HARRY

Whoa, Ed's mom is a bitch. I don't usually say that about people's moms—not even in 'yo mama' jokes, but the woman here is unbelievably pissy. From the fuss she's making, you'd think they were threatening to rip off her three inch acrylic nails. She finally settles down a bit, still rumbling like a wet cat and then a walking slab of meat comes over to join her. He looks at the waitress as if he wants to take a bite out of her and I can tell little Miss Boney is scared.

Fuck, I'd be scared too. Given the acne he's got, this guy is clearly pumping chemicals to get to USDA beef standards. Ed's mom waves at Goliath to follow her into the dining room after another waitress, which gives me a chance to sidle up to the little scarecrow at the station.

"You okay?" I ask, trying to project a sense of caring. It's not hard; the kid's still a little shaky.

"Yeah," she flashes me another blinder with those teeth. "I always get nervous around Mrs. Ragozy-" She leans closer to me, and adds, "and her son gives me the major creeps, but you didn't hear me say that, right?"

"Right," I nod, and then I put on my confused face. "Hey, I thought Milo Ragozy has a daughter, not a son."

The waitress looks up from stuffing menus back into the pocket on the side of the podium. "He does. Ed is his kid. That thing is hers, from another marriage."

I nod and head out, not wanting to push my luck. See, that's one of those things I've learned from Perry. You can't push people when they're on the job; it makes them nervous and then they clam up. Anyway, I got some of the info, and now it's time to dig elsewhere. I get in the car and head towards Restaurant Row.

Bistro Beverly is situated between a high-end graphic design studio and one of those million dollar handbag stores. You know the ones—manikins with pointy nipples and slouchy poses standing with purses that are supposedly worth half a year's salary for the average person?

I hate those things. Not the nipples, because let's face it, I'm a guy, but the poses and the purses. What purse on the face of the fucking EARTH is worth a couple of thousand dollars? It's a PURSE for Chrissake! I don't care if the leather was blessed by the Pope and stitched by Mother Teresa herself on her deathbed, it's JUST. A. PURSE.

Rant over.

Anyway, I look the place over and it's a two-story restaurant with all the oohlala you'd expect from a joint that's going to start charging you for the air you breathe the moment you walk in. It's got blue awnings and white sort of Spanish adobe and a fancy section with wrought iron railings. I can see it's busy, and that they're not going to let someone like me—the riffraff—in, so I stroll around until I reach the nearest alley and see if I can work my way around back of the place.

Parking lot for the help in back, a loading dock, and from THIS side I can see that the Bistro Beverly isn't two stories; it's three. There's a set of windows up at the top not hidden by awnings like they are around front. Sure the blinds are down, and to anyone else it would look like I dunno—office space probably.

But since I'm looking for a residence, it fits the bill for me, and suddenly Ed's address makes a lot more sense in one way, and a lot less in another.

PERRY

I do not like Lara Blair, and I don't mean that in the catty way that implies I'm judging her hair or shoes. I don't like her because she's impatient, rude, and clearly has an opinion about my lifestyle that's she's dying to share but won't, for fear that I'll go on the attack.

I'm used to it, and I have a job to do, so I simply smile and nod while Mrs. Hendshaw's primary dog handler tells me about the last time she saw Sheila.

"Mrs. Henshaw brought her over about three days ago, for a practice session before we were to head to Monterey for a local show," Ms. Blair recites huffily. "Sheila was supposed to be one of the top two for her division. Look, can I go now?"

"And what happened?" I urge quietly, making it clear nobody's going anywhere until I get the full story.

"Then I worked with Sheila out at the new dogpark near the beach—Barky's? There's a practice ring there where you can work with dogs to get them used to the required moves. I'm going to be late for an appointment, Mr. Shrike."

"Van Shrike. Was anything off? Suspicious?" Frankly, I don't give a damn if Ms. Blair is late for her pedicure or facial or Chlamydia treatment, we're here for the duration now that I'm on the clock.

"There were a few typical lookie Lous hanging over the fence," she admits, rolling her eyes so dramatically it looks as if she's having a seizure. "A big guy and a little guy, both of them making the usual dumbass remarks. I only noticed them because they were taking lots of cell phone pictures."

