The Crime Writer

Next, adhering to some bizarre karmic logic, the familiar drumbeat opening of the main title sequence of Aiden's War. Here was Johnny Ordean tackling a street hustler, there ducking a roundhouse thrown by an unappealing Arab. Looking noticeably more svelte than he had in his role as Father Derek Chainer, Johnny stopped for a zoom close-up as he did weekly, or nightly if you had a dish.

I flashed on the scene I'd caught when I was at the bar with Caroline Johnny crouching over a corpse, studying the bullet casing he'd impaled on a paper clip. HUSTLE THIS TO FORENSICS THE CASING NOT

THE HOT DOG.

I shuffled through the pages, finding Preston's final note. Then I tugged my cell phone from my pocket and dialed.

Over the pulsing beat of club music, a guy with a strong Brooklyn accent: "Johnny Ordean's phone."

Ever since Aiden's Law had racked up enough episodes for a DVD box set, Johnny had assumed the affectation of unavailability, putting nine layers of entourage between himself and others.

"Surprisingly," I said, "I'm calling for Johnny. This is Drew Danner."

"Andrew Danner? The…?"

"Murderer," I said. "Sure. That's me."

Animated shouting, then Johnny's voice, hoarse and loud: "Drew? That you? Crazy days, bro. Crazy days. You kill that broad?"

"Twice."

"Drastic." Johnny partook vigorously of the bad slang that seemed to sweep through L.A. every other season like a crimson tide.

"How's it going?"

"Solid. The show's kickin'. We're doing a spin-off next year."

"Aiden's Law Omaha?"

"Very funny, bro. It's called Mary's Rule, and the sister "

"Listen, I need a favor. You still have criminalists on staff as expert consultants?"

"Yeah, a handful."

"I have a hair that I need to get run by a crime lab. It could prove me innocent." Of course, it wouldn't prove me innocent, but I was trying to feed him the kind of dialogue to which he was accustomed to responding. "I need to know who it belongs to."

"Like a clue?" Noticeable excitement in his voice.

"Yeah, Johnny. Like a clue. Can you have one of your guys do it?"

"Sure, I'll take it in to them, say I need to see how it works for an episode idea I'm developing. They love walking me through that stuff at the lab. When you need it by?"

"As soon as possible. It's hard for me to describe how important this is."

"Bring the hair by Flux. It's a closed party I'll have you put on the list. I'll call one of the consultants, have him check out the hair tonight."

"You can get that done? Tonight?"

"I'm Johnny Ordean. I can get anything done."

Chapter 35

Flux is the Hollywood club of the minute, trending hot with wheatgrass martinis, bamboo walls, and a bump-and-grind DJ beat ideal for ecstasy humpers, film-industry underlings, and clubbies. I paid twenty bucks to park in a space fit for a lawn mower and legged it down Sunset.

Beneath every windshield wiper, a glossy postcard hawking bad theater. At every street corner, a woman stomping her boots against the cold. Even at this hour, bodies spilled from gyms, where would-be scribblers and bit players simulated honest work. Bodies so sculpted and chiseled they seem of a different species, bodies that have endless time to devote to themselves, to do that extra six sets of ten on the cable pull that defines the inner prong of the triceps or the outer slab of the quad. I used to have a body like that, a lesser model built from a matching mind-set before both grew too weary to keep up. I walked on, taking in the night, these bits of a past persona I never quite inhabited. The tangy scent of deodorant, candy-colored iPods strapped to glistening arms, steam lifting from overheated Dri-FIT shirts like cartoon sizzle.

The velvet ropes that in other, more reasonable cities are consigned to museums and musicals sprout from the sidewalk like futuristic shrubs. Massed at the imaginary walls before the bouncers are dime-store vixens and cultivated tough guys. Everyone is in costume; everyone has a getup; it's perennial Halloween. Pearl Jam plaid, skullcap chic, scruff faces and denim vests cut to show off shoulder tats. A girl, for no reason, wears a Gatsby cap and a wide tie snaking into a 1920s vest. Even the firemen shuffling through the bars are done up and done down, T-shirts announcing their stations, blond wisps grown just long enough to curl out the bottoms of their stocking caps, models in search of calendars. They are all children, and yet they are all adults. They unpack from Jettas and Navigators and the occasional Lotus. They cross streets in packs, like wolves, sipping Vitawaters and smoking American Spirits, yammering on cell phones with customized bleats and chimes, the night lit with a psychedelic rainbow of LED screens cotton-candy pink, toilet-bowl blue, horror-show green.