Текст книги "The Two Deaths of Daniel Hayes"

Автор книги: Marcus Sakey

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

As an actress, Laney would have been surrounded by ridiculously attractive men. Glamorous guys, millionaire actors. She would have had to kiss them—hell, he’d seen her kissing Robert Cameron as Emily Sweet on Candy Girls. Long shooting schedules, press junkets, time on the road together. An affair was hardly out of the question. Hollywood marriages were a running joke.

A wave of black despair rolled over him. Not so much at the thought of a betrayal—or not only at that—but at the larger situation. Whether she’d cheated, whether she hadn’t, it didn’t change his circumstances. Neither brought her back from the dead. If she and Robert had been sleeping together, that might provide a motive for the man to murder her. Maybe. Which would get the cops off Daniel’s ass, and let him return to . . . what?

A house he didn’t remember?

A job writing for the show his wife used to star in?

What was his life now? What would he make of it?

On his long trip across the belly of America, he had played a game, inventing possible identities: he was a firefighter with a gambling addiction; he was a homosexual insurance salesman with a passion for soccer; he was a songwriter living off royalties from penning “Macarena.” Trying on selves like clothing. If one didn’t fit, if it chafed or was cut wrong, he tossed it aside and reached for the next. But now he was closing in on the hard fact that the options weren’t limitless. He had been someone before. That person had been the result of a lifetime of choices, good and bad. And like it or not, he was drawing closer to that identity now. Not the freedom of infinite variety, but the tyranny of a decision made, a path walked, a life lived.

What if he didn’t like the view?

Then you’ll deal with it. You’ll make changes. You’ll take up fucking yoga. Whatever. Right now, stick to the plan. Do what the police won’t.

He climbed out of the car, headed for the stairs. Find out who killed your wife.

Coming to the studio was a risk. But he quickly discovered that no one really looked at a man carrying a clipboard and wearing gray slacks and a bright yellow shirt. His new haircut and fake tan probably helped, but most people immediately classified him as a member of a different caste, and didn’t spare more than a cursory glance. He adopted a blankly busy expression and walked with purpose. It wouldn’t fly if he bumped into someone who knew him well, but it was as close to invisible as he could manage.

This section of the lot was all concrete and buildings, none of the carefully maintained greenery of faux-America. Stage 16 had a marked entrance, but he figured there would probably be another round of security. Halfway down the enormous building, he found a tall cargo door rolled open, with a semi backed up to unload. Daniel nodded at a black-clad woman smoking a cigarette, dodged around a costume rack, and stepped out of the street—

—into his front yard.

He stopped.

The set in front of him was the truncated exterior of a house. Not just any house, though. His house. The one in Malibu.

This version ended twelve feet off the ground. Above hung a light grid of black pipe, two dozen glowing lamps flooding the porch with soft sunset colors, a sort of hyper-clarity that made the fantasy house seem more real than the world surrounding it: the cavernous height of the soundstage, the dolly track laid on the floor, the craft services table stocked with sandwich meat and protein bars and vitamin water, the people buzzing about—

the afternoon he and Laney closed on the place in Malibu, they’d driven straight from the lawyer’s office and wandered giggling around their new home. The first either had ever owned, and how lovely that it was the one they’d shot B-roll of in the early days. The one Cindi, the art director, claimed had the perfect Candy Girls energy. Malibu instead of Venice, but who would believe aspiring starlets lived in Malibu, so he’d rewritten reality, as he was paid to. A few taps of his fingers on the keyboard had lifted the house and whirled it south, plunked it down ready for the Sisters Sweet to live in. And now, two years later, paychecks from the show provided the deposit to buy the real thing. Reality in a feedback loop. A writer and a once-aspiring actress buying their home with money from a show that used the house as home for an aspiring actress scripted by that writer—

He shook his head. The memory had come strong as a vision, and he wished he were alone, that he could sit and stare at the façade of life and try to peer behind it. But he wasn’t, and it was only a matter of time before someone working at the other end of the soundstage recognized him.

