I went home and did the smart thing. I called Rampart and asked for Detective O’Shea. He wasn’t able to come to the phone. I left a message and asked that it be marked urgent. Then I waited.

It was after lunchtime so I made a tuna fish sandwich and ate half of it. There was nothing on TV except soap operas, and I didn’t follow any of them. I could pick something out of my personal video collection, but I didn’t have the patience. I felt an urgency about this. As though I knew if the Petersons left Los Angeles, they’d get away with Guy’s murder.

I called the Mondrian and asked for their room. When the desk clerk put me through, I hung up. They were still there. Then I called back and asked about check-out time. Noon. Well, it was after noon so maybe they’d be staying another night. Or maybe they’d just be slipping away without checking out. People who committed murder didn’t always follow the rules.

I waited almost an hour, then I called Rampart again and asked for Detective O’Shea. I was put on hold and had to wait. The phone was obviously being manned by a Trailblazer of probably sixteen or seventeen. It was a little creepy knowing what the boys had done, but then it probably wasn’t this boy. The beatings had all taken place two years ago. Those boys were off in college somewhere or had gone into the military. They definitely weren’t answering the phones at Rampart now.

The boy came back and said, “Detective O’Shea is in the field. He’s gotten your message and he’ll call you as soon as he can.”

“Can I leave another message?”

The boy sighed.

“Would you tell him that Guy Peterson’s family killed him and that they might be leaving town.”

“Okay,” the boy said sounding a little bored. As though he got a similar message four times a day.

I didn’t have anything to do with myself. I could have gone to Pinx and done some work, but I really couldn’t focus on anything but mentally urging the phone to ring. Waiting for someone to call you is one of the worst things ever. Waiting for someone to call you regarding a murder is even worse.

I put The Immaculate Collection into the CD player and tried bouncing around the apartment to vintage Madonna just to shake off some energy. It didn’t work. The energy just wouldn’t be shaken off.

For the third time, I called Rampart Station. This time I knew I wouldn’t get O’Shea on the phone. I left a message with one of the Trailblazers, “Please let Detective O’Shea know that I’m on my way to the Mondrian Hotel. I’ll be in the lobby.”

When I hung up, I stopped to think. I’d never been to the Mondrian before. I assumed there was a lobby. But it was unlikely they’d let me simply hang out there waiting to see if the Petersons tried to slink off. So, exactly what did I think I was going to do? It didn’t take long before I had an idea. I went into my bedroom, pulled a suitcase out from under the bed, and began filling it with whatever I could grab.

The Mondrian was located in West Hollywood on the Sunset Strip, wedged between a couple of gigantic billboards—one selling a men’s cologne by Halston and the other a new TV show about ESP. It was a twelve-story hotel that might have been kind of bland if they hadn’t had an artist paint it up in every color of the rainbow. There were different blocks of color here and there, and it did have the feeling of an actual Mondrian.

I pulled up to the hotel and surrendered the Sentra to a valet. I could see that he was trying not to sneer at my car. I told him I was a guest checking in, got my suitcase out of the trunk, and slipped him a five. I tried to look like it had been an exhausting journey from Silver Lake. He gave me a ticket stub, took my keys, and didn’t mention whether they’d validate at the front desk. My guess was they wouldn’t.

I walked by a big teal-colored slab of marble, which said Le Mondrian Hotel in silver metal. That was the correct name of the hotel but everyone called it The instead of Le. There was no line at the front desk, so I carried my bag over and said to the clerk, “I’d like to book a room.”

“Certainly, sir. Do you have a reservation?” She was a little too perky and her hair was caught in a nineteen-seventies time warp.

“No, this is a very spontaneous kind of trip.”

She clicked away at a CRT. “Good news. We do have rooms available.”

“Um, friends of mine are staying here. The Petersons. Could I be on the same floor with them?”

“Certainly, can you tell me what room they’re in?”

“Oh gosh, you know they told me, but I’m kind of dyslexic. It might have been 651? Or maybe it was 868? You know, I’m sure there’s a four in there somewhere.”

She smiled at me. “Peterson, you said?”

“Yes.”

“My sister is dyslexic. People treat her like she’s stupid, and she’s really not. Here we go. The Petersons are in room 723. I can put you in room 726. It’s across the hall just kitty-corner to their room.”

The three of them were sharing a room, apparently. I wondered if it was a suite. Then the clerk asked me for one hundred and seventy eight dollars and I understood why they were sharing a room. Even if I had thirty-thousand in cash I’d think that was a lot of money.

