The next morning at about seven, there was a knock on my door. I wasn’t usually out of bed before nine so I was not especially excited. When I opened the door, Marc and Louis stood there with a pitcher of orange juice, a bag of Brooklyn Bagels and a giant tub of cream cheese. Marc had a couple of newspapers tucked under his arm. They were both dressed for the office.

“Long time no see,” I said.

“We found Mr. Crispy,” Louis said.

That left me no choice but to let them in—though I was sorely tempted slam the door in their faces.

“You do have a toaster, don’t you?”

“Of course I have a toaster. You’ve been in my kitchen, Louis, you know what’s there.”

“And a coffeemaker?”

I sighed. “Next to the toaster.”

Louis went into the kitchen. Marc laid the newspapers on the dining table; one was the LA Times and the other a Frontiers magazine from early April. He unfolded the LA Times and pointed to a front-page article at the bottom of the page.

From the kitchen, I heard Louis say, “Oh my.” He stuck his head out. “Marc, go downstairs and grind some beans. I forgot, all he has is Maxwell House.”

“Oh no, that won’t do,” Marc said and walked out of the apartment. Louis went back to working the toaster. I stood there blurry-eyed, reading the newspaper.

One Detective Timothy Gaines, aged 37, had been missing since the second day of the riots. His family was getting anxious—no kidding—but still hoped he’d come home safe. He’d worked out of the Rampart Division for ten years, was well-liked and deeply involved with the Frontier Scout’s Trailblazer program that allows teenagers to explore careers in law enforcement.

It wasn’t a long article, but then what was there to say? A man was missing after the riots. I leaned on the corner of my desk so I could talk to Louis while he sliced bagels and crammed them into my toaster. I could hear Mark grinding beans downstairs.

“It’s Mr. Crispy,” Louis said. “It has to be.”

“The timing is right. And it fits with Guy being afraid of the police.”

“And why he went into hiding. If he killed Mr. Crispy, that is.”

“Gaines. If you’re convinced he’s Mr. Crispy you should call him Mr. Gaines. Or Tim if you want to be on a first-name basis.”

Marc came in holding a baggie full of freshly ground coffee, which he handed off to Louis. To me he said, “Did you read it? I thought the part about the Trailblazers was interesting.”

“Was it?”

“Oh, I haven’t told you yet,” he said. “So, remember that I thought those photos looked familiar?”

“The artsy ones?”

“Yes. I went back a few issues of Frontiers.”

“He has an entire year in the bottom of the closet.”

“Shut up, Louis. Anyway, I went back a few issues and I saw it.” He’d flipped to the right page in Frontiers. “Guy Peterson was supposed to have an exhibit at the Cox Gallery on Vermont.”

I looked at the article, which featured a picture in the style of the beating photos but not one of the ones I had. The name of the exhibit was To Pummel and to Slay. A play on the LAPD motto To Protect and to Serve.

“You said, supposed to?” I asked. “He was supposed to have an exhibit?”

“We drove by there on the way to get the bagels,” Louis said, as he brought out a plate of toasted bagels and set them on the table. “And there’s no Guy Peterson exhibit going on. None.”

He set down cups of coffee in front of me and Marc. I took a sip. It tasted like coffee to me. I tried to back up a little. “So, Timothy Gaines—”

“Mr. Crispy,” Louis said from the kitchen.

“Louis.”

“Gaines was involved with the Trailblazers. And Guy’s photos have Frontier Scouts beating a guy. What does that mean?”

“I don’t know,” replied Marc. “But I think it means something. It connects.”

“‘How,’ is the question,” Louis said, sitting down with his coffee.

“So, do we think Guy Peterson killed Detective Timothy Gaines?”

“He disappeared at the right time,” I said.

“But that’s all we know for sure,” Marc pointed out.

“Don’t be such a killjoy,” Louis said.

“He could be up in Big Bear for all we know. And the body in Guy’s Camera could be a homeless person who broke in to stay warm.”

“But you thought the Trailblazers connection was interesting.”

“It is. If it’s not a coincidence.”

“I’m not sure I like this logical side of you,” Louis said.

“Mikey, my employee, told the police about Ted Bain. I called Ted and warned him. Actually, I ended up being the one to tell him Guy was dead.”

