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At least news of the Viagra hadn’t gotten out. “I didn’t do anything to him,” I said. I was going for hauteur, but my mouth was still pooling with saliva and it was beginning to pose an enunciation problem.

“Really? ’Cuz it’s said he had a hard-on of colossal proportions.”

I considered abandoning hauteur and going for smack down. “I had nothing to do with that, either.”

He leered at my knees.

“I doubt that, babycakes. But don’t worry. My ticker’s good as gold,” he said and put his arm across the back of my seat.

I didn’t really mean to pull out my Mace, but I kept it on my key chain. Handy but bulky, like a baseball bat on a ring.

“Hey!” he said, immediately offended. But he retracted his arm. Apparently he was familiar with Mr. Mace. “What’s that for?”

“The usual.”

“You came to
me
.”

Which wasn’t exactly true, but true enough to cause a little spark of guilt to nibble at my psyche.

“Listen, Solberg, I’ve had a hard week. And I don’t want any trouble. I just need some information.”

He stared at me. “Okay, okay, just put that away,” he said and turned off the freeway. In a matter of minutes he had pulled up beside an ancient-looking cottage. Sycamore trees shadowed the parking lot, although a shingle beside the door called it the Four Oaks.

Elegance, from Solberg. Life was full of surprises.

He stepped out of the Porsche and gave his keys to the valet with an exaggerated word of caution. We were ushered into the restaurant. It was cozy and charming, but the smell of culinary delights distracted me. Old architecture is all well and good, but it can’t hold a candle to a twice-baked potato.

We were seated in moments. J.D. offered to order for me but I declined, hardly snarling at all. In a few minutes we were settled back with our drinks. I had considered abstaining, since liquor tends to make me weepy and idiotic, but there are a few occasions when alcohol is strictly called for, and I was pretty sure this was one of them.

“So, how did you know I wanted information about Bomstad?” I asked, making my opening gambit.

He grinned over his martini. “Tricks of the trade, gorgeous.”

“Are they tricks I could perform?” I asked, wondering if there was any possibility I could cut out the middle man. Namely, the Geekster.

“You got a password cracker and shh?”

“What?”

“How about keystroke logger?”

“Huh?”

He laughed. “Maybe you better not try it at home, dollface.”

I drank and decided he couldn’t possibly be as irritating as he seemed. It was probably just my stomach talking. I hadn’t eaten since my predawn ice cream feeding. “What did you learn?” I asked.

“What do you want to know?” he countered, propping an elbow over the back of his chair.

I considered marching out my question: Was Bomstad impotent? Had he played threesies with hookers? And did he really flash his goodies in public? But somehow I couldn’t quite force out the words, not here where they used cloth napkins and real metal flatware.

“The truth is . . . I’m concerned how this debacle might impact my career,” I said, wowing myself with my linguistic genius. “I’ve got a reputation to uphold in the community, and—”

“He was banging your secretary.”

The bottom fell out of my world. “What!”

Fourteen pairs of well-bred eyes turned to stare at the commotion, but I hardly cared.

Neither did Solberg. He grinned. “Three times,” he said. “Unless you don’t count the hand job in the parking lot.”

“Elaine?”

“Elaine? No,” he said, and made a circular motion with the bread stick he’d just pulled from its basket. “The other one. What’s her name.”

I was already shaking my head. “You’re crazy.” Elisabeth had only worked for me a short while, but she was as classy as escargot. It had been my main reason for hiring her. I thought she’d add panache to the workplace. “I can tell you categorically that she would
not
—”

“She e-mailed a friend. Graphic details. ’Bout sent my chubby into orbit.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Sent from your office on, um . . .” He rolled his eyes up slightly as he slurped his drink. “Fifth and Everest. Unless the letter was from you and you were using her password.”

I may have cursed, but I wasn’t sure because I was feeling a little light-headed.

“Ahh, there you are,” Solberg said, glancing up as waiters approached, bearing our plates like royal scepters. They deposited our meals, questioned our satisfaction, and departed. From the look of my lobster, their pretentious self-importance was well deserved, but my appetite was atypically lacking.

“Bon appétit,”
Solberg said, flicking his fork toward my meal.

“Who else?” I asked.

He was already digging meat out of its shell and dipping it in butter. “What’s that?”

