Beside her, Marco was dressed in white patent leather loafers with pale pink socks, pink and blue plaid Bermuda shorts, and a white T-shirt with the Louis Vuitton logo pasted all over it. I might have said his outfit was subdued (for Marco) if it hadn't been accessorized with a primate. Jerome was strapped to Marco's chest in a stylish pink baby carrier and not looking very happy about it.

  "Where have you been?" Marco demanded as soon as I got out of the minivan. "Didn't you get my texts?"

  "No," I said, pulling my phone out and checking my messages. I'd had the ringer on silent during our meeting with Willis, and I realized I had, in fact, missed texts from Marco. All four of them, staring with heading your way, doll to we're at your door to Jerry is getting antsy and where ru??!!.

  "We've been waiting here forever," Marco drawled. He shifted from foot to foot, jiggling his monkey up and down like one would to soothe a newborn.

  Ling nodded. "At least eight minutes."

  Jerome bobbed his head up and down in agreement.

  "I was at breakfast," I told them. I quickly brought them up to speed on all Dana and I had found the previous day, as well as my morning with Officer Willis.

  "So Ramirez was right. The guy did a crap job of investigating the fire," Marco said when I was finished.

  "According to Officer Willis, there wasn't much to investigate," I said.

  "Do you believe him?" Ling asked.

  I shrugged. "Maybe. But Ramirez didn't seem to like him."

  "I'd trust Ramirez. He's smart." Ling nodded. "And hot. Like four alarm, honey."

  "I'm aware." I frowned at her, not sure how I felt about the stripper having the hots for my husband.

  "Any-hoozers," Marco sing-songed. "Whether Mr. Old Cop was lazy or just blind to the possibilities back then, the fact is Beth's death totally could have been a murder."

  I nodded. "He did say it looked like arson—not an accident, like the police report said."

  "So, maybe it was made to look like some serial arsonists in the area but actually it was a cover-up," Marco said.

  "You know who covers stuff up?" Ling asked. "The mob."

  I would have argued the point, but she wasn't wrong. "So, what was it that brought you by today?" I asked, gesturing to the string of texts on my phone.

  "Chico." Marco took Jerome's little monkey hand and pressed his lips to it briefly. "Ling and I have been talking about it, and we both think he's holding something back."

  I nodded. "I'm sure he is."

  "So, we should go talk to him again," Marco said.

  "I'm sure we shouldn't," I started.

  "Really interrogate him," Ling said.

  "Corner him," Marco added. "Make him talk."

  Jerome nodded and smiled. Clearly he liked that idea.

  "We'll put the screws to him," Ling said. "Just like in the movies. I got a pair of pliers at home. He'll squeal big-time."

  "No! No interrogations, no pliers," I said firmly. "And no screws."

  Jerome frowned.

  "But Maddie, clearly he's hiding something!" Marco whined.

  On that point I had to agree. Especially if, as Ramirez had mentioned, Chico could have been the one who had deleted Moira DeVine's records from her computer after her passing.

  "I could dig up a rubber hose," Ling said, undeterred. "He'll spill his guts before we're done."

  The KGB could have put this girl to use.

  "No tools or garden implements of any kind," I told them.

  "How else are we supposed to get answers?" she demanded.

  I sighed. I wasn't getting any work done that day, was I?

  "Okay, fine. We can go ask Chico a couple of questions," I said. "Politely and respectfully."

  Ling made a dismissive "Tsk!" and rolled her eyes. "After that we can go get lollipops and chase rainbows."

  Ignoring her, I pointed at Jerome. "But he is not riding in my car again. I'm still trying to get the smell of monkey pee out of the upholstery."

  Predictably, Jerome stuck out his tongue at me.

  "Now you've gone and hurt his feelings." Marco made kissy faces at Jerome. "Don't worry, little man. Mama still loves you."

  Jerome bared his teeth in a big monkey grin.

  Marco patted his rump. "Have it your way," he told me. "You drive all by your lonesome, and we'll go in my Mini."

  "I don't want no monkey pee smell on me," Ling protested. "Monkey pee doesn't get the big tips at the Glitter Galaxy."