Daniel raised his clipboard at an angle that screened his face, as if he were squinting to make out handwriting. Over the top edge, he scanned the people milling around his house. Though he probably knew them all, none of them were cast members. All crew then, setting up for a sequence.

He turned back the way he’d come and walked around the side of the soundstage until he reached the end, where a handful of trailers were parked. The third one had _{ROBERT CAMERON}stenciled on the door. He took a breath, rocked his shoulders back, and knocked. “Arrow Courier. I have a package for you.”

“It’s open.”

With a glance over his shoulder—no one around—Daniel opened the door and stepped inside. The trailer was nicely outfitted: leather couches, a side bar with scotch and glasses, a Bowflex nestled in the corner. Robert Cameron sat at the table, script pages in front of him. He had a stone jaw and dark hair, wore expensive jeans and a thin cashmere sweater. “Need me to sign—” Trailing off as their eyes met. “Daniel?”

Daniel closed the door behind him, took in the room, the actor. The guy was preposterously handsome, his features even, a hint of stubble, the kind of eyes you noticed the color of. Daniel imagined him kissing Laney, her rising up on tiptoes, pressing against his muscled body, and the thoughts were bitter.

“My god.” Something washed across the man’s face, a surge of emotion it was hard to read. Surprise? Guilt? Fear? Hard to say. The first character every actor learned to play was himself. The expression was quickly supplanted by a wide grin. “I’m so glad to see you. Where have you been? Everyone has been looking for you.”

“It’s complicated,” Daniel said.

“I bet.” Robert rose, looked him up and down. “What are you wearing?”

“Yeah, I . . .” He gestured at his courier outfit. Daniel tried on a smile, said, “Sorry about this. I needed to talk to you, but I didn’t want anyone to know.”

“You could have called. My god, ever since the accident, everyone thinks—I mean . . .”

“I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“Of course you didn’t.”

Something in Daniel loosened. To hear it from someone else felt wonderful.

“I was just about to order lunch.” The man walking over to a desk. “Let me get you something, you can tell me all about it. Sushi okay?”

“Umm. Fine.” He glanced around, unsure what to do next. The actor picked up the phone, began to dial, his fingers shaking. In Daniel’s fantasies, the man had come at him fists flying, or else had cowered, guilt in his eyes. The last thing he had expected was this affable conversation, an offer of lunch—

Daniel lunged forward, knocking over a chair, and jammed down the button to hang up the phone. Robert looked up, the mask of camaraderie gone.

“Calling security?”

“I . . . Of course not.” The words falling lame. “Just ordering—”

“You thought you’d play nice, keep me busy while they came to get me.”

Slowly, the man hung up. “What do you want?”

“I want to hear about you and Laney.”

“What are you—”

“You’ve been telling the tabloids that you loved her. Tell me.” He knew that the actor wasn’t going to come out and admit to her murder. But Daniel wasn’t a cop. He didn’t need that. He just needed the man to slip, to let out one careless confirmation of impropriety, one hint of an affair. Bluffing was his best option. “I want to hear how much you loved my wife.”

Robert seemed perplexed. “She was my best friend.”

Uh-huh. “Your costar.”

“Yes.”

“Long hours. Lousy shooting schedule. All that time together. Must have been nice to have such a good friend to help pass the time.”

“What are you getting at?”

“I know about the two of you.” Blink. Wince the tiniest bit. I’m watching. “Laney told me before she died.”

“Told you what?”

“About the affair.”

“The affair?”

“You and her.” He stared at the man’s eyes, watching for anything, any hint of hesitation, any sideways dart.

What he didn’t expect was for Robert Cameron to break out laughing. “How much have you had to drink today?”

“Don’t you lie to me, mother—”

“Is this a joke?” Robert shook his head. “I knew you were an asshole, but I never thought you were that kind of asshole.”

