HARRY

So Perry hired girl with the book in her hands, which I should have seen coming, I guess. The other two were very LA; all tanned legs and teeth so white I'm betting they glowed in the dark. There's something about this coast that makes it an imperative for women to sandblast their teeth. They're all like that.

Anyway, we ended up with the short one. And by short I mean, you know, short—like, five two, maybe. She's pretty, but not in an LA way either. You know how when guys are describing a woman to somebody they do that curves in the air hand move? Well this one fits that shape, but with more inner curve at the waist. In New York we'd call it stacked, but here, it's I dunno, just not the usual.

So I introduced myself, and she shook my hand, told me her name is Ed Ragozy.

Ed? I check again, just to see if there's something I missed, because she sure as hell didn't look like she was a cross-dresser, although what do I know? In this town, anything's possible.

She must be used to the reaction because she explained it's for Edwina, which yeah, now I get it, and yes, Ed's a hell of a lot better. This is coming from a guy who will never go by 'Harold' if he can help it.

"You work for Mr. Van Shrike as well, Mr. Lockhart?" Ed asked me, and I nodded as fast as I could. No point in letting her know I was pretty much Perry's coffee boy just yet, I mean.

"Yeah, he and I, we pretty much do it all. Together. Not—together together. Just him and me professionally. Working. Not dating. I'm not gay."

Ohyeah, I was Mr. Smooth there, but give me a break; in LA you never know who's boning who and the sooner our little Gal Friday understood the truth the better. Just because Perry nagged me about haircuts and insisted I wear polo shirts didn't mean we were picking out window treatments.

"Me either," Ed told me, and I nodded. Good to know. I mean, she's not my type, but she wasn't exactly hard to look at, in a construction workers whistling at her way. Fuck, I sound like I'm making her out to be chunky or something and she isn't. Ed's just not your standard Californa beach bunny, okay? She's curvy, like Betty Boop.

Betty Boop with a regular sized head and a human voice.

Anyway, I'm tickled as hell by the whole 'Mr. Lockhart' thing because there's no way in fucking hell that Perry is ever going to call me that, and Ed probably won't either once she figures out that I'm not an official detective, but for the moment it's nice NOT to be on the very bottom of the totem pole. I congratulate her on getting the job and once she's out the door I hightail it over to Perry and wait for him to say something.

"So?" when he fails to look up from his laptop. Perry is at his most annoying when he's ignoring you. Or me, or anybody, really. Swear to God he's like every bank clerk I've ever had to deal with.

"So what? She knows all the programs I need her to use, she's got excellent credit and no criminal record," Perry sighs. "Not that I need your approval to hire her, Harry."

"Yeah, yeah, but who the hell names a girl Edwina? That's like, shit—an Agatha Christie name," I point out.

"Her father's Milo Ragozy," Perry tells me, and then gives me that really insufferable smirk that tells me I'm going to have to do the digging to figure out who that is.

I hate that. I'm nosy enough to want to know, but lazy enough to want Perry to just fucking TELL me.

I pull out my cell phone and start Googling.

PERRY

Milo Ragozy came from Hungary to California in the Fifties, and set up shop on Restaurant Row in Beverly Hills when the real estate there was merely exorbitant. His first eatery was called Bela's and featured a goulash that rated four stars on the reviews. My mother had dinner there one night with the vice president of Boeing back in the day, and still considers it one of the best dates of her life, which tells you something about the food if not the man.

Ragozy sold Bela's in the mid-Seventies and started two new places: Bistro Beverly and Granada, both of which are still in business. He's also a part-owner of Medallion Blue and Hogan's Haufbrau, so the man is still big in the world of fine cuisine. I've dined at three of his establishments so far, and I have no doubt that young Miss Ragozy has eaten well all her life, lucky bitch.

So coming from a well-to-do background like this, I'm curious as to why she's temping for a living. A little more digging is required, and since Harry does need the hours, I'm setting the task in front of him while I contact the agency and let them know we've hired our girl.

