addict. Going cold turkey

isn't a good idea. It might drive you to strange things."

"Like forcing you to drive me to the nearest Barnes and Noble in the

middle of the night?"

"Like that."
Andy tittered some more and nestled closer. He laced his fingers

with mine and stared up to the sky. Then he held our joined hands up
between us and the stars, and rubbed the base of my ring finger. "You
took it off."

"It was time, don't you think?" I pulled his hand back to my chest.
He pushed himself up on an elbow and leaned over me. I didn't know

how much he could make out in the darkness. "I'm not jealous of her." He
paused. "Maybe I am. A little. But I don't want to be. I don't expect you
to forget all about her for me. But you wear her memory, the memory of
loss like a shield. Every time I think I'm getting through, there it goes up
again. You're much more than just a friend for me but I don't know how
long I can go on like this."

He was deadly serious, like I'd never heard him before. I realized

then what an idiot I'd been, and if I lost Andy it would be my own doing
alone. I had to find a way to let go of the past or there would be no
future. I rubbed his knuckles and heaved a sigh. "Andy, I'm crazy about
you. Madly, deeply, and pathetically in love. I want you to be my friend,
my lover, my everything. And it scares me to pieces."

Even in the darkness I could make out his wide grin. He pressed his

lips onto mine for a moment. "Silly old Grumpy Bear, you worry too
much." I could barely make out his face but his voice wrapped around

me like a warm blanket on a cold night.

"Those nicknames are seriously emasculating," I grumbled to conceal

the emotions threatening to burst from my chest.

"Don't worry, you have manliness coming out of the wazoo, even if

you're a big softie inside. You know, I fell in love with you when you
made me breakfast for the first time."

"So the way to your heart is definitely through your stomach."
"Nay, it wasn't the food, but the gesture. You didn't have to do

anything for your loser roommate, and we weren't even sleeping together
yet. But you did, because that's you. You're like…this truck."

"Beat-up?"
"Dependable. Solid."
"Sounds exciting."
"Shush, you. I get all the excitement I need from books. In real life I'd

rather have stability. I wouldn't for the world trade you in for something
flashy with crap under the hood. You're the one for me. You can relax."

But I couldn't. Not really. I took a deep breath and let it out. "It's easy

for you to say. What if you smarten up and realize you can do better than
a prematurely-aged grouch? But most of all I'm petrified something might
happen to you." When someone you love is hurt it cuts you to ribbons. It
would've been much safer not to care, not to feel anything, but it was
way too late. "It terrifies me to think I could lose you. I don't know what
I'd do."

His voice softened. "Oh, Grumpy Bear. You need to stop fretting

about what-ifs. That's no way to live. Anyway, nothing will happen."

"You don't know the future. Life has this nasty habit of yanking the rug

out from under you when you least expect it," I said stubbornly.

Andy settled back down with his head on my chest. He stayed quiet

and I watched the stars, trying not to let the anxiety fill my chest.

"Have you seen the movie, Life According to Garp?" he asked.
"Nope."
"I did. Read the book too. It's about a guy named Garp. There is a

part where he and his wife are out to buy a new home. They're just about
to look at a house when a small airplane—something like a Cessna—
crashes into the roof. The pilot is fine, by the way. The wife and

especially the real estate agent are horrified, but Garp says, We'll take
it! And then explains the house has been disaster-proofed—after a plane
crashing into it the probability of any other disaster is low. We're
disaster-proofed too. You lost your wife, I, my parents. Statistically
speaking, we're safe."

"Oh, that's very scientific."
"My extra sensory psychic science agrees. You just have to trust me

on this."

"How did it work out for Garp?"
"Ehrm…nothing bad happened to the house."
"Oh, that's reassuring. Ouch!" Unappreciative of my mockery, Andy

dug his chin into my ribs. "You don't understand. Even not counting
major disasters so many things can go wrong. What if the advertising
design doesn't work out and I'll have wasted two years I coulda spent
learning something practical? What if this psyching dead people thing
turns out more taxing than you expect?"

