I grunted, studying the brunette, who had turned over onto her back, and whose breasts seemed unlikely. “It’s a puzzle.”
“Sure is. Anyway, I still need to go ahead with this.” He sighed, cleared his throat. “I guess I’m up to us getting together later today, like we planned.”
I sipped my glass of iced tea. “Well, that’s the thing, Gil. I’ve been giving this some thought. I’m thinking maybe I might want to do a Dahlia book myself, someday.”
“I hope that doesn’t mean-”
“I’m afraid it does. I’ve got to save what I know for my own book.”
“Oh. Well. I guess I can understand that…”
“Good.” Now that little blonde down there, turning over; those looked real.
“… I have to say, Mr. Heller, it is a strange coincidence.”
“What is?”
“Smith dying in a hotel fire, with you in town, before I could get the two of you together.”
“I suppose. But if you like, there is one thing I can tell you about the Dahlia case-you know, just as one author to another.”
Hopeful expectation colored the writer’s voice. “Any insight you can share, Mr. Heller, any scrap of information, would be appreciated.”
Those girls down on the beach-they were about the same age Elizabeth Short had been, when she died; and they were out here in La La Land, no doubt with similar hopes and dreams. I hoped they’d fare better than the girl from Medford, Mass. But the way the world was going, I had no faith they would.
“Mr. Johnson,” I said, “this goddamn case is just filled with coincidences.”
