Laurel Canyon holds a special interest for me. What was found in Laurel Canyon would change my life forever. I take in more air. I want to stand and pace, but I don’t have the energy for it. So, I breathe and keep breathing until I calm down.

  Of course they’re not related. How could two crimes that span twenty-two years be related?

  Dust motes flit in and out of the streaming early evening sunlight where Olivia recently stood, at least in my vision, Olivia with her bloody throat. For some reason, I look down and am surprised at how shrunken my chest looks. I’ve easily lost seventy-five pounds over the past two years.

  “Some hikers found her,” says Eddie, his voice distant and hollow.

  “When did they find her?” I ask after a few seconds.

  “Not too long ago, I guess. Her purse was with her. Detectives were just here at my place.”

  “I’m sorry, Eddie.”

  “I just spent the past few hours answering their questions. They didn’t say it, but I could tell they think I did it.”

  I say nothing. Truth be known, I’m still not convinced I’m not dreaming. This whole conversation seems too surreal, especially when combined with my recent dream.

  “How did she die?” I ask tentatively, dreading the details.

  “Jimmy,” says Eddie urgently, “someone slit her throat and dumped her body.”

  Something inside me goes ice cold. My blood, maybe. My spine, something. And as I sit there holding my cell, looking at the streaming sunlight, my friend weeps into the phone.

  Chapter Six

  I’m sitting in a conference room in the North Hollywood station of the LAPD.

  I’d never been in the conference room. Normally, when I meet with Detective Dobbs, we do so in his office. This isn’t his office. So I wait. While I wait, I watch Numi through the open door. He is sitting on a wooden bench with his head tilted back against the cement wall behind him. His eyes are half-closed, although I know he’s watching me, too. He has positioned himself in such a way he can keep his eyes on me. Always on me.

  What did I do to deserve his friendship? His loyalty? I have no clue. To be honest, I’m an asshole to him. In general, I snap at him. When I’m not snapping at him, I’m grumpy as hell. Dying is a bitch, and I let him know it. Every day, Numi experiences the brunt of my self-hatred.

  I watch him some more as I wait. He sits there alone on the bench, his long legs stretched before him, his hands folded over his flat stomach. His hands are very dark, his palms, not so much. I can see his pink fingernails from here. Hands clasped loosely and comfortably and, looking at him, one gets the feeling he could sit like that for hours.

  Numi is an artist. And a successful one, too. He primarily sells his paintings in his own gallery on the Sunset Strip, nestled between all the famous nightclubs. How he secured that spot is anyone’s guess, but the location drives a lot of business inside his little gallery, and he moves a lot of paintings. These past few months—and, really, these past two years—he has mostly shut down his creativity to be with me. Sure, the gallery is still open, but he hasn’t painted anything in many months. His attention has been on me. Which makes me feel like shit. His talents are going to waste because I couldn’t control myself. I beg him to work, but he simply shakes his head and says the paintings will always be waiting for him.

  And I get his implication: the paintings will always be there. Me, not so much.

  I met Numi during one of my investigations years ago. Eight years ago, in fact. The stoic Nigerian witnessed a fatal car accident. I had been hired by the widow’s attorney to investigate the case. We met in his gallery after one of his exhibit openings. He made me buy a painting before he would talk to me. I did, and it still hangs on the wall in my living room to this day, the conniving bastard. Still, I like his style and his view of the world. Masterful, I would say. Back in the day, when I was the picture of health, Numi had been less stoic and contemplative, even outgoing and passionate about everything, two qualities reflected in his compelling art. In fact, once or twice, he even laughed.

  We hit it off immediately. I knew he was gay from the beginning, but he didn’t make a big deal about it, and since I was straight and not planning on becoming gay anytime soon, I didn’t make a big deal out of it, either. I guess we were meant to be pals.

  And pals we are. We get along like brothers. Hell, even better than brothers. We talk about anything and everything, and joke with each other like old frat buddies. Yes, Numi jokes. I don’t see it very often now, but when I do, well, I don’t soon forget it.

