I nudged Nick. “You can field this one.”
“Horus sent us to a collector in Silver Lake, where we found another copy of Schelz’s pamphlet. The collector wouldn’t give us the name of the guy who sold it to him.”
“Nick thinks the seller will call. I have doubts,” I said.
“Tell Pratt about the comic store,” Dad said. “Let her convince him to reveal the source.”
“Like she would take orders from me,” I said. “I’m not talking to her without Oliver.”
After my parents hung up Nick said, “I’m hungry. How about a burger at Carney’s?”
“Love it.”
He exited the 134 at Coldwater Canyon and made a left at Ventura. As we passed the Sportsmen’s Lodge, he pointed through the window at the driveway. “Isn’t that Jarret’s car?”
Jarret gunned his red convertible sports car out of the hotel parking lot. He sped in the opposite direction, too fast for me to catch more than a glimpse of the dark-haired passenger in the front seat.
“I wonder why he isn’t at the stadium?” I said. Jarret often joked about not knowing what the world beyond a baseball diamond looked like on summer afternoons.
“You didn’t hear? They took him out of the lineup. No official statement from the team. The press is calling his absence a forced leave,” Nick said. “Who was the woman with him?”
“I didn’t see a face. My guess would be a model, a lawyer, or a bartender.”
“I know you’re angry with him, but if Jarret is innocent the odds are he knows the killer. I don’t trust the guy but he might be of some help.”
“If we can believe him,” I said. Hell was freezing over if Nick looked to Jarret for answers, but I knew Nick was right—I needed to talk to Jarret again whether I wanted to or not.
We parked in the lot next to Carney’s, a bright yellow burger-and-hot-dog diner built inside a railroad car off the boulevard. Taking the metal steps to the platform, we went inside, dodging children running up and down the long, narrow aisle. The menu I knew by heart hung above the shoulder-height counter fronting the kitchen.
Behind the counter, aproned clerks took orders, poured drinks, and loaded hot dog and burger buns with tomatoes and onions, adding squirts of ketchup and mustard, and a ladle of chili. A cook flipped burgers and fried onions on the grill. Another cook manned the deep fryer.
Tables filled with customers sat along the long skinny row of car windows behind us. Businessmen and women read BlackBerrys or chatted between bites of chiliburgers. Pastel-clad soccer moms broke hot dogs in half for the toddlers in high chairs.
I ordered a cheeseburger (no bun), and Nick ordered a chilidog and fries. While Nick waited for the food, I took our drinks outside to an empty picnic table on the empty redwood patio. I was hungry and curious. Jarret was tooling around town with some woman? Sounded to me like the perfect time to return his call.
He picked up on the second ring. “I didn’t think I’d hear from you, Lizzie.”
“And here I am. This better be good,” I said.
“I can’t really talk right now.”
“I can. I’m listening.”
He lowered his voice. “It’s not a good time. I’m with…a business associate. Will you let me take you to dinner tonight? Alone? I can explain.”
I reluctantly agreed, aware I might regret the decision. Nick came out of the diner with our food. He set the box on the table and sat beside me with a question on his face, nodding after I mouthed, “Jarret.”
“What time should I pick you up?” Jarret said.
“Let’s meet somewhere.”
“Whatever makes you happy, Lizzie. How about the Daily Grill at seven?”
“I’ll be there.” I hung up and said to Nick, “I’m having dinner with Jarret.”
“Great. Ask him who he really thinks killed Laycee. Want me to come along?”
“Wouldn’t that be fun? No.”
I ate part of my cheeseburger and a few of Nick’s fries, too distracted to finish. I was foolish to call Jarret, stupid to agree to dinner. Jarret’s apology wouldn’t appease me. I had no idea what questions to ask him. The information we’d gathered so far felt like the mess in the spare drawer in my kitchen—a jumble of mismatched, half facts. What was the point of meeting with Jarret, aside from making him suffer? Well, actually, a little suffering would be good for the louse.
“Dave didn’t call us back,” Nick said.
“Another dead end.”
“Research is a slow process. You have to follow each lead until you hit a wall or discover a turn.” He tossed our garbage into the trash can at the corner of the patio. “Come on, we can call Dave from the car.”
Nick started the engine and turned the air conditioner on full blast. “Now where to?”