"Stop fretting. We'll burn those bridges when we get to them."
"Hey, that's my line!"
"Oh yeah? Whatcha gonna do about it?"
I huffed but had no good comeback. So I wound my arm around Andy

and willed myself to relax and enjoy the moment. It was a beautiful night.

EPILOGUE

It was a small, three room place in the Buda hills. In the US it

would've been called a bachelor apartment, but Harry had no idea what
name Hungarians had for it. The main room had a desk, a chair and a
bed; that's all they needed. From the window he could see century-old
apartment buildings and the tops of horse chestnut trees, now slick with
rain.

He turned his back to the view as soon as he heard the rattle of keys,

and anticipation filled him. His face split into a wide smile as the door
opened and a young man stepped inside.

When they first met, Tibor told Harry that everyone called him Tibi

—like the chocolate. It was a local brand. The name fit him; he had dark,
curly hair and skin the color of milk chocolate, thanks to the Gypsy blood
in his veins. Harry closed the short distance separating them and pulled
Tibi in for an embrace. They stood still entwined and breathing in each
other's scents. The smell of rain clung to Tibi's skin.

"I found you these," Tibi said, pulling back. He held out a small

package swaddled in a plastic grocery bag.

"I found these for you." Harry automatically corrected him. Tibi

wanted to improve his English. Unwrapping the plastic, he took out a
stack of old postcards. They were yellowed and brown, worn and
stained. "These are beautiful," he said grinning. "Hol talál…tad ezeket?"
Harry tried to improve his Hungarian, too, but had found the conjugations
exceptionally difficult.

"Antikváriumban."
"Antique-what?"
"Shop that sells old books."
"Oh. How do you spell it? I'll have to write Rosemary about it."
Tibi stepped up to the desk and wrote the word on a piece of paper.

Harry was already pulling out the chair and composing the message in
his head.

"This Rosemary makes me jealous. Is she pretty?" Tibi asked.
"She was once. Egyszer volt."
Tibi stood behind Harry and ruffled his hair while he shuffled

through the cards. "I love your hair. So red. Rézvörös."

"Copper." Harry tilted his head up. "Is my hair all you love about

me?"

"There are many more. Megszámoljam?"
"You can count them all in a minute."
"Okay." Tibi leaned down and pressed a kiss on Harry's lips. He

went to the bathroom, and sounds of splashing water followed.

Harry picked a card of a girl in a traditional dress and wrote a short

message about the weather and the sights of Budapest. He stuck on a
couple of stamps of birds he'd picked for their looks.

By the time Tibi came out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a

towel around his waist Harry was in bed, waiting for him.

THE END

About the Author

Under a prickly, cynical surface Lou Harper is an incorrigible

romantic. Her love affair with the written word started at a tender age.
There was never a time when stories weren't romping around in her
head. She is currently embroiled in a ruinous romance with adjectives. In
her free time Lou stalks deviant words and feral narratives.

Lou's favorite animal is the hedgehog. She likes nature, books,

movies, photography, and good food. She has a temper and mood
swings.

Lou has misspent most of her life in parts of Europe and the US, but

is now firmly settled in Los Angeles and worships the sun. However, she
thinks the ocean smells funny. Lou is a loner, a misfit, and a happy drunk.

Web site:

http://louharper.com

Blog:

http://louharper.blogspot.com

OTHER BOOKS BY LOU HARPER

Dead in L.A.

© 2012 Lou Harper

Trouble comes in deceptive packages

Still recovering from an accident that left him emotionally and

physically battered, Jon's goal is to lead a simple life, free of
complications and attachments. His new roommate—a happy-go-lucky
bookworm—seems to fit into his plans fine at first. He doesn't find out
till later that Leander's also a psychic, specializing in finding lost pets.
Jon's a skeptic when it comes to the supernatural, so he's convinced
Leander's a nut job.

Jon's beliefs are challenged when Leander has to track down a

missing teenager and he ropes Jon into assisting him. Soon the two of
them are knee-deep in a decades-old murder case. The hills and valleys
of the City of Angels hold many buried secrets, and Leander has a knack
for finding them.

