Pierce checked the address -it was in Venice -then tore the page off the pad, folded it and put it in his pocket.
'Curt seemed like a nice guy,' Monica said. 'I feel bad about lying to him.'
'You could always go visit him and ask him out for a date. I've seen him. Believe me, one date with you would make him happy the rest of his life.'
'You've seen him? Were you the one he was talking about? He said a guy was in there and wanted my mailbox. I mean, Lilly Quinlan's mailbox.'
'Yeah, that was me. That's how I -'
The phone rang and he answered it. But the caller hung up. Pierce looked at the caller ID directory. The call had come from the Ritz-Carlton in the Marina.
'Look,' he said, 'you need to leave the phone plugged in so when the furniture comes, security can call up here for approval to let them up. But meantime, you're probably going to get a lot of calls for Lilly. Since you're a woman, they're going to think you're her. So you might want to say something right off like 'This isn't Lilly, you've got the wrong number.' Something like that. Otherwise -'
'Well, maybe I should pretend I'm her so I can get more information for you.'
'No, you don't want to do that.'
He opened his backpack and pulled out the printout of the photo from Lilly's web page.
'That's Lilly. I don't think you want to pretend you're her with these callers.'
'Oh my God!' Monica exclaimed as she looked at the photo. 'Is she like a prostitute or something?'
'I think so.'
'Then what are you doing trying to find this prostitute when you should be -'
She stopped abruptly. Pierce looked at her and waited for her to finish. She didn't.
'What?' he said. 'I should be what?'
'Nothing. It's not my business.'
'Did you talk with Nicki about her and me?'
'No. Look, it's nothing. I don't know what I was going to say. I just think it's strange that you're running around trying to find out if this prostitute is all right. It's weird.'
Pierce sat back down on the couch. He knew she was lying about Nicole. They had gotten close and used to go to lunch together all the times Pierce couldn't get out of the lab – which was almost every day. Why would it end now that Nicki was gone? They were probably still talking every day, exchanging stories about him.
He also knew that she was right about what he was doing. But he was too far down the road and around the bend. His life and career had been built on following his curiosity. In his last year at Stanford he sat in on a lecture about the next generation of microchips.
The professor spoke of nanochips so small that the supercomputers of the day could and would be built to the size of a dime. Pierce became hooked and had been pursuing his curiosity -chasing the dime -ever since.
'I'm just going to go over to Venice,' he told Monica. 'I'm just going to check things out and leave it at that.'
'You promise?'
'Yes. You can call me at the lab after the furniture gets here and you're leaving.'
He stood up and slung his backpack over his shoulder.
'If you talk to Nicki, don't mention anything about this, okay?'
'Sure, Henry. I won't.'
He knew he couldn't count on that but it would have to do for the moment. He headed to the apartment door and left. As he went down the hall to the elevator he thought about what Monica had said and considered the difference between private investigation and private obsession. Somewhere there was a line between them. But he wasn't sure where it was.
8
There was something wrong about the address, something that didn't fit. But Pierce couldn't place it. He worried over it as he drove into Venice but it didn't open up to him.
It was like something hidden behind a shower curtain. It was blurred but it was there.
The address Lilly Quinlan had given as a contact address to All American Mail was a bungalow on Altair Place, a block off the stretch of stylish antiques stores and restaurants on Abbot Kinney Boulevard. It was a small white house with gray trim that somehow made Pierce think of a seagull. There was a fat royal palm squatting in the front yard.
Pierce parked across the street and for several minutes sat in his car, studying the house for signs of recent life.
The yard and ornamentation were neatly trimmed. But if it was a rental, that could have been taken care of by a landlord. There was no car in the driveway or in the open garage in back and no newspapers piling up near the curb. Nothing seemed outwardly amiss.
Pierce finally decided on the direct approach. He got out of the BMW, crossed the street and followed the walkway to the front door. There was a button for a doorbell. He pushed it and heard an innocuous chime sound from somewhere inside. He waited.
Nothing.
He pushed the bell again, then knocked on the door.
He waited.
And nothing.
He looked around. The Venetian blinds behind the front windows were closed. He turned and nonchalantly surveyed the homes across the street while he reached a hand behind his back and tried the doorknob. It was locked.
Not wanting the day's journey to end without his getting some piece of new information or revelation, he stepped away from the door and walked over to the driveway, which went down the left side of the house to a single stand-alone garage in the rear yard. A huge Monterey pine that dwarfed the house was buckling the driveway with its roots.
They were headed for the house and Pierce guessed that in another five years there would be structural damage and the question would be whether to save the tree or the house.
The garage door was open. It was made of wood that had been bowed by time and its own weight. It looked like it was permanently fixed in the open position. The garage was empty except for a collection of paint cans lined against the rear wall.
To the right of the garage was a postage-stamp-sized yard that offered privacy because of a tall hedge that ran along the borders. Two lounge chairs sat in the grass. There was a birdbath with no water in it. Pierce looked at the lounge chairs and thought about the tan lines he had seen on Lilly's body in the web page photo.
After hesitating for a moment in the yard, Pierce went to the rear door and knocked again.
The door had a window cut into its upper half. Without waiting to see if someone answered, he cupped his hands against the glass and looked in. It was the kitchen. It appeared neat and clean. There was nothing on the small table pushed against the wall to the left. A newspaper was neatly folded on one of the two chairs.
On the counter next to the toaster was a large bowl filled with dark shapes that Pierce realized were rotten pieces of fruit.
Now he had something. Something that didn't fit, something that showed something wasn't right. He knocked sharply on the door's window, even though he knew no one was inside who could answer. He turned and looked around the yard for something to maybe break the window with. He instinctively grabbed the knob and turned it while he was pivoting.
The door was unlocked.
Pierce wheeled back around. The knob still in his hand, he pushed and the door opened six inches. He waited for an alarm to sound but his intrusion was greeted with only silence. And almost immediately he could smell the sickly sweet stench of the rotten fruit. Or maybe, he thought, it was something else. He took his hand off the knob
