Racing the Light (Elvis Cole #19; Joe Pike #8)(15)

The auburn said, “I’m bored.”

She pushed to her feet, gathered her towel, and walked away. Just like that.

The blonde rolled her eyes.

“Always the drama.”

“Must be difficult.”

The blonde gathered her towel and sunscreen, stood, and rolled her eyes again.

“You wouldn’t believe.”

I lowered my voice.

“Has Josh been here much in the past couple of weeks?”

“Yeah. He was here a few times. Why?”

“Just curious.”

I thanked her and walked past the sycamore to my car.

Ryan Seborg’s best friend Josh had been keeping secrets. He kept secrets about Skylar Lawless, and his trips to see her in Studio City, and the nature of their relationship. These didn’t seem like large secrets to keep, or worth the drama of abandoning his life and the people who loved him, but I wasn’t Josh.

I wondered what other secrets he kept, and if those secrets had driven him away from his home and his family and Ryan.

Ryan probably wouldn’t like the answer.

Adele probably wouldn’t like the answer, either.

The people who hired me to find someone they love almost never wanted the truth.

And when I found the truth, I often wished I hadn’t found it.





8





A Thai place I liked in Sherman Oaks served excellent dry curry squid and duck spring rolls, so I phoned ahead, added an order of ginger rice, and picked up the food a few minutes later. I headed for home.

Home was a redwood A-frame on a woodsy street off Woodrow Wilson Drive in Laurel Canyon. My house sat perched on the downhill side of the street, overlooking the canyon below. A wide deck jutted from the rear, offering a peaceful view of the canyon, the surrounding hills, and the city beyond the ridges. I liked my little house a lot.

I parked in the carport, let myself into the kitchen, and set the Thai food next to the sink. I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and carried my gun and the water up to my bedroom loft. I showered, pulled on cargo shorts and a T-shirt, and returned to the kitchen.

A large black cat waited by the takeout bag. He had a fine flat head striped with scars, ragged ears, and he held his head cocked to the side from the time someone shot him with a .22. He licked his lips when he saw me.

“We’re having Thai. Sound good?”

He said, “Naow.”

“Coming up.”

People who lived with a cat talked to the cat. It was inevitable.

I found a Modelo beer in the fridge, drank some, and set out a plate and utensils for me and a clean dish for the cat. I lifted the takeout containers from the bag, opened them, and forked out four large pieces of squid. The Thai food was generously spiced with bird’s eye peppers, so I rinsed each piece, minced the pieces, and mixed the squid with kibble in his dish. When he saw the food in his dish, he leaped off the counter, raced to his eating place, and growled. This cat was something.

With the cat squared away, I made a plate for myself and carried the food and the beer to the dining table. I ate a duck roll and some rice, then opened my laptop. The ginger rice was superb.

Adult film performers often used stage names for the same reasons as mainstream actors. Their true names were dull or difficult to pronounce or had poor marketing appeal. Other adult performers hoped to hide their Triple X work from families or future employers, but the internet made hiding next to impossible. I googled “Skylar Lawless real name” and learned her true name with a single click.

Rachel Belle Bohlen had been born in Visalia, California, up in the San Joaquin Valley. She was twenty-nine years old, the oldest of two girls, and enjoyed riding horses. I ate another duck roll, helped myself to the squid, and opened the In Your Face episode page Ryan had showed me.

Beneath the photo of Skylar and Josh was a button for listening to her interview. Buttons labeled Her Opening, Her Studio, and Her Art were beside it.

Her Opening led to a photo album from Skylar’s show at ClaudeSpace Gallery and a link to the gallery’s website. The album showed photos of Josh interviewing Skylar and a couple of dozen pix of Skylar posing with friends or admirers. Most of her friends were young, attractive people with names like Cherry Glaze, Sindi Wett, Jock Slammer, and David Q Bones. You didn’t need a deer-stalker hat to know they worked in porn. A note at the bottom of the page credited the photos to Ryan Seborg.

Her Art led to images of six paintings and information for prospective buyers. Each painting looked like a cell phone screen with a text exchange between couples who seemed to be having trouble.


Stephi: i SAW u!!


Rick: her locker ws stuck


Stephi: i h8 u

Stephi: i hope u die


Rick: i luv u

Rick: pleez steph

Rick: steph


Stephi: call



I clicked the Her Studio button and pushed on.

As Josh had repurposed his bedroom into a recording studio, Skylar had repurposed her living room into an art studio. Large windows covered by bright, airy drapes filled the room with light. A straight flight of stairs with a wrought iron rail climbed to a second-floor landing and a curved corner in the background matched with a turret I’d seen at her apartment. Canvases leaned against the walls in uneven rows. Action shots showed Skylar cutting a stencil or adjusting a vertical projector or sipping coffee as she stared pensively at something we couldn’t see. Skylar didn’t look like a pornstar in her studio. She wore stained sweatpants, a paint-streaked tank top, and a backward Dodgers cap smudged with paint. A respirator mask with large pink filters made her look like a bug as she sprayed paint across a stencil. The studio photos were interesting, but offered no clues.