  Numi has taught me much. He taught me to let people be. He taught me to relax. To calm down. To not be so aggressive. Silence speaks louder than words. All of this he taught me by example. I learned much from him, and I still do.

  But now, our friendship has morphed into something else. I need him in ways I still can’t admit. We both know I need him. I cannot get through the day without him, or someone like him. And I doubt there are many like him.

  And here he is now, waiting calmly for me, his life on hold while mine deteriorates into nothing. If he could hear me thinking such thoughts, he would tell me to be positive, man. You can beat this, cowboy.

  These days, I don’t have the strength or energy to even be negative. These days, I just am.

  Footsteps approach outside in the hall. Numi glances up casually. A moment later, an old colleague of mine steps through the doorway. Detective Dobbs is a big man who sports a robust cop mustache. He sees me, pauses only slightly, and then sits behind the conference table opposite me. No handshake. I barely even get a nod.

  “Booker,” he says, using my last name. “You’re, ah, looking good.”

  “For a corpse,” I say.

  He sits back, studies me. “Are you, ah, still sick?”

  “Even sicker.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  He fidgets with a folder he’d brought with him. His mustache, I think, might have fidgeted, too. It’s Olivia’s case folder. I see her name and case number on the tab. My good friend, my lost girl, has been reduced to a case number on a detective’s manila file folder.

  Detective Dobbs is about my age. About my height. About my same complexion, too. But the way he’s looking at me now, you would think I am something distasteful and slightly less than human. Or maybe he had some bad sushi for lunch.

  He says, “How’s your friend, Noobi?”

  I get this question a lot. My friend is gay. It’s easily noticeable for those who look. What people look for, I don’t know, but it seems like people just know. They assume I might be gay, too. They also assume that I got the disease from Numi, which is false.

  “Numi,” I say. “And he’s fine.”

  “He’s not, you know, sick?”

  “Sick with AIDS?”

  He shifts his eyes. He knows he’s treading in unfamiliar waters here. “Er, yes.”

  “Numi and I are friends only, detective. And the last I checked, it’s nearly impossible to give a friend a sexually transmitted disease unless said friends are having sex, in which Numi and I do not indulge. He’s not my type. He’s too big and scary. Also, I’m not gay.”

  Numi, of course, hears this and shakes his head. I see a small grin appear on his face. I grin, too.

  Dobbs says nothing. My detective friend and I used to shoot the shit for many minutes before we ever got around to discussing our common cases. As a specialist who finds the missing, I’m often in contact with local police and homicide units, especially when the missing turn up dead.

  “Right, sorry.” Dobbs cracks his neck. Cracks his knuckles. It’s been many months since I’ve last seen him. Perhaps longer. Hell, it’s been over a year since I’ve actually worked a case.

  I say, “But I’ll let him know you asked about him. I’m sure it will make his day.”

  “Just drop it, Booker.” He opens the file in front of him. “What’s your interest in the Olivia Dutch case?”

  “Her husband is a friend of mine.”

  I don’t say what my additional interests are in this case. First is, Olivia was also my friend. And my additional interest is, of course, my brother. Dobbs hadn’t worked Matt’s case, as it happened nearly twenty-two years ago. Most of the detectives on the case have long since retired, although I kept in touch with most of them. In fact, I keep in touch with everyone connected to my brother’s case. A cold case.

  Dobbs studies me and shakes his head. He looks like he wants to be anywhere but here. Dobbs and I used to get lunch together. He used to tell me about his time in the military, about all the drinking he did overseas. About the girls.

  “Are you working for Eddie Dutch?”

  “Yes.”

  “In what capacity?”

  “He hired me to find his wife.”

  “When?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “Well, his wife has been found. Your job is done. Congratulations. Great job.”

  “Don’t be a dick.”

  Dobbs taps his fingers some more on the file. He takes in a lot of air. I don’t know what’s going on in his mind. In the past, he would have been more receptive to my help. In the past, I wouldn’t have called him a dick.