  "Don't pay the mean lady any mind," Marco whispered to Jerome. "You can ride right on Mama's lap, where you belong."

  "As long as we open the windows," Ling told him. "That monkey smells like an old shoe. Stuck in the back of the closet. After wading through a swamp."

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  "I can't let you in." Chico held the Hollywood Psychic studio door open only a crack so that I saw just one eye peeping out at us. That eye rolled down to Jerome. "Especially with him."

  "My boy doesn't smell!" Marco huffed.

  Jerome's monkey nose wrinkled.

  "He smells plenty," Chico assured him. "But that's not why I can't let him in. We're under new management. It's against policy."

  "You got a new psychic?" Ling asked. "Does she hire a hit team for sessions, too?"

  Chico's eye narrowed. "Excuse me, Madam DeVine didn't hire hit teams."

  "Oh, please, mister," Ling scoffed. "The LA Informer ran a big story on psychic dirty tricks." She paused meaningfully. "I'm sure they'd love to know our take on DeVine's particular tricks. We got a lot of dirt we can dish them."

  "You wouldn't?" Chico asked. Looking like he totally believed we would.

  "I've got the editor on speed dial," I told him. Which was true, but that was a whole other story.

  Chico's eye swept left and right across the sidewalk behind us before he yanked the door open with an aggrieved sigh. "Fine. Get in here, if you have to." He stood back, his white jeans and tight white turtleneck a stark contrast to the dimly lit studio. "But be quick about it. I haven't got all day. And do not tell anyone I let you in."

  "No problemo, mister." Ling scrunched up her nose when we stepped inside. "Phew. It smells like monkey business in here. Your boy needs a diaper change."

  "He's potty trained," Marco told her, offended. "He's been here before, that's all."

  If that was the reason it smelled, I didn't have a lot of hope for my van. "We want to talk to you about Moira DeVine's computer," I said, eager to be done with the Hollywood Psychic's studio.

  "Why?" Chico asked. "The police took it."

  "They did, and they know that someone deleted the files off of it," I added.

  Chico shrugged. "What's gone is gone."

  "For now." I gave him a pointed look. "Their digital forensics department thinks they can recover them."

  "They can do that?" Chico looked distinctly nervous.

  "Who had access to the computer?" Marco asked.

  "It was Madam DeVine's computer," he said, giving a nonanswer answer.

  "Did you ever use it?" Marco asked. "Maybe to play solitaire or mahjong? I love mahjong. Especially Mahjongg Candy."

  Jerome's ears perked up at the word candy.

  "N-n-no," Chico stuttered.

  "How about this—you ever delete any files?" Ling cut in.

  Was that her idea of polite and respectful?

  "Like, after the Madam was gone?" Marco pressed.

  Chico's nervous gaze went from Ling to Marco. "Excuse me, I find this line of questioning highly offensive."

  "I think the LA Informer will find it highly interesting," Ling warned him. "I mean, you gave her the poisoned tea, you deleted all her important files to cover your tracks, you—"

  "Now hold on!" Chico's face was practically as white as his skinny jeans. "I did not kill Madam."

  "So why delete her files?" I pressed.

  He licked his lips, running sweaty palms down his thighs in a way that I feared would make a mark. "Okay. Yes. I-I'll admit, I might have removed one or two little things from her computer."

  "To hide evidence that you killed her?" Marco narrowed his heavily lined eyes at him.

  "No! I didn't kill her. I-I loved Madam. She was special." Chico sniffed loudly, but it was hard to tell if it was to hold back tears or hold off more accusations from Ling and Marco.

  "What did you delete?" I asked.

  "Nothing," he said quickly. "Just…well, you know. Some little bits of things she'd learned from her network."

  "The TV network?"

  "The informant network." Chico shrugged. "I just wanted to protect Madam's reputation as a real psychic."

  Marco snorted. "Real, my waxed derriere."

  Chico shot him a dirty look.

  Jerome spit on the floor.

  Chico took a step back. "She was real. She had real talent. I told you, she just needed a little nudge sometimes to ensure that the production ran on time."