Jon's hopes for a trouble-free life go out the window as he's drawn

deeper into Leander's psychic sleuthing. Digging into the past poses
many dangers, but the biggest risk Jon faces is putting his bruised heart
on the line.

Warning: Men loving men, skeletons, and an unlucky Chihuahua.

See details for this book

Spirit Sanguine

© 2012 Lou Harper

Is that a wooden stake in your pocket, or are you just happy to see

me?

After five years in eastern Europe using his unique, inborn skills to

slay bloodsuckers, Gabe is back in his hometown Chicago and feeling
adrift. Until he's kidnapped by a young, sexy vampire who seems more
interested in getting into his pants than biting into his neck.

Harvey Feng is one-half Chinese, one-hundred-percent vampire. He

warns Gabe to stay out of the Windy City, but somehow he isn't
surprised when the young slayer winds up on his doorstep. And why
shouldn't Gabe be curious? A vegetarian vampire isn't something one
sees every day.

Against their better judgment, slayer and vampire succumb to

temptation. But their affair attracts unexpected attention.

When Chicago's Vampire Boss makes Gabe an offer he can't refuse,

the unlikely lovers are thrust into peril and mystery in the dark heart of
the Windy City. Together they hunt for kidnappers, a killer preying on
young humans, and vicious vampire junkies.

However, dealing with murderous humans and vampires alike is easy

compared to figuring out if there's more to their relationship than hot,
kinky sex.

Warning: Fangalicious man-on-man action, a troublesome twink, cross-
dressing vampires, and role-playing involving a fedora.

See details for this book

Dead Man and the Restless Spirits

Dying sucks hairy monkey balls, even when you're not the stiff.

Denton Mills has a secret: he can see dead people. Or rather, how

they died. It's quite a drag in a city like Chicago, teeming with the echoes
of the no-longer living. Rather than whine about it, Denton has learned to
live with his troublesome talent. His adaptability comes in handy when
he meets his enigmatic new neighbor.

Bran Maurell catches Denton's eye right away, but unfortunately Mr.

Tall, Dark, and Mysterious is as standoffish as he is alluring. However,
after an unexpected introduction from Bran's cat brings the two men
together, Denton discovers they have a mutual interest in the spirit
world. Herbalist by day, Bran moonlights as a witch, performing house
cleansings for a fee.

From Bran, Denton learns that his knack for interacting with the dead

qualifies him as a necromancer. It makes good business sense for them to
team up and rid Chicago of its pesky spirits one grateful client at a time.
Amongst ghostly adventures the attraction between the men is impossible

to ignore. They seem like perfect partners—unless Bran's not-so-little
secret comes between them.

Warning: men loving men, ghosts with attitudes, and a portly feline

with hidden talents.

See details for this book

Last Stop

© 2012 Lou Harper

Sam Mayne's life is as dull as the dishwater in his small-town

Montana diner, and that's just how he wants it. Quiet, uneventful, safe
from his shadowy past. The breezy young drifter who answers his help-
wanted ad makes him uneasy in ways he dare not examine too closely.
Except he can't help but be pulled in by Jay Colby's spunky attitude,
endless stories, and undeniable sex appeal.

Fresh off yet another romantic disaster, Jay doesn't understand his

attraction to the taciturn line cook, but there's no fighting the chemistry
that lands them in bed together. Where Sam's subtly dominant streak
takes command, and Jay delights in discovering the pleasures of his
submissive side.

Safe in the assumption their relationship is temporary, neither lover

holds back when the heat is on. Until Sam's deadly past catches up with
them with a vengeance, forcing him to drop the life he's built, pick up his
lover, and run. As danger cuts closer to the bone, Sam and Jay are forced
to face the truth. About themselves, about the depth of their love—and
the newly forged bonds that are about to be tested to the limit.

Warning: Contains enough sparks to ignite a sexual fire, ably fanned

by the judicious use of some interesting props, as well as some butt-
warming spanking. Sizzzzle.

See details for this book