“What kind is that, Bob?”

“The redneck kind who thinks sexuality is multiple choice. I mean, really. I know you’re from cow country, but this is beneath you.”

“What are you—what?”

Robert sighed, reached for a frame on the desk, handed it to him. “Remember Alan?” The photo showed the actor and a blond guy with surfer hair, his arm slipped around Robert’s lower back, the tips of his fingers resting on the curve of a hip.

Daniel felt a flush come into his face. “You’re saying—”

“Oh for god’s sake. It’s not something to try on a Saturday night. I don’t just browse a little man-on-man porn to spice up my private time. I’m not gay when the wife isn’t looking.” Robert took the picture back, glanced at it before setting it down. “Yes, I loved your wife. Laney was funny and smart and way out of your league. But of course I wasn’t sleeping with her, you homophobe.”

It should have been a relief. And on one level, it was. Sure, it assuaged his ego, but more than that, he didn’t want to believe that she had been unhappy. That he had bored her, or hurt her, or driven her away. That the life he’d seen in their house was a lie. He had little enough to believe in. If he couldn’t believe in them, he was done.

So he was glad that she hadn’t been sleeping with Robert. But now the problem was that once again he had no idea what to do. Ever since he’d decided Robert Cameron might have been responsible for Laney’s death, he’d had a purpose, and a reason to believe in his own innocence. Now that was gone.

“I’m sorry. It’s not that at all, I promise. I just . . .” He didn’t know how to finish the sentence.

“You know I’m gay. You used to tease Laney about being a fag hag. You planning to just forget that inconvenient fact so you can write an ending in your head that makes things easier on you? She’s dead, so she must have been cheating on you, because that would make her loss easier to bear?” Robert shook his head. “I’m sorry, Daniel, I really am, but you’re not the only one who’s sad. I loved her too. And I won’t let you mess up her memory just to make yourself feel better.”

“Look, it’s not that. I really didn’t remember. I’ve got—I know this is hard to understand, but I’m . . . I’m . . .” Daniel found he couldn’t say the words. He didn’t want to tell Robert about his amnesia. Maybe it wouldn’t matter, but that secret was all that he had, and he was reluctant to give it up. Plus there was a trace of shame in it too. Shame at not knowing who he was, and at the way he’d come off, as a small-minded homophobe revising history. “Never mind.”

Robert snorted. “Of course.”

“What?”

“You were about to tell me something, right? And then you decided to hide. That’s you all over.”

Embarrassment and confusion were burning in his belly, but the actor’s words stoked them into something else. A cinder that was the beginning of anger. It felt better than shame. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“What do you know about me?” Thinking, Asshole, you don’t have the first clue what I’m going through.

Robert laughed mirthlessly. “Plenty.”

“Yeah? Try me.”

“I don’t think so, Daniel. I don’t really see the point.” He straightened, brushed his hands. “Now, I have work to do. Why don’t you show yourself out.”

“No. I want to hear what you have to say.”

Robert sighed. “You really want to do this?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. She’s gone, so we don’t have to make nice anymore, do we? You want the truth, here it is. I never understood what she saw in you.”

Daniel made himself smile, a thin thing that felt false. “Go on.”

“You’re a nice enough guy. But who are you, really? A mediocre writer in a town thick with them. Not particularly talented, not particularly smart, not particularly brave. The top of the middle of the bell curve.”

Daniel stared him down. “Well, I certainly wasn’t the star of Candy Girls.”

“And all the ways you hurt her,” Robert continued. “Exorcizing your relationship demons on national television. Laney playing Emily playing Laney, with you as the puppet master, and who cared if maybe these things were private, she didn’t want them out; this was art! Your drinking. Your distance. All of it.”

The smoldering in his belly caught fire. “Bullshit.”

“Oh, I know you were in love once. A long time ago, Laney told me that your wedding was the day her life began. But you know what I think? I think she outgrew you.”

