“Sorry, I can’t get into that,” I said. “But—”
“But I’m supposed to talk to you.” He laughed again. “Psychologist, huh? What is this, some kind of FBI profiling thing? Doing a special for A & E?”
“No, I really am working with LAPD. I was reviewing Shawna’s case and came across your coverage in the Cub. You were more thorough than anyone else and—”
“Now you’re butt-kissing. Yeah, I was good, wasn’t I? Not that there was much competition. No one else seemed to give a damn. Too bad Shawna’s dad wasn’t a senator.”
“Big-time apathy?”
“I won’t say that, but it wasn’t exactly a task force offensive either. Theunicops did their thing, but they’re no geniuses. And the guy LAPD assigned was an old fart—Riley.”
“Leo Riley.”
“Yeah. Ready to retire—I always felt he was phoning it in.”
“Where’d you get the material for your coverage?”
“Hung around the unicop station—mostly watched them work the phones and tack up flyers. When I bugged them, they treated me like a pain-in-the-ass kid—which I was, but so what, I was still covering it. I got the distinct feeling I was the only one making a deal out of it. Except for Mrs. Yeager, of course—Shawna’s mother. Not that it did her much good—they shined her on too. Finally, she started complaining, and some dean and the head unicop met with her and told her they were really on it. She didn’t think much of Riley either.”
He paused. “I think Shawna’s dead—I think she was dead soon after she disappeared.”
“