  "If it was all so aboveboard, why hide it?" I asked.

  Chico pursed his lips. "Look, the network is thinking about continuing the show with a new psychic at the helm. But if there's even a hint that Madam DeVine was a fraud, we can kiss those plans goodbye."

  "What new psychic?" Marco asked. "Who is it?"

  Chico sniffed. "It hasn't been decided yet. A few names are being tossed around. Including mine."

  "You," I repeated.

  Chico's chin lifted. "I happen to have some psychic ability, if you must know. I've done a reading or two in my lifetime."

  "You wanted to take over the show," Ling blurted.

  Chico reddened. "Not that I wanted to. I'd do it if I was asked, of course, as an homage to Madam DeVine. It would be an honor to carry on her legacy."

  It was also a clear motive for him to have wanted Moira DeVine out of the way, so he could trample over her dead body on his way to fortune and fame. As Ling has pointed out, he had been the one who'd given her the poisoned tea, all in the guise of an obsequious assistant.

  Suddenly I wondered if Beth's death was just a red herring, one that Chico would have been in the perfect position to create. Feed DeVine this bombshell of a lie, make it look like she'd been killed to silence her. Then take over in her place once the dust had settled on the whole thing.

  Which meant that maybe the fire that had killed Beth had been some random arsonist after all.

  Ling looked at me. "Should have let me bring pliers."

  I turned to Chico. "I'm curious… Exactly what information was DeVine given before Ricky's reading?"

  "I don't know."

  Marco and Jerome took a menacing step toward Chico.

  Chico took a giant one backward, coming up against a poster of DeVine gazing manically into a crystal ball. "It's true! Madam didn't share that sort of information with me."

  "You must have seen what was in her records before you deleted them," I pressed.

  But, again, Chico shook his head. "I-I was panicked. I just deleted everything she had. I didn't stop to read every file first."

  "Who did she talk to before Ricky's reading?" I asked. "Who was her informant?"

  Chico blew out a long breath and shook his head. "Look, I don't know for sure, but Madam DeVine knew a clerk at the LAPD who had access to records. And a problem with credit card debt. I knew she often contacted this person when looking into the deaths of celebrity loved ones. That's how Madam could get the exact details of their deaths to use in her sessions."

  Ling scrunched up her nose in disgust. "You're a dirty rotten gutter rat fink, mister!"

  Chico blinked. "What?"

  "You bought a poor file lady," Ling said. "You took advantage of her just because she wanted nice clothes. And maybe color and a blowout. And a new bag or two, to go along with the new shoes. And a granite countertop."

  I cleared my throat. "Are you done, Ling?"

  "And a big screen TV for watching The Voice." She looked at me. "Now I'm done."

  I just stared back at her.

  "What?" She shrugged. "Everyone likes The Voice."

  "What did this file clerk tell DeVine about Beth Montgomery's death?" I pressed Chico.

  He shook his head. "I don't know. Like I said, Madam did not share with me."

  I could hear the hurt in his voice that his devotion had not earned him that access.

  "But she did get info from her before Ricky's session?" I asked.

  "Yes. But all I know is that a package came over from her a few days before the session."

  "From whom?" Marco demanded. "Give us a name."

  "I don't have a name," Chico said. "I have no idea who it was. It arrived in a plain brown envelope, like always. I told you, Madam kept that information close to the vest. All I know is the person worked in a position at the LAPD with access to lots of records."

  Which told me exactly nothing. Moira DeVine's informant could have been any one of hundreds of receptionists or Records Department file clerks.

  However, I also had an "in" with the police department, and I knew for a fact that there was nothing in the police files on Beth about a gunshot or a murder. I'd just bought breakfast for the best informant there could have been when it came to Beth's death, and he'd known nothing about what Moira DeVine had said.

  So where had she gotten the idea that Beth had been murdered?

  "Were there other informants?" I asked Chico. "Maybe someone else who told her things about Beth's death?"

  Chico didn't hesitate. "I don't know. I truly don't. I was her assistant, not her partner. I've told you all I know about her sources."