Daniel’s fingers were curled into fists, the nails biting his palms. He didn’t reply, didn’t trust himself to speak. It’s not true. None of it is true. You loved her and she loved you. When she died, you tried to kill yourself, for Christ’s sake.

“I think that she was getting tired of all the things I always saw in you,” Robert continued. “I think that scared you, because you knew those things too. I think that’s what all those fights were really about.”

“What fights?”

“Sure, revise again. Just forget about all the yelling, erase that whole week before someone drove her off the PCH.”

He never liked you, he admitted it. So you can’t trust what he says.You and Laney loved each other.

“My god. You killed her, didn’t you?” Robert asked in a low voice. “I didn’t. I hadn’t believed it before, but. You did it, didn’t you?”

“No.” I’m not that man. She loved me. If I can’t believe that, I may as well not have made it off that beach. She loved me.

“You killed her. She didn’t love you anymore, so you—”

Daniel rocked forward and punched the actor’s perfect nose. His hand and wrist exploded, but it felt distant somehow, something to deal with later, and he swung again, sunk a fist in the man’s gut. Robert’s eyes went wide in shock and pain, and he staggered into the trailer wall. Daniel followed, arm cocked back, looking the actor right in his fucking movie star eyes—

—and saw the terror in them.

The anger blew out of Daniel in an instant, and in the void, a terrible sick feeling crept in. What had he done? He reeled back. The room spun. Where had that rage come from? And what had he—he had almost . . . He bumped into the desk, knocking over the framed photo.

“I– Robert, I’m.” He rubbed at his forehead, feeling the pulse throbbing. Think. He had to think. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

The man wiped at his bloody nose with a shaking hand. “You broke my nose.” The magisterial tone replaced by a stunned trembling that filled Daniel with shame.

Get out of here. This is not you. You have to get away.

He looked toward the door. If he left now, the man would have every security station locked down. Guards watching. Police on the way.

The sick feeling in his gut grew as he glanced around the room. His eyes stopped on the phone, and Daniel unplugged the cord from the base, then yanked the rest out of the wall. It was about eight feet long. He walked back to Robert, who stiffened at his approach, simultaneously raising his fists and sliding farther away.

“Get out of here, Daniel.”

“I need to tie you.”

“Get out!”

“I’m sorry. I just—I couldn’t—the things you were saying, I couldn’t.” He sighed. “I can honestly say that I’ve never felt worse about something than I do about hitting you. But I still need to tie you.”

“No—”

Daniel grabbed one of the man’s arms, yanked it ineffectually. The actor was far stronger than he was, and Daniel doubted he would have had a chance in a fair fight. “Look,” he said. “I’m not going to hit you again unless I have to. But I need to tie you. So put your hands out.”

For a moment, it looked like Robert might resist. Then he held his arms forward, wrists together. Daniel lashed the cord around and around, threaded the rest around the leg of the desk, then tied a couple of clumsy knots. It wouldn’t hold for long, but it would do.

“I’m.” He sighed. “I really am sorry, Robert. I . . .” What was the point of explaining? It wouldn’t undo the damage. Daniel walked to the door, opened it, then turned back and said, one more time, “I’m sorry.”

Outside, it was a perfect day, but laid atop the bustling lot and the beautiful people and the bright sky, Daniel could see Robert Cameron’s eyes. See the way they had stared as he closed in. The wet panic in them, the animal fear. Daniel walked for the parking deck as fast as he dared.

Thinking, It wasn’t the punches. He wasn’t scared of me as a fighter.

He was scared because he believes I’m a killer.

And as he remembered the blind red fury that had taken him, Daniel wondered if it might be true.

F

or a lawyer, Sophie Zeigler had remarkably little experience with cops. She was a negotiator, a contract maven, a front-woman, the person who said no comment. A hired fountain pen. On the occasions her clients got themselves arrested—DUIs, scenes in nightclubs, drugs—she held their hand, listened to the sob story, and then referred them to a criminal lawyer.