I gave the clerk my credit card, signed a small print agreement that gave them all the advantages, and received the key to my room. I declined her offer of a bellhop—I only had the one half-full bag, after all—and walked across the lobby to the elevators. I caught a glimpse of a bar sitting off the lobby and wondered if it might be a good place to keep a lookout.

When I reached the seventh floor I walked down the long hallway, hesitating at room 723. I listened. A television was playing, an action movie given the soundtrack, something recent off pay-per-view, probably. I continued to my room. If they were watching a movie, they weren’t leaving anytime soon.

The room was nice, with a view of Sunset Boulevard and the hills behind the hotel. It would probably be very pretty once it got dark. There was a king-sized bed, a desk and an ultra-mod chair. Everything was done in white with splashes of primary colors to match the outside of the hotel.

I put my suitcase down and sat on the bed. Now what? I could call Detective O’Shea again to give him an update. Or rather, give the Trailblazer who answered the phone an update. I could sit in the room waiting. Or I could go down to the lobby bar and keep an eye out for O’Shea while making sure the Petersons didn’t leave.

Before I left the room, I went into the bathroom to see what crazy thing my hair was doing. It was sticking up in the front and sloping off in a weird way on the right. I pushed it around until I thought it looked a little better, wishing I’d brought a hairbrush, and left.

The bar could be accessed from the lobby through a small arch. There were only a couple of stools that gave me a sight line to the main hotel entrance. The bar also gave a lovely view out to the pool on one side and a patio restaurant on the other.

There were a lot of out-of-towners by the pool. I knew they were from out of town because a high of seventy here was considered downright chilly and most Angelenos considered it sweater weather. Only people used to temperatures below freezing considered it sunbathing weather.

I sat down on one of the stools that offered the sightline I wanted. The bartender was about my age, had his hair cut into a bowl on top and shaved around the sides. I was pretty sure that was a popular cut with teen idols. He had a nice smile and friendly eyes. I ordered a Tanqueray martini straight up with a twist. I almost never had martinis, but it had seemed really elegant when Louis made one for Leon and this seemed the place to be elegant.

He made the martini quickly and charged me six dollars, which I thought was a lot. I asked him to charge it to my room. He lay the check down in front of me and pretended like he didn’t care what happened to it.

“My name’s Chuckie,” he said.

“Noah.”

“So, Noah, let me guess. You’re in the entertainment business, right?”

“Um, yes. I am.” I didn’t really think about it that way, but I actually was in the entertainment business. People were entertained by the videos I rented them.

“Yeah, I’m good at that,” he said. “Let’s see, producer, writer, actor…director. My guess is you’re a producer.”

“In a way.”

“Are you here for a meeting?”

“Sort of.”

“With someone famous?”

“No.” I decided I’d better make up a story if I wanted him to tell me anything about the Petersons. “There’s a family staying here. From Fresno. Mother and father, daughter. There was a son but…he died in the riots. Practically ripped to pieces by the mob at…” Here I stumbled. All I could think of was Fredrick’s of Hollywood and I couldn’t say that he was ripped to pieces by a mob looting lingerie.

I didn’t need to say anymore, though, because he said, “I think I saw that on TV.”

“You probably did. Anyway,” and here I lowered my voice, though the bar was nearly empty. “I’m trying to buy the movie rights.”

“Oh yeah, that would make a good movie.”

“The mom and dad are in their late fifties early sixties. Gray. A little overweight. The daughter is mid-twenties, dark hair, a little—”

“Horsey?”

“Yes, that’s her.”

“She was in here last night trying to pick up guys.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, eventually the father came down and they had a screaming match. He was trying to be reasonable at first, but she started screaming about how he never loved her, never even liked her. That he only ever liked…Gary?”

“Guy.”

“That’s right. Guy. He’s the one who was…”

“Yes.”

“Wow. She’s kind of awful isn’t she? I mean, the brother just died and she’s doing a Smothers Brothers Mom-liked-you-best routine. You need another one of those, don’t you?”

I looked down and realized I’d finished my martini. “Um, yeah, sure,” I said. He started making the new drink. The thing with Cindy didn’t surprise me much. There didn’t seem to be much love lost between the siblings.

Chuckie finished making my drink and set the new one in front of me. “You might want to watch your step with those Petersons. When the dad dragged her out of here, that girl was yelling about faggots. You know, there might be some stuff going on with them that you don’t want for your movie, if you know what I mean.”

Unfortunately, I did.