  Jerome shifted in his carrier, twisting to look behind him. I glanced over my shoulder, seeing nothing.

  "Look, I've got a meeting coming up," Chico said. "So if you don't mind…"

  "You better have been straight with us," Ling warned him. "Or else we'll sic monkey breath on your—"

  "Thanks for your time," I cut in.

  The deadbolt snicked into place behind us when Chico showed us out. I glanced back as the shade drew down over the door. His meeting must be with a lock picker. Or maybe he'd been spooked by our visit and its implications. Either way, I wasn't sure I trusted him. Not when I now knew he clearly stood to gain from Moira DeVine's death.

  "You were too easy on him," Ling complained. "What's the harm in strong-arming a suspect?"

  "I never said he was a suspect." I slipped my sunglasses onto my nose. "But I'm not convinced that file clerk was her only informant in this case."

  Marco stopped rubbing Jerome's back. "How's that?"

  "Moira DeVine claimed Beth had been shot," I said. "Nothing in any of the police records indicated that."

  "So the psychic lady really was psychic?" Ling asked.

  "Or making it up," Marco said.

  "Either way, I wonder where she came up with the idea of a gun," I said.

  "You know who has guns?" Ling asked. "The mob."

  I thought of the Riccis. There was no doubt in my mind they owned several. Not to mention how many might be registered—or conveniently unregistered—to their goons.

  However, there was someone else much closer to Beth who also could have owned a gun back then.

  "What about Uncle Bart," I said. "Officer Willis was pretty adamant that he seemed like a bad sort back then. He wanted to arrest him, but Beth wouldn't press charges."

  "You think maybe he came back when the officer wasn't there and shot his sister?" Marco asked.

  I shrugged. "It's possible. He was desperate for money. And it turns out Beth had a lot of it." I quickly filled them in on what Lillian had told us about the missing $50K in life savings.

  When I was done, Ling was nodding her head. "Fifty grand's a lot of dough. People do crazy things when they're desperate for dough. One time we had this guy at Glitter Galaxy—every time he put a bill in a girl's G-string, he'd steal another out."

  Marco shook his head. "That's awful. Don't you think so, little man?"

  Jerome bobbed his head up and down. He thought so, too.

  "I know," Ling agreed. "He put in ones, he took fives. He was a first rate cheapskate. But don't worry. Karma took care of him."

  "What happened?" Marco asked.

  "I just told you. Karma took care of him. Karma was our bouncer. Muscles out to here." Ling put her hand about a foot above her bicep. "Trust me, that guy never came around again."

  "Well, I think we should pay another visit to Uncle Bart," Marco suggested. "The best way to get an answer is to ask the question."

  I had my reservations about that. However, I still also had a nagging feeling that someone in Ricky's life had been on Moira's payroll. And Uncle Bart was known to have problems with money. If there was even a chance he'd been the one to insinuate Beth had been murdered—let alone been the actual murderer—Ricky had a right to know what his newfound family was made of.

  "Bart lives in Culver City," I told them. "I'll text you the address."

  "Meet you there!" Marco squealed with delight. Jerome squealed too, though it was more teeth jangling than delightful. "But first, we have to swing through In-n-Out Burger," Marco added. "My little man needs fries."

  * * *

  We found Uncle Bart lounging by the swimming pool at the Breezy Palms Retirement Village, wearing nothing more than a Speedo, sunglasses, and a gallon of suntan oil. He was lying on a chaise at an odd angle, as if he'd started upright and slowly slid down until he was resting on his shoulder blades. The impression was more of a beached walrus than relaxation.

  Marco let out a gasp as soon as he spotted the man. "Oh, goodness. That is not a sight for a youngster's eyes."

  Ling glanced around at all the eighty-something ladies ogling Bart on the sly. "That's not a problem around here."

  Jerome let out a "Screee!" and clapped a hand over his eyes.

  "Oh, how adorable!" A wrinkled lady in a tankini and bathing cap tottered past, beaming at Jerome. "Doesn't he have a lot of hair for a newborn!" She reached for Jerome's hand. "Aren't you just the cutest thing ever?"