But in the last two weeks, she’d learned an awful lot about the police. Especially about Detective Roger Waters—I know, he’d said with a shrug, go ahead with a David Gilmour joke if you like—who had called her pretty much every day, asking the same questions. Where was Daniel? Why had he fled? Did he understand the serious nature of the charges? Did she?

She’d put up a stonewall. But it was getting harder to ignore the cracks. The worst thing Daniel could have done was vanish. And there was that phone call, just before he took to the road, his strange, guilty apology for a sin he wouldn’t explain. He was confused, she thought for the hundredth time. Drunk and hurting and confused.

And worst of all, there was the man who broke into her home. Asking questions about Daniel and smiling, always smiling, his face as bland and banal as a supermarket manager’s even when he talked about torturing her.

It was getting to be a bit much. And perhaps sensing that, Waters surprised her at her office that morning. A shortish, intense-looking guy with just-so hair and a blocky suit made blockier by the shoulder holster. Seeing the gun prompted a quick flash to the intruder pulling the pistol from his belt, asking if she watched movies. She fought to keep her face straight. “Good morning, Detective.”

“Good morning, Ms. Zeigler.” His handshake was dry and professional. “I heard about what happened, wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“I’m fine.”

“You must have been terrified.”

Gee, do you think? The police who had responded had been very

polite. They had listened and taken notes and wandered around shining flashlights in the locks. But their expressions had been easy to read. They weren’t going to catch the guy. The whole process had taken about an hour, and then the police had left, promising to send extra patrols down her Palisades block, suggesting that she get a dog if she was still nervous. “I’m fine. Thanks for your concern.”

“What can you tell me about him?”

“I already told—”

“That was LAPD. I’m with the sheriff’s department. Sometimes

communication isn’t as good as you’d like. We butt heads, you know.” He smiled. “We both have pretty big heads, tell the truth.”

She ignored the attempt to disarm her, said, “It’s not your jurisdiction, right?”

“No ma’am. But your intruder was asking about Daniel Hayes.”

Sophie leaned back in her chair, studied the man. Most people who walked into her office, those that weren’t in the business, they had a surreptitious voyeurism thing going. They took in the leather couch, the framed poster of Accelerant that Phil Hoffman and Parker Posey had signed to her, the picture of Bobby De Niro kissing her cheek, and you could see them wondering if there was a portal to Oz somewhere. Non-industry folks didn’t realize that making movies wasn’t the same as watching them, that a hundred minutes of fantasy took three years of mundane, even boring work to produce.

Waters, though, seemed not to care. Maybe he was a book guy. Regardless, he’d taken in her office at a glance, and his eyes hadn’t left hers since.

“As I’ve told you before, I have no information about Daniel Hayes’s whereabouts, nor have I had any direct communication with him since—”

“I know.” The detective held out his hands. “But what I’m wondering, maybe this guy was involved in what happened to Laney.”

Sophie met the man’s eyes, couldn’t read them. She pressed the intercom button. “Mark, could you bring me a cup of coffee?” Pointedly didn’t offer one to Waters. The tiniest crinkle around his eyes told her he’d caught the move, but otherwise he gave nothing away. “He was average height. In shape. He had on slacks and a black—”

“I read the report. I meant, what was he like?”

She hesitated. “Calm.”

“Calm?”

“Like it was no big deal. Like this was a regular thing to him.”

“He surprised you in the bathroom?”

She crossed her arms. “As I was getting out of the shower. He was standing there.”

“Anyone have keys to your house, codes for the alarm?”

“My housekeeper. A few friends. The man I’m seeing.”

“Could one of them—”

“No.”

“Can you remember what he said to you? Specifically?”

Do me a favor and don’t scream, okay, sister?

Sophie said, “He asked me about Daniel, where Daniel was. He threatened me, told me that he wouldn’t enjoy it, but that he would hurt me.” Her voice mechanical.

