Thin Air

'He became her pimp,' I said.

'Yes, I know. We were able to get her to separate herself from him. Though it was a struggle.'

'What can you tell me about him?'

'He was abusive, and he was concerned with her only as he could use her. He seemed to hold her in great contempt.'

'Ever meet him?'

'No. I know him only through Angela's description.'

'You know where he is now?'

'No.'

'She married a dead honest, straight-ahead, older guy,' I said. 'Who's a cop. You have anything to say about that?'

'An encouraging sign, I should think. Someone who might protect her from her worst impulses, or from their consequences.'

'You know her father's name?'

'Richard, I assume,' Dr. St. Claire said. 'You think she would go looking for him?'

'I don't know. Perhaps the men she found were a sufficient substitute. Perhaps they weren't.'

The waiter brought the food. Dr. St. Claire had some Cobb salad. I took a bite of my chicken sandwich and washed it down with a swallow of decaffeinated coffee.

'Know anyone involved in her life named Vaughn?'

'No, I don't.'

'Maybe she didn't want the cop's protection any more,' I said.

'Or perhaps she needs it more than ever.'

'Her husband can't provide it right now.'

'Then perhaps you'll have to,' Dr. St. Claire said. 'You look very competent.'

I sipped from my cup again.

'My strength,' I said, 'is as the strength of ten because my coffee is drug free.'

Dr. St. Claire smiled at me. 'How very noble,' she said.

He pointed up. The tenements had flat roofs, like most three-deckers. She could see a man with a rifle leaning against one of the chimneys. There were other people up there as well, moving about.

'We have gardens up there, dirt dug from the courtyard, carried up by the bucketful until there is enough to grow our food. We have tomatoes up there, and beans. We have peppers, squashes. We grow cilantro. I will show you someday, chiquita, but not now. It is too soon. People might be watching. They might see you.'

The thought that someone might be watching sent a jagged shock of excitement through her. She felt it in her buttocks, in the palms of her hands, at the hinges of her jaw.

'Have you seen someone?' she said, trying to keep her voice flat.

'No, but we are careful. I do not want you snatched away from me again.'

She stared up at the rooftop, the man with the rifle, the people growing beans, she looked at the children playing in the excavated mud of the enclosure, and at the rickety porches that hung from the backs of the sagging gray buildings. She listened to the faint whir of the video camera as the young man with the braids moved about them, taping everything, preserving the moments. It had begun to rain lightly again. It never seemed to reach the level of a downpour, but it was frequent and often steady and everything had a wetness about it. The whole building complex seemed damp. It smelled of mildew. I'm not some debutante, she thought. I've seen worse than this. I've done worse than this. I've been worse off than I am now. And I've gotten out of it. I'm tougher than the son of a bitch, and smarter, and I'm not crazy, and he is. I'm going to get out of this.

She believed what she said to herself, but she also knew she had to control her fear, and what she didn't know yet was if she could.

Chapter 21

I sat in my blue hotel room while Susan ran up and down the stairs at the UCLA Track Stadium, and looked up Pontevecchio in the phone book. I found Woody Pontevecchio under Pontevecchio Entertainment, no street address, and a phone number in Hollywood. Spenser, master detective. I dialed the number and got his answering machine.

'Hi it's Woody. I'm probably out putting something together. But I'll be back soon, so leave a message, baby, and we'll talk.'

I said, 'My name is Spenser. I have something that will interest you about Angela Richard. Call me at the Westwood Marquis Hotel.'

Then I hung up. It had to be him. How many Pontevecchios could there be who were likely to call themselves Woody? I went and looked out the window.

It was a clear bright day in Los Angeles. Clear enough to see the snowcaps on the San Gabriel Mountains. Mostly the caps were smogged in, but today they looked as clean and crisp as new linen. In the distance between the mountains and me was a complicated, often angry seethe of people simmering beneath the Southern California