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Dressed in a maroon
Cowboys
T-shirt, tight blue jeans, and running shoes, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, and no makeup, Marcia could easily have passed for a teenager at a distance.
She drives like one, too,
Claudia thought, folding herself into her neighbor’s VeeDub and taking a firm grip on the roll bar. Playa Del Reina’s main drag was a half-mile of aging storefronts, restaurants, and Seventies apartment buildings undergoing facelifts. An incognito beach town, no longer quaint, it was frequented mostly by locals and the few LA residents who happened upon it in search of unspoiled stretches of sand and surf. Tourists looking for street vendors selling Blu Blocker sunglasses and T-shirts with inane slogans had to venture farther north, to the Venice Boardwalk or the Santa Monica Pier.

Situated near the beach end of the strip, Cowboys had a red tile roof and yellowed stucco walls, surrounded by a redwood deck. It squatted across the street from a strip mall that included a pint-sized post office, boutique, candy and gift shop, barber, fortune teller, dentist, and a nightclub that had been closed for at least a year. Out front on the sidewalk a chunk of rock hung from a chain beneath a sign:

          
If the rock is dry, it’s sunny.

          
If the rock is wet, it’s raining.

          
If the rock is white, it’s snowing.

          
If the rock is swaying, it’s an earthquake.

At four forty-five, only a handful of vehicles dotted the parking lot. A couple of SUVs, a Harley, a black Jeep. Crossing the wooden deck, Claudia wondered whether one of them belonged to detective Jovanic.

She followed her neighbor into the dimly lit restaurant through French doors that opened onto the bar, where a couple of customers slouched over their beers, and the television blared up-to-the-minute coverage of the latest high-speed police pursuit. No one was paying attention; high-speed chases were so commonplace in LA they scarcely produced a blink.

Not seeing Jovanic, Claudia circled the bar to an arched doorway that opened onto the dining room. Shelves of paperback books lined the back wall, and a faded hand-lettered cardboard sign tacked to the frame invited patrons to take a book home and replace it on their next visit. The smoky aroma of hickory wafted through the open doors from the barbecue pit on the patio, an olfactory announcement of the evening’s fare.

Across the room, the detective sat alone at a table for two covered with a red-checkered tablecloth, reading a dog-eared Ludlum he’d probably borrowed from one of the shelves. His hair was still damp from a shower, and he wore the same sport coat from the night before, but with a clean, open-necked white shirt and grey flannel trousers. A dark tie hung from his pocket, a toothpick from his lip.

As if he had her on radar, Jovanic glanced up as Claudia appeared in the doorway and inclined his head. He wasn’t obvious about it, but she couldn’t help being conscious of his eyes on her as she crossed the bare wooden floor. She’d dressed in snug jeans, a black T-shirt, tucked in, and sandals. Her hair swung loose, hanging just below her shoulders.

Jovanic removed the toothpick as she approached, stood and drew out a chair for her.

What do you know—a gentleman.

The clean scent of Zest soap clung to him.

“Car trouble,” Claudia said in greeting. “So, I guess you found the place all right?”

“I’ve been here before. I live a couple miles away.”

He didn’t say exactly where and she squashed her curiosity like a bug. “Anything new on Ivan?”

Jovanic shook his head. “The hospital has instructions to page me if he regains consciousness. How about you? Now you’ve had a chance to rest up, have you thought of anything more?”

The plastic flash drive throbbed accusingly in her purse like Poe’s
Telltale Heart
.

He must feel its presence,
Claudia thought, her mouth going dry. So far, she had failed to come up with a satisfactory explanation for having it in her possession.

Before she could respond to his question, Marcia appeared to take their drink order. She gave Jovanic an approving glance and winked at Claudia over his head. Pretending not to see, Claudia introduced them and her neighbor lingered, chatting, until another couple wandered in looking for a table. “I think your neighbor’s more interested in our conversation than serving drinks,” Jovanic said when she left.

Claudia gave him a slow smile. “Are you detecting again?”

“Just can’t seem to help myself.”