“Did he say anything about Maine?”

She stiffened before she could catch herself. Looking up at Waters, she could tell that he had caught it. Sloppy, sweetie. Very sloppy. Well, no point bluffing now. “He asked why Daniel was in Maine. If he knew anybody there.”

“And you said?”

“I said I didn’t know that he was in Maine.”

Waters nodded. “I did.”

This time she controlled her reaction. “Oh?”

“In a town called Cherryfield. A little place way up north.”

“I see.” Her mind racing. So much to put in order. Daniel would need a first-rate criminal attorney, stat. The media had already crucified him in absentia; now that the he’d been arrested, the whole cycle would start again. God, it was going to be the trial of the year, had all the elements: sex, violence, money, celebrity. “When will he be transferred back here?”

“He won’t.”

“He’s entitled to a—”

“Daniel isn’t in custody, Ms. Zeigler.”

“I’m sorry?”

“A sheriff’s deputy responding to a Teletype spotted his car and tried to arrest him.”

Tried? What does that mean?

“Your client, you know what he did?” Waters knuckle-leaned into her desk, looking down at her. “He assaulted the officer, then drove his BMW through a hotel sign and led the deputy in a high speed chase. More than a hundred miles an hour.” Waters paused, let his words sink in. “The officer fired on him.”

There was a tentative knock on the door, and her assistant Mark poked his head in, coffee cup in hand, “Here you—”

“Not now,” she snapped. Mark looked wounded, but she ignored him, spoke to Waters. “Did he– Is Daniel all right?”

Waters paused, straightened. He shot his cuffs. “We don’t know.”

Sophie leaned back, put her fingertips to her temples. Flashed on a Thanksgiving years ago, one of her Hollywood Orphan dinner parties for those who couldn’t, or wouldn’t, go home for the holidays. Someone telling a joke and Daniel laughing at it, laughing that particular way he did, starting with a hand clap like he was marking the scene. He’d laughed that way as far back as she’d known him. It was a gesture that stayed the same while his body aged around it, while both their lives changed, while time plodded forward. She thought about how seeing that clap and hearing his laughter had given her a glow in her chest that was neither exactly lustful nor precisely maternal, but somewhere in between; a desire to help and protect him and relish the pleasure of his progress.

“Another thing,” the sheriff continuing, relentless. “Daniel had an office, right?”

“In Studio City. He didn’t use it much.”

“Last night someone broke in—”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re kidding. Wait, let me guess. You’re thinking Daniel did it, right?”

“—and when he was surprised by the security guard, beat the man to death with a rock.”

Sophie’s mouth dropped open. The retort withered on her tongue.

“Got your attention now? I understand that he’s your client, and your friend. I do. But this is the second murder he’s tangled up in. So please. Help me.”

“What.” Her voice came out a croak. “Why do you think—”

“The guard was in Daniel’s office. The rock had been used to break the window. Daniel’s fingerprints were all over.”

“It was his office.”

“I know. But it still places him there.” The sheriff sighed. “Look, I’m sure he didn’t want to kill the guy. Probably didn’t even mean to. But you know Daniel has a temper. Everyone he worked with said so. Said he was the nicest guy in the world, but that he could pop, go off.”

It can’t be true. Daniel wouldn’t—he couldn’t– Oh, sweet boy, tell me this isn’t true. “He yells. He never hurts anyone.”

“He never hurt anyone before. But now he’s scared. Desperate.”

“Wait. I told the LAPD officers that the man who broke into my house was asking about a necklace. You know that Laney bought a necklace, an expensive one, the day she died. He’s who you should be looking for.”

The sheriff nodded. “I agree.”

“You do?”

“Absolutely. And we are. But you need to understand. The way Daniel is acting, he’s not giving us any choice. Even if this other guy is involved, right now it looks like Daniel was working with him. Until he talks to us, he’s going to look guilty.”