In the meantime, I'm also debating on whether or not to take Mrs. Henshaw's case. She IS extremely wealthy, and at our current rates I could probably cover payroll on her patronage alone, but by policy I don't do pet recovery work because it's a bitch, to round out the pun. I'm not a mutt person-Harry excluded-and yet the thought of picking up some extra money this month is extremely tempting. Frankly it would be nice to have a case where no one is trying to shoot anyone.

I leave Harry to do the background check on Miss Ragozy before heading out to lunch meeting with Mrs. Henshaw.

When I get to the Conquistador Café, Mrs. Henshaw is already there in a booth at the back. I slide in opposite her and smile, offering my hand because unlike certain people I could mention, I do have some manners.

Mrs. Henshaw is a tiny desiccated apple doll of a woman, with a hat the Queen Mother would have killed for, and about twenty thousand dollars worth of perfectly matched Chiban black pearls around her withered throat. I'm now leaning towards the case because clearly this is a woman who can afford my fees and then some.

"Mrs. Henshaw, I'm Perry Van Shrike," I reassure her. She looks me over and those blue eyes may be old but they're sharp. She smiles.

"I didn't think gumshoes came in blonde," she tells me in the foghorn tones of a lifelong smoker. "Aren't they all supposed to be dark and mysterious?"

"Only in black and white," I tell her, and she laughs; this honking sound that makes me think of throwing her a sardine. Unkind, yes, but true.

"Okay then," Mrs. Henshaw finally stops and shoots me a smile. "You're polite enough and patient enough to humor me, and that's good, Mr. Van Shrike. I want you to find my Sheila. Here's her picture—" she slides it across the table at me, "and her particulars—chip number, medical record, the works. I've gotten one note so far asking for money."

A kidnapping. Okay, this is new for me, and I suppose it shows on my face because Mrs. Henshaw gives a sigh. "This bullshit happens more than you know with show animals, Mr. Shrike, but this time I'm not playing the game. The police won't deal with it in a timely fashion because Sheila's a dog and not a person."

"This has happened before?"

"Twice to me, but never with Sheila," Mrs. Henshaw mutters. "I got my first one back after I paid. I got photos of the second one, and they weren't pretty. I want Sheila back, Mr. Van Shrike. I'm eighty-three and she's going to be my last dog. Please take the case."

I did.

ED

I went to the temp agency, filled out the paperwork to accept the job with Mr. Van Shrike, and went home, happy that I'd managed to find work that looked like it would be interesting.

Picked up a few groceries and headed home, making sure to go around back in case either Rita or Roger was visiting. When I saw the coast was clear, I took the service elevator upstairs and stepped inside, glad to be back.

Home is over the Bistro Beverly, on the third floor. Originally it was attic space, but Dad had it converted into a nice studio apartment when he bought the building, and since then, he's let me have it on the express agreement that I never let Rita or Roger know about it.

No problem with that.

I fired up my computer, made some cerviche for lunch and did a little research on my new bosses. The website was okay, and the official biography didn't mention Mr. Lockhart at all, but Mr. Van Shrike's story was impressive—former police officer, impressive case resolution record, some commendations and name-dropping. A bit more jazzy than the standard PI, that was for sure.

And the photo was a studio portrait, very flattering.

I ate the cerviche, went down to the kitchen and Delfina cornered me, told me that Mr. Lockhart had called about my reference, which made me feel good—they were checking up.

"He wanted to know if you cooked good," Delfina grinned at me. "Guess the name says it all, huh, Ed?"

"Comes with a built-in reputation I guess," I grin back. Delfina is one of the best chefs I've ever seen, quick and fearless, every movement a compact study in grace. She needs a tattoo that says 'born to cook' on her shoulder, with crossed spatulas under it, seriously.

"Have the Gruesome Twosome been by?" I ask.

"Not so far this week," Delfina tells me. "Gotta text from Carlos; they're at his place, with Rita bitching up a storm."

"Poor guy," I mutter. "Listen, I'm off to see dad. I'll call before I come home, okay?"

"Okay Ed—oh, and if you're going by the market, I could use some white peppercorns please."

"On my list," I give her a hug and head out to see dad, hoping he's home.