  Finally, he says, “So what’s your interest now, Booker?”

  “Olivia was a friend of mine, too.” It is an understatement, but at the same time it is the truth. This conversation is taking a lot out of me. Indignation isn’t good for my health.

  “I understand that—”

  “I can help you find her killer,” I say, which takes the last of my strength. My voice is barely above a whisper.

  He makes another face, one that consists of his thin lips being drawn down. He then abruptly stands.

  “Booker, I’m sorry this shit happened to you. But you’re in no condition to help me. Go rest. Go hang out with Nubooby, or whatever the hell his name is. Go anywhere but here. We don’t need your help. In fact, I don’t want your help.” He looks at me sadly some more, tries to smile, fails. “Take care, Booker.”

  He turns and leaves.

  A moment later, I feel Numi’s strong hands under my arms, lifting. “Let’s go, cowboy.”

  I find my feet with Numi’s help. I keep from falling over with Numi’s help, too.

  “So how did it go in there, cowboy?” he asks as we exit the conference room.

  “He’s excited to work with me.”

  “He said that?”

  “Not in so many words.”

  “He told you to back off, didn’t he?”

  “Not,” I say, struggling for breath, “in so many words.”

  “But you’re not going to back off, are you?”

  “No,” I say.

  “I was afraid of that.”

  As we walk down the hallway towards the exit, Numi, who’s guiding me every step of the way, turns to me and says, “Nubooby?”

  I grin. “Hey, he was close.”

  “No,” says Numi. “He wasn’t.”

  Chapter Seven

  I’m in Elysian Park, near Dodger Stadium, sitting on the side of a hill overlooking the 5 Freeway and Atwater Village far below. Well, maybe not that far. Atwater Village is considered a bit of an armpit, but from up here, it doesn’t look like an armpit. From up here, maybe a thousand feet up, it looks sparkling and shimmering and beautiful.

  There are horses penned in a corral not far behind me. I can hear them chewing and snorting. I sometimes give them carrots. There’s still a bag of them in my refrigerator, probably rotted now, having sat forgotten for months. I should throw them out, buy a new bag, and feed the horses again. At least one more time.

  Maybe.

  It is evening and the sun is setting behind the bigger homes on the hill above me, homes with a perfect view of downtown Los Angeles.

  Although it’s raining, the wind here is warm, blowing up from the grinding freeway below, superheated by endless miles of pavement, exhaust, and angst.

  The rain picks up a little, rattling the leaves around me, bending the branches over me. It rarely rains in L.A. in July. I think I will miss the rain most of all. To think that soon I will never again feel its gentle touch is enough to bring me to tears.

  I know if it wasn’t for Numi, I would be leaving this world alone. Of that, I have no doubt. Yes, I’ve had my share of women. Perhaps more than my share. I’ve loved many, perhaps too many. I’ve broken many hearts. Definitely too many.

  Yes, many women have come and gone. But now they are just gone. Every last one of them.

  As if they never existed.

  If not for Numi, I would be doing this all alone. If not for Numi, perhaps I would be dead now, I am sure of that. I have not spoken to my mother in many years. At last count, over ten. She blamed me for my brother’s death. I blamed me, too.

  Numi is different. He makes no judgment. He loves in his own way. And his way is by being there for me. Numi holds out his hope for a cure. He believes if there is breath still in me, I might still pull through.

  I bring up my knees with some difficulty, using my hands to help, and rest my chin on the back of my hands as they rest on my knees. I close my eyes and listen to the rain, which drowns out the freeway sounds far below. I sit like this until I am soaked and shivering, knowing this will be my last rain.

  And my heart breaks all over again.

  Finally, I stand and continue down the slope, down to the park far below, slipping once or twice in the mud. My balance has been off for many months now. Numi would be pissed if he saw me.

  I head over to the spot where my brother disappeared nearly twenty-two years ago. Disappeared, that is, for all of two weeks. He was found later, of course. In a different park.

  Laurel Canyon.