His words triggered a memory, one she’d tried a hundred times to ignore. The middle-of-the-night panic of a ringing phone. Daniel, his words running together, slurring drunk. Far past crying. Sobbing, the wet and choking sound of raw misery. Of a person torn in half. And barely audible between the shuddering gasps, his voice saying, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It’s my fault.

She kept her mask in place. He was drunk. It doesn’t mean what this cop would think it means. She looked at the detective, calm in his suit, eyes sharp and hard, mind already made up. And she couldn’t blame him. Everything he said, it made sense.

“Sophie. Please. Is there anything else you can tell me?” But Daniel was still her boy.

“It’s Ms. Zeigler. And I have no information about Daniel Hayes’s whereabouts, nor have I had any—”

“Fine,” he said, going rigid. “As you like. But, Ms. Zeigler, you might remember this. You know when people are most likely to get hurt by the police?” He paused, then spoke with careful enunciation. “When they run from us.”

She opened her mouth, closed it.

“I’ll see myself out. But if you really want to protect Hayes, you’ll help me.”

5

Belinda Nichols was getting tired of bars.

She’d been working her way down Sunset, focusing on the dives, the tiki joints, the art bars with films projected on the wall and board games in a corner. Left on Silver Lake, the neighborhood Hispanics, homosexuals, and hipsters, a great combination for nightlife. But her head was pounding and she could smell a stale funk on herself—sleeping in the back of the van wasn’t doing much for her hygiene—and the gun tucked in the back of her waist was driving her crazy, digging in when she leaned back, feeling loose enough to slip when she didn’t. And through it all, the two thoughts spinning and colliding, dusting themselves off, and then spinning up again.

You’re going to point a pistol at a living, breathing person and pull the trigger.

And Where is Daniel Hayes?

It was only seven and a Monday night, so she found a place to park easily enough. As she walked past the side of the van, she stroked the four-foot wound in the side, felt the paint flake against her fingers.

You’re no longer Belinda Nichols. You’re Niki Boivin. You find people. You wanted to be a private-eye-slash-nurse who knew kung fu, like something out of a seventies action show, but really you work for lawyers and creditors. Most of the time that means you sit behind a computer and dial the phone, but sometimes you have to do it old school, and those are the nights you like best. The happiest moment of your day is jogging through morning mists with your dog, a mutt whose pit bull/dachshund heritage just had to include rape.

She’d been Niki Boivin most of the day, and slipped her on like old jeans.

A squat gray bunker abutting an auto repair shop and marked with only a small marquee, Spaceland looked like a roadhouse on some sad stretch of Southern highway instead of one of L.A.’s best music venues. Niki stepped in, blinking. The silver-blue curtain that framed the stage was bathed in light, but the band hadn’t started. She pushed over to the bar, ordered a beer she didn’t want from a pretty emo girl, all dyed hair and sadness. When it arrived, she pulled out a twenty, told the girl to keep the change.

Niki leaned back with her elbows on the bar. The place wasn’t crowded yet, maybe fifty people milling about. Friends of the band, probably. Monday was for up-and-coming acts hoping to share the success of others who had strut the same stage. As she watched, a skinny kid with nerd glasses walked on, picked up a bass, and began tuning it, the notes ringing low and slow.

Daniel Hayes wasn’t here.

She sighed, took a swig of beer. The headache was getting worse; the bassist might as well as have been strumming her raw optic nerves. When the bartendress came back, Niki gave her a finger wag.

“Whatcha need?”

“Actually, I’m looking for someone.”

“Somebody who works here?”

“No.” She pulled the photo of Hayes from her pocket, the print a little crinkled. “This guy.”

“Whoa, this is so film noir.” The bartendress leaned in to stare at the photo. She was wearing citrus perfume, clean-smelling and nicer than Niki expected. “Wait, wait. I know my line.” She straightened, tipped her head, hardened her eyes. “You a cop?”