“I have an idea,” she said, wanting to stretch the light mood and delay her confession a little longer. “How about showing me your handwriting? Maybe I can change your opinion about graphology.”

“I gave you a signature on my card last night, wasn’t that good enough?”

“If I handed you a close-up photo of my nose, how much would it tell you about my face?”

His grin softened his features and made him look younger. “Okay, I get the point.”

“Your signature is just your public image.” Claudia leaned an elbow on the table and cupped her chin in her hand, vamping a little. “I rarely make an offer like this, detective. You should take advantage of it. What are you afraid I’ll see? Come on, the real you can’t be all
that
bad.”

He cocked a brow, eyeing her without comment, then reached over to the empty table next to theirs and filched a cocktail napkin. He took out his pen. “What should I write?”

“What you write isn’t important. How about,
I know that this is a true sample of my handwriting.
”

His pen flew across the square of paper, printing the first few words block style, the rest in cursive. “My handwriting changes,” he said, handing her the napkin. “Depends on whether I’m writing for work or something personal.”

“That’s what they all say.”

The restaurant was crowding up with diners arriving for the early-bird special: bacon-wrapped tri-tip, and ice cream for dessert if you ordered before six. Marcia arrived with coffee for Jovanic, iced tea for Claudia, then hurried off.

Claudia appraised the handwriting on the napkin. She held it at arm’s length, taking into account the less-than-ideal writing materials and uneven surface of the tablecloth. “You’re a fast thinker, good intuition, flexibility. All very important qualities for your work.” Turning the napkin over, she touched the back, where she could feel the pen pressure on the other side. Heavy, but not overly so. Full lower loops in the cursive writing:
healthy sex drive.
“Strong physical drives, good stamina...” She noted that he formed his personal pronoun I with a loop at the top, but at the bottom there was a small tic. “Some unresolved issues with your father.”

His smile flash-froze and the poker face was back. “He’s dead.”

“And you’re angry about it.”

Jovanic searched his pockets for a new toothpick and jammed it between his teeth. “My father became a homicide victim when I was thirteen. Yeah, I’m angry about that.” Getting too personal was an occupational hazard that Claudia had never learned to curb. She crushed a desire to reach out and touch his hand. “I’m so sorry.”

“Hey, it helped me choose a career.”

He spoke lightly, but she could feel the world of pain behind his words. “I didn’t mean to sound blasé,” she said. “You have every right to be angry.”

“He was mugged.” He recited the facts in a flat tone that didn’t invite sympathy. “He was only carrying three bucks and change, so they beat him to death with a baseball bat. That was thirty years ago.”

Something told her that Jovanic was not the type to give out this kind of personal information easily. She wondered why he was offering it now.

“I’m sorry,” she said again, uselessly. An awkward silence stretched and she stared at his handwriting on the napkin. Confession time. How would he take it?

His handwriting—not the words themselves, but the patterns and rhythms of the ink trail—informed her of the best approach. The writing was stripped down, simplified, with no extra loops or strokes. That told her that if she tried to make excuses for what she had done, he would lose patience and stop listening. She would need to keep her explanation direct, no frills.

Her heart started to thump a tango as she screwed up her courage. “A few minutes ago you asked if I knew of anything that might help your case.”

His eyes instantly pinned her like a butterfly on some collector’s wall. She wanted to look away, but found she couldn’t. Would he Mirandize her on the spot once he heard how she’d come by the flash drive? It would be embarrassing to be hauled out of the bar in handcuffs.

Jovanic waited. “I have something to give you.” Reaching into her purse, Claudia took out the plastic flash drive, wrapped in the printout from the Pakistani tech support guy. “What’s this?” he asked as she handed it across the table.

“It’s a flash drive, for the computer.”

“Let’s pretend I’m not computer savvy. What’s a flash drive?”

“It holds files like an old floppy disk, but has lots more storage space.”

“And this flash drive is connected to the assault on Mr. Novak?

Claudia nodded. “Apparently. There’s just one file on it. It’s a spreadsheet with a lot of names, financial information, and... uh... other things.”

“What
other
things?”

“Sexual things.”

Jovanic’s body went still, the keen grey eyes alone betraying his interest.