  Where Olivia was found.

  Two bodies, both found in Laurel Canyon, separated by twenty-two years. One an adult female. One a nine-year-old boy. One my friend. The other my...

  I take a deep, shuddering breath.

  With the last of my strength, as the rain slants nearly sideways, I go to work searching the area again. For perhaps the millionth time. Always looking for clues.

  Always searching for answers. Always searching, searching...

  Chapter Eight

  We are sitting in my living room.

  Her name is Mary Blaylock, the grief counselor assigned to my case. She visits me once a week, and will do so until the case is closed. Her case is closed when I die.

  Mary has long blonde hair and a slightly-too-big nose. Call me superficial. I notice things. Still, the slightly-too-big nose is not a deterrent, since I find it regal and proper and confident, and there’s a lot of sexiness to those three qualities. I’m sure she can sleep well at night knowing that. Especially with that honker.

  She is in the love seat with her knees together and a clipboard on her lap. Her hands are folded on top of the clipboard. A black pen Velcroed near the top of the clipboard. I can see her taking the time to buy the Velcro, to cut it carefully and apply it to both pen and clipboard. She seems like that type of person. Meticulous, exact, and...

  Wonderful.

  She sits with her back straight and doesn’t lean into the cushions. She’s either had etiquette training or her posture is naturally perfect. Her nose is not that big, actually. It’s just slightly long and comes to a sort of point. Her face is lovely. Her lips are full, but not too full. As the weeks keep piling up and I keep not dying, I begin to look forward to her visits. I even look forward to her nose, which I am now rather fond of.

  She adjusts her long skirt, brushing it out from under her so it doesn’t get wrinkled. I look at her slender ankles and smooth calves and take in the hint of perfume that reminds me of all things woman and realize I just might be falling in love with her.

  But what do I know of love? I spent my entire life hating myself, so much so I never let anyone get close enough to love. And now here’s Mary with her slightly-too-big nose, perfect posture, and straight blond hair, who looks and acts professional, and says so many kind things to me.

  I take a deep breath and hold it, feeling my lungs swell painfully. I watch her closely until she finally settles in.

  “Hi, Jim,” she says brightly. She tears free her Velcroed pen and clicks it on. She makes a notation on a paper clipped to the clipboard. I suspect she’s noting the time and date of her visit.

  “Hi, Mary,” I say. “You look very beautiful today.”

  She starts leaning back into the loveseat, but pauses in mid-lean. I’ve never been so forward with her before. “Well, um, thank you, Jim.”

  I can see she’s a little discombobulated. She wasn’t expecting a compliment. She’s been here three months now without me giving her a compliment. Hell, I am nearly as surprised myself. Her reaction also seems a bit odd for a simple statement.

  But she’s a pro, and she’s certainly cute enough to have gotten her share of sweet compliments. I wonder if she feels self-conscious about her nose. Probably not. I suspect Mary the Grief Counselor is a very even-keeled, well-balanced late twenty-something woman. My guess: twenty-eight. Eleven years younger than me.

  Too young.

  “What would you like to talk about today, Jim?” she asks, now fully recovered from my blindsiding compliment. She always calls me Jim, even when I ask her to call me Jimmy. I don’t know why.

  A cool wind is making its way around the living room from the open sliding glass door to my balcony. No doubt she’s feeling the wind on her ankles. Birds twitter in the eucalyptus trees beyond my balcony.

  “I think I love you,” I say. “That’s what I want to talk about.”

  She makes no other movement other than her mouth dropping open comically. Then she blinks slowly, as her occipital nerves kick into gear. As she focuses on me, her pupils shrink a little. Laser pointed.

  Finally, she says, “You’re joking, right? Another one of your jokes?”

  “Do I sound like I’m joking?”

  It takes her a moment to absorb her shock, and her training and poise kick in. She gathers herself, pressing her knees together tighter. Positions her pen on the page and throws back her perfectly straight hair. “You do not love me, Jim Booker. It’s called emotional transference. It’s not called love.”