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one?"
    "Don't know. Like I said, it's been a long time, Milo."
    "Your own cold case."
    "Something like that."
    He promised to get back as soon as possible. I thanked him and hung up, took a longer than usual run, returned home sweat-drenched and faded, showered off, got dressed, went down to the pond and fed the koi without bothering to enjoy their colors. Returning to my office, I started to clear some custody reports.
    I ended up thinking about Lauren. From stripping to straight A's at the U. . . . I decided to call Jane Abbot, let her know I'd followed through. Maybe that would be the end of it.
    This time a machine answered. A man's voice, robotic, one of those canned recordings women use as a security device. I delivered my message, worked for a few more hours on the reports. Shortly after noon I drove into south Westwood, bought a take-out Italian sandwich and a beer at Wally's, returned to Holmby Park, where I ate on a bench, trying not to look ominous among the nannies and the rich kids and the old people enjoying green grass as cars whizzed by. When I got back the message light on my answering machine was a blinking red reproach.
    One call. Milo sounding even more tired: "Hey, Alex, getting back to you on Lauren Teague. Call whenever you've got a chance."
    I jabbed the phone. Another detective answered, and it took a few moments for Milo to come on the line.
    "The mother did file a report. Yesterday. MP ran a background on Lauren." He coughed. "She's got a record, Alex. They haven't informed the mother yet. Maybe they shouldn't."
    "What kind of record?" I said.
    "Prostitution."
    I kept silent.
    He said, "That's all, so far."
    "Does that alter the chance that someone will actually look for her?"
    "The thing is, Alex, there's nothing to go on. They asked the mother for any known associates, and she came up with zilch. MP detective's feeling is that Mama is not in the loop when it comes to Lauren's private life. And maybe Lauren traveling isn't exactly an aberration. Her arrests weren't only here. Nevada too."
    "Vegas?"
    "Reno. Lots of girls work that route, hopping on cattle-car flights, doing one-, two-day turnarounds for fast cash. So maybe her picking up without explanation is just part of her lifestyle. Student, or not."
    "She's been gone for a week," I said. "Not exactly a turnaround."
    "So she stayed to play the tables. Or got herself a lucrative gig she wants to milk for a while. The point is, we're not talking Suzy Cream-cheese wandering away from the church bus."
    "When was her most recent arrest?" I said.
    "Four years ago."
    "Here or Nevada?"
    "Good old Beverly Hills. She was one of Gretchen Stengel's girls, got nabbed at the Beverly Monarch Hotel."
    Site of Phil Harnsberger's bachelor bash. The hotel's vanilla rococo fafade flashed in my head.
    Tip money. I do great with tips.
    "What month four years ago?" I said.
    "What's the difference?"
    "Last time I saw her was four years ago. November."
    "Hold on, let me check. . . . December nineteenth."
    "Gretchen Stengel," I said.
    "The Westside Madam herself. At least she wasn't working the street for crack vials."
    I gripped the phone so hard my fingers ached. "Is there any record of a drug history?"
    "No, just the solicitation bust. But Gretchen's girls did tend to party hard— Look, Alex, you know passing judgment on people's sex lives isn't my thing, and I don't even think much about dope unless it leads to someone being made dead. But the fact that Lauren's a working girl does have to be taken into account here. Most likely she split for a gig and the roommate's covering for her with Mom. I can't see any reason to panic."
    "You're probably right," I said. "Mom may be out of the loop. Though she's not totally unaware—told me Lauren went through some rough times, and her voice tightened up when she said it. And with the last arrest four years ago, maybe Lauren did turn herself around. She did enroll at the U."
    "That could be."
    "I know, I know—cockeyed