“Why don’t you tell me about it.”

Claudia’s sipped her tea, noticing that the glass trembled slightly in her hand. She wiped the condensation with her napkin and cleared her throat. “Remember Lindsey Alexander, the publicist Ivan worked for? According to the file on this drive, she was into more than just repping big-name celebrities. She was providing, uh, services to a whole other clientele.”

“How do you mean?”

“The services?”

“Yeah, the services.” He held her in his gaze and apparently was going to show her no mercy.

Okay then.

“Bondage,” she said, meeting his eyes. “S&M, golden showers, group sex, animals. That kind of thing.”

“I see.” Jovanic rubbed his hand over his face and gave a long sigh, as if he were very weary. “So, would you care to tell me how it is that you just happen to remember that you had this interesting spreadsheet on a... what did you call it?”

“Flash drive. But I didn’t...”

“Yes, this flash drive, which apparently belongs to a dead woman?”

“Okay, I have a confession to make,” Claudia said, wishing she could slide under the table and crawl away. “Uh, I found it at Lindsey’s penthouse.”

“Lindsey’s penthouse? You
found
it at Lindsey’s penthouse?”

She nodded and he sat back in his chair, crossed his arms, and fixed her with a grim look. Moments passed in silence while he stared her down.

Conversation buzzed all around them, the scent of hickory-smoked meat drenching the air, but for once, Claudia had no appetite.

Jovanic said, “When, Ms. Rose? Exactly when did you
find
this flash drive?”

She cleared her throat again, moistened her lips. No sense pretending, she was a lousy liar. “Last night.”

“Last night. Okay, next question. Exactly
where
did you find it? You’ll need to come back to the apartment and show me.”

“That would be difficult.”

His left brow shot up. “And why’s that?”

“Ivan was lying on top of it.”

Jovanic looked at her for several seconds with a chilling expression. When he spoke, his voice held a barely controlled explosion. “You removed evidence from a crime scene? Do you know what the penalty is for tampering with evidence?”

Claudia was afraid to speak. Just what had she expected? That she could charm him into letting it go that she had broken the law?

That would have been nice.

She lifted her shoulders slightly. “It’s called obstruction of justice and it carries a fine of up to one hundred thousand dollars and a prison sentence of up to forty years.”

Oh, shit.

“Are you going to arrest me?”

He seemed to be debating with himself. Or maybe he was just playing her. “Why’d you take it?”

“I didn’t know what it was. I mean, I knew it was a flash drive, but I thought there might be something on it that would be damaging to a friend of mine.” That didn’t sound right and she knew it the moment the words were out. “Well, I mean, obviously, I wouldn’t have kept it. I’m giving it to you now, aren’t I? Oh, hell, I really didn’t think about it, I just took it.”

He gave her a skeptical look that said he wasn’t sure whether or not to believe her. “How do I know you haven’t messed with it, changed something?”

“I wouldn’t do that!” Claudia declared with more righteous indignation than she probably had a right to. “Anyway, there’s more.”

“This wasn’t enough?” Jovanic examined his toothpick. He’d chewed it flat. “Okay, what else?”

“The names in the spreadsheet.”

“What about them?”

“They’re, shall we say, recognizable? High profile people.”

“How high profile?”

“
Very
.”

She leaned forward on the table and lowered her voice to a confidential near-whisper. “One of them was at Lindsey’s apartment after the funeral last Saturday...
Senator
Bryce Heidt. I thought at the time that he was a sanctimonious SOB. That evangelist who’s always in the papers, movie stars.” She named a few notables, counting them off on her fingers. “And there’s this plastic surgeon who runs an infomercial on late-night TV... um, Bostwick? Does that sound right? Jovanic’s look was speculative. What he saw every day in his job probably eliminated the surprise factor. “Anything else you might have missed?”

Claudia wasn’t sure whether the irony in his tone was a good sign or a bad one. “These people have some pretty interesting proclivities.”

Wisps of a long-ago conversation floated back. “
Interesting,
” Lindsey had once said,
“is a word people use when what they really mean is perfectly awful.”