Still Lives(34)

“He wanted me to know …,” I repeat, faltering over where to begin. He wanted me to know? Did something happen in his basement? Who found her phone?

“If you wish to communicate with him about anything,” Cherie adds, “you’ll need to do it through me.”

My curiosity boils over. “Did he find her phone? Did he know about the … the blood?”

“I’m afraid I can’t divulge many details right now,” says Cherie. “But no, detectives found the phone in Echo Park.”

“You don’t believe Greg—Shaw—did anything to hurt her, though.”

“Of course not.” Cherie’s answer is smooth and quick. I realize she must say this for every client. “Do you have anything you wish to communicate to Shaw?”

I cross La Brea, my mouth growing drier by the second. Does he want me to say something about the flash drive? About Bas and the stalker?

“Um, do you have any questions for me?” I say.

“Not at this time,” she says. “I’ll be in touch.”

“Is he okay?” I ask, but she has already hung up.


“Call the rock critic,” Yegina says in a muffled voice. It’s past noon now, but she is the queen of sleeping in. “He’s got to know something.”

I am back in my tranquil kitchen, exhuming my takeout and nibbling tiny bites of the spring rolls. “I did. He didn’t answer,” I say. “Should I call Cherie back? I feel like I blew my chance to ask her any real details.”

Yegina makes a soft sliding noise, like someone burying herself deeper in her pillows. She’s one of those people who always has a fluffy, soft, floral-smelling bed, while mine invariably resembles gym mats.

“She won’t tell you anything,” she says. “Call Kevin again.”

“I don’t want him to feel forced.”

“He has the hots for you.”

I set down my spring roll. “What?”

“In our interview, I asked him if he liked you—”

I start to interrupt, but she cuts me off.

“And he said he thinks you look like a young Marlene Dietrich. But it doesn’t matter because he’s been engaged for five years to a rich girl he met in Tanzania when he was studying abroad and she was in the Peace Corps. Mindy’s older than he is. She kept him a secret from her family until he graduated college, and now he needs a big career leap or he’ll shame her.”

“And then I suppose you told him about me and Greg,” I say.

“Why are you so afraid of what people think?” Yegina asks.

Her exasperation hurts. I open the rice container and pour the curry on it. I eat a spoonful. The warm coconut flavor clogs my mouth.

“Just call him,” says Yegina.

“All right.” I swallow. “But—”

“Good.” Yegina gives an enormous yawn and makes that burrowing noise again. “I’m really tired.”

“Did Rick the ranch hand stay over?” As soon as the question slips out, I regret it.

There is a silence, and then Yegina says slowly, “If you hadn’t gotten so bombed last night, you might know.”

My phone feels hard against my cheek.

“Rick the ranch hand has a wife and a daughter,” says Yegina. “And I am pursuing Hiro, the new grant writer. Hiro is very courtly and hasn’t proposed a date yet, but I can sense his interest from the delicate increase in his stammering.” She pauses. “What happened with you and Greg anyway? Did he stay over?”

“No.”

“Something happened.”

“Nothing happened,” I lie. I can’t tell her about Greg giving me the flash drive. I don’t want to entwine her in anything dangerous, and since Cherie’s call, Kim’s disappearance feels more dangerous than ever. But I never lie to Yegina, and it makes my weak stomach quiver.

“And how was it?” she murmurs. “The nothing?”

“Greg told me that he’s the police’s main suspect. That’s all. He was pretty upset.” In my mind’s eye I see my kitchen window last night and, in it, Greg’s rage-distorted face, watching me. What was he seeing?

Yegina yawns again.

“He isn’t guilty,” I say, my voice shaking because I don’t know what to believe.

She snorts. “Not of murder,” she says. “He isn’t innocent either. Now please go eat your crinkly lunch alone and let me sleep.”





13

Of all the startling news I’ve received in the past twenty-four hours, Greg’s comments and behavior nag me most—what he and Kim fought about, why he possessed the flash drive, and what or who spilled blood in his studio basement. I should be thinking about what to do next—send Cherie the flash drive? Use her to get a message to Greg? How does he need me now? Why does he need me? Deep down, do I still believe he’s innocent?

Yet instead, as I drift on my yellow couch, listening to a helicopter ratchet the southern sky, my brain keeps routing me to a different question: why Kim would suddenly want to donate her entire show to the Rocque’s permanent collection. Also, why hadn’t she told Greg? The loss of millions would weigh on her mind, wouldn’t it? She didn’t strike me as rich. Neither is Greg, and it’s quite possible that she owed him for living expenses. It’s also quite possible he’s leveraged to the hilt right now. Was that what they really fought about—money?