“Oh, that doesn’t sound fun.”

“So where is he now?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t tell me where he was going.”

“Did he tell you anything?”

“No, he was too upset.”

“I’ll bet he knows how this all connects.”

“Yes, I’ll bet he does.”

“So why haven’t the police searched your place yet? Are you no longer a suspect?”

“Um, I don’t know. You have to get a search warrant from a judge, so you need some legitimate reason to suspect someone. Maybe they don’t have enough to get a search warrant.”

“This orange juice needs champagne,” Marc said.

“Yeah, we have to leave for work soon,” Louis pointed out.

“Oh well, one more reason to get rich.”

“You know who else might know how all this connects? Whoever owns that gallery.”

* * *

After they left, I called Mikey at home and told him I might not come into the store. He tried to contain his excitement but failed. Then I went back to sleep. Almost three hours later, I managed to drag myself out of bed for a second time. I showered, dressed, made my hair look less like a topiary, ate the half of my bagel I didn’t eat at breakfast, and left the apartment.

In the car, I put in my cassette of Miss Saigon and sang along to “The American Dream.” The song finished as I pulled up to a meter on Vermont below Franklin.

Cox Gallery sat along a stretch that had a number of artsy little shops across from the post office. It was a narrow shop with two very large plate glass windows at the front, where two paintings—oil or acrylic I couldn’t tell—of desert vistas were on display.

At least I think they were desert vistas. They were both designed with washed out blues and browns. One of them had a slash down the middle that might have been a cactus.

When I walked in, the place was deadly still. A woman sat at a desk in the back; she barely moved. An eye might have flickered when I walked in, I couldn’t tell. As I got closer she did move though. She stood up and I could see that she was very thin, very tall. She wore hoop earrings and a small, cream-colored shell dress with a thin, white cardigan. I had the odd feeling her deepest desire was to be as abstract as the paintings in the window.

“Are you looking for something specific?”

“Actually, I came in to talk with the owner,” I said.

She smiled. “I noticed you didn’t look at the paintings. Most people look at the paintings when they come in, no matter why they’re here.”

I glanced at the paintings. They didn’t look much different than the ones in the front.

“I’m Alicia Cox,” she said.

I tried not to smile too big. Her name was a like a drag queen’s. “You knew Guy Peterson?”

“Knew?”

“He was found dead,” I said.

“The riots? The news has been overwhelming. I couldn’t take it anymore, so I stopped paying attention.”

“He was found yesterday. I don’t know if it’s been in the news yet. He was scheduled to have an exhibit here?”

“Yes, it should have started a few days ago. That’s why—” She waved around the gallery. “I’ll be honest, these aren’t very good. They were all I could get on short notice.”

“So, did you cancel or did Guy?”

“It was me, I’m afraid. A couple of policemen came by.”

“Nino Percy and Javier O’Shea?” I asked.

“Percy sounds familiar. I don’t remember the other one’s name.”

“Did they threaten you?”

“No. Not at all.”

“Then why did you cancel the exhibit?”

“They came and said things about Guy. They said it wasn’t his work, that he’d stolen it from someone. They mentioned a name, I don’t remember it. They claimed it was his work Peterson was passing off as his own.”

“And you believed them.”

“Of course not. But then they asked about the windows. They asked if I’d ever had any problem with vandals. I said I hadn’t. They said I was lucky. That windows get broken all the time. Then the taller one asked how I liked living in Beachwood Canyon and was I worried about the high instance of rape on Glen Holly,” she smiled wryly. “I live on Glen Holly.”

“You said they didn’t threaten you.”

“Well, they didn’t, did they? Even if I could prove what they said, they hadn’t really said anything.”

“How did Guy react?”

“He was upset. Rightly so. But I’m in this to sell things to rich people, not to get hurt.”

At least she was honest about it. “Do you know how the police found out about the exhibit?”

“I’m not sure, but I assume…a press release had gone out, there was a photo in the Weekly.”

“And Frontiers.”

“Ah, I wasn’t sure.”

“Why do you think the police wanted the exhibit shut down?”

“Because the photos are true.”

“No, they’re not. They’re obviously staged.”

“Yes, you’re right. But they’re also true.”