"Any more of a description of them?"

Ms. Blair chuffs like a beach ball losing air. "God! Um, the big one had a tan, looked like he might be a muscle beach sort, and the little one had on a baseball cap with a Hooters logo on it, okay? That's all I saw. I took Sheila back, and the next day Mrs. Henshaw calls and tells me Sheila's gone, so I'm out the handler fee. I'm sorry the dog's gone, but that's all I know."

I look her over carefully; pretty and vain, but not bright enough to mastermind a kidnapping. I nod. "Okay, thanks. I'll be in touch if I need any more questions answered."

Ms. Blair scoops up her purse and tries to make a dramatic exit, but ends up spilling it at my feet. A few tampons, a few condoms; just another busy LA girl. She blushes, I yawn.

I move to help, but she impatiently scoops it all up and storms off as bitchily as possible.

Now it's time to check with dog handler number two. I check the time, debate about lunch, and call Harry.

"Where did you eat?" I ask him.

"Hogan's Haufbrau on Eucalptus," he tells me. "Hey, I think Ed's listed address is legit, but weird."

"Hogan's-was it any good?" I can trust Harry on food; we may not like the same things, but he's got an eye for ambience and prices. I like to think that's me polishing the edges off the idiot.

"Give it an eight out of ten. If you're heading there and see Frankenstein and his mom, that would be the other part of Ed's family." Harry tells me.

Joy.

ED

Dad's home and in a good mood, so that's a load off my mind. He's eighty-three now, but great health, something he credits to clean living, good food and a belief that Hungarian genes are indestructible.

I hug him and look around to see if Stanley's on the job. Stanley is Dad's live-in nurse, and one of the best people I know. His full name is Stanley Blaise St. John Zongo, and he's originally from Burkina-Faso. He's also Sumo-sized, but gentle as a lamb, and studying for his physician's assistant license. Stanley's been taking care of Dad for the last five years, and by coincidence, Rita's been very good to Dad for the same number of years.

Stanley is very polite to Rita.

Stanley is not afraid of Roger.

Stanley makes me feel a lot better about moving out and getting on with my life.

"Missy Ed, it is so good to see you again!" Stanley tells me as we hug. I love his voice, deep and mellow, with that French accent.

"Thanks, Stanley! Wow, Dad you're looking fine today," I tease him. Dad's taken to wearing guayabera shirts, and I'm gentle when I hug him again because he's frail.

"You too, D'wina, sweetheart," he rumbles.

Yeah, that's what he calls me. See, Edwina was my mom's choice, and Dad was never crazy about it, so to him, I'm D'wina. It's a family thing.

"I got a job," I tell him, and we head to the solarium to chat. I like this part of the house best, because Dad keeps all the plants looking beautiful here. We sit, and Stanley brings sodas. He doesn't have to do that, but he does. Dad and I both urge him to join us, but he just smiles and says he's got studying to do, then heads to his room on the other side of the house.

Dad settles in on the sofa. "So, tell me about this job—nothing against our agreement, right?"

Ah, our stipulation. Told you it wasn't hard to keep. I have no interest in joining the entertainment industry: none. Dad hates it himself because in the last fifty years he's had to deal with so much BS from actors, producers, agents, writers—you name it. He's put up with all the biggest names at his restaurants (he knows all the lousy tippers and bitchy starlets) and because of that, he and I made an agreement that I would never, NEVER have anything to do with quote, the Biz, unquote.

"No dad. I'm working for a private investigator."

His bushy eyebrows go up, and he looks interested. "So tell me about it. Gumshoe, he's got the Bogart look, all serious and vorldly?"

I have to laugh at that. "Not even close. Blonde, tall, and um, stylishly dressed."

"Gay," Dad nods. "Good. He won't be peeking down your blouse then."

"Dad!"

"Hey," he waves a heavy hand at me, "I vould rather have him gay than chasing you around. Does he have a name, a vebsight?"

I pull out my laptop and show him Mr. Van Shrike's website. Dad's impressed; he's good with the internet himself, thanks to Stanley's tutoring. He nods, and I can tell that so far, he approves both of the site and the job.