“Who else was he sleeping with?”

He laughed and stabbed a piece of lobster in my direction with a leer. “I didn’t say they were sleeping.”

“Who else?” My tone may have been less than congenial, but my impotent client had been screwing my classiest employee! And I was hearing the news from a vertically challenged techno geek with displaced pubic hair.

“He had a couple of regulars. Sort of on-and-off-again affairs.”

“You know their names?”

“I think there was a Sheri. No. Sheila?” He shook his head. “Might have been a Kayla.”

God help me.

“Who else?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Anyone with tits. There were two high-school chicks. Apparently their parents weren’t amused.”

“They press charges?” I began to eat methodically. It seemed wrong to let it go to waste.

“I didn’t see nothing about that. Got the idea there may have been a little payola going down.”

Which might account for the reason I hadn’t heard anything about it in the news.

“Who was his doctor?” I asked.

He had returned to his martini and glanced up. “Doctor?”

“Who prescribed the Viagra?”

He grinned with sharklike intensity. “You living under a rock, babekins? You want Viagra I coulda had it for you yesterday.”

Of course. He was right. The little blue pill with the gigantic results. The thought of Bomstad’s staring eyes and open pants made me feel queasy, but not queasy enough to quit eating.

“Was he seeing anyone else I should know about?” I asked.

“
Seeing
anyone?” He leaned across the table toward me. “You are one classy broad, babalita. Always was. Even at the Hog.”

Yep, there’s nothing classier than cutoff overalls and gingham shirts showing bushels of cleavage, but I let it go and slurped down the last of my lobster before starting on my potato. I like to give full attention to one detail at a time.

“Who else?” I asked.

“Well, there was some bad blood between him and some of his jock buddies. Think there might have been some Humpty Dumpty going on with the Bomb and their wives.”

“Really?” I managed to glance up from my potato. “Which ones?”

“Do I look like a guy who follows football, babe?”

He didn’t even look like a guy who’d heard of football, but then he didn’t look like a millionaire, either. Life was damned near hilarious.

“But you could find the information again?” I asked, feeling better for the meal and those tantalizing tidbits of knowledge.

He snorted and motioned for another drink. It appeared in seconds, and he started in on it immediately. He hadn’t gotten far on his meal, but he was a martini’s worst nightmare.

“There was one name I remember though,” he said.

I finished off my potato and sat back. My waistband felt tight, as did my shirt. I wriggled a little, hoping to dislodge my under-wire from between my ribs, but Solberg was already staring at my chest, so I settled back and let it dig its way into my lungs “Who’s that?” I asked.

He grinned, then shifted his gaze to my face before dropping it back to my boobs. “What’ll you give me if I tell you?”

A reprieve from the kick in the groin you deserve,
I thought. But I needed info and I needed it badly, so I propped my elbows on the table and gave him a sultry glance. Or maybe it was a post-consumption glare. My seduction skills had never been stellar and had pretty much rusted into nonexistence during my post-secondary education, but I thought I remembered something about men and breasts, so I squeezed my arms against them and felt my bosom swell forward. I should have been ashamed, but the ploy was so horrifically successful I couldn’t quite manage it. In fact, I might have experienced a shameful little puff of pride when his eyes started to bug out of their sockets.

“Tell me her name and . . .” I fluttered my lashes like a llama with a retinal problem, but it was wasted effort. His eyeballs were still glued south of my chin. “I’ll accompany you to your house,” I crooned.

“Stephanie Meyers!”

It took me a moment to realize what he was saying, but when the truth struck home, my elbows bumped from the table and my own jaw dropped. “Stephanie Meyers!” She had been a rising starlet of sorts. But she’d OD’d on amphetamines some six months before. Not a huge shock to a community as self-involved as the actors’ guild, but it had still made the news. “The actress?” I asked, but Solberg was already motioning rather wildly for the bill.

“Wait a minute,” I said and, glancing around for a way to stall, snatched up my glass. It was still half full, but the ice had melted. Can’t have that. “I need a fresh one.”

He was already rising to his feet, albeit a bit wobbly. “Got a full bar at home.”

“You won’t regret it,” I crooned.

He shot two half bent fingers into the air and the waiter disappeared, buying me a few more seconds of relative peace.

“You’re sure?” I asked, my mind spinning. “About Meyers?”

He grinned sloppily. “The Geekster’s always sure, babeta.”

“How long were they seeing each other before she died?”

He broadened his grin, but only one corner of his mouth lifted. I was running out of coherency time. “That’d take more . . .” He eyed my chest and leaned closer. “Investigation,” he said. “But I’m game if you are.”

Our drinks arrived. I reached for mine and held it between us like a shield. But Solberg had already turned his attention to his. World class.

“What do you know about her death?” I asked, sipping sparingly.

“Offed herself, I think.”

“Do you know why?”

He shrugged. “I wasn’t the one doin’ her. Course maybe that’s reason enough,” he said, then fired his fingers at his head and brayed like an ass.

“Yeah,” I agreed, “probably.”

“Time to go,” he muttered and, finishing off his drink, struggled to his feet. Judging by the way he swayed, I believed he was right. If I didn’t want to have to toss him over my shoulder and cart him out like a bag of turnips, we’d best hit the road. I led the way, but when I glanced back I saw he was having some sort of confrontation with the furniture. It refused to move, and he seemed unable to compensate. Tricky thing, those tables. I returned to his side, grasped his arm, and steered. The stairs were almost his undoing, but after a few close calls we managed to reach the sidewalk. The valet looked a little dubious as he trotted off, but he was back shortly and handing over the keys. I snatched them up first.

“Hey!” There is no one who can sound as offended as a sloppy drunk. “What you doing?”

“Driving,” I said and got behind the wheel.

“This is my car.”

I showed a little leg and leaned forward. From his vantage point, he’d have a bird’s eye view. “I thought you were in a hurry to get home,” I cooed.

He made it into the passenger seat with Road Runner speed and Wile E. accuracy, nearly slamming his foot in the door.

The engine hummed to reverberating life. I sighed at the throbbing horsepower and maneuvered onto Beverly Glen. Palm trees cast top-heavy shadows across the boulevard. The western sky glowed with gold. If one didn’t venture too far into the heart of L.A., one could almost believe in the City of Angels scenario. As it was, the battle between good and evil seemed to be something of a draw.

“Where’s home?” I asked.

He gave me the address, and sure enough, unless he was lying outright it was a posh part of town. I took a right onto Sunset Boulevard and headed west.

“Do you think you could learn more about Meyers?” I asked, picking up speed and sighing mentally at the rev of the motor. The Saturn could squeeze a good forty miles out of a gallon of petrol. But you didn’t want to have to be anywhere too fast, or need to impress anybody while getting there.

Solberg mumbled something, but his voice was starting to slur in earnest. “. . . panties.”

“What?”

“Can get you the color of her panties,” he muttered.

Yeah, well, if I were a perverted little techno geek that might come in handy, but . . . “Can you find out who’s investigating her death?” I asked. My mind was cranking along again. Could Meyers’s suicide have anything to do with Rivera’s reasons for hounding me? It was a huge long shot, but at this point any shot was a worthy one so long as it was pointed in the dark lieutenant’s general direction.

“Easy as an East Side hooker.”

I glanced at him from the corner of my eye. “Could I get info about the officer in charge?”

“Right down to the soles on his flat feet.”

My heart was bumping along at a good clip. Solberg was staring at my chest again, but his head drooped against his seat which made him seem fairly harmless, if not comatose.

“How would I do it?” I asked, letting him stare.

The following dialogue was such discombobulated mumbo jumbo I was sure it was the booze talking. But I could have been wrong. Technospeak always sounds that way to me.

“How much did you say you charge by the hour?” I asked. Not that I was doubting my ability as a hacker, but . . .

“For you, babe?” he slurred and slumped messily toward me. I prodded him back toward the door with a stiff arm.

“Listen,” I said. I was in dismissive mode again, but I was a little softer now. It’s difficult to be really hard-nosed when you know the guy is going to spend the next few hours with his head in a toilet bowl. “I’ll go home with you like I promised. I mean, I don’t want to see you wrapped around a light post on the five o’clock news or anything. But let’s face it, I’m not your type, Solberg.” I couldn’t quite force myself to look at him. “You deserve someone . . .” I searched for a kind euphemism. “Brilliant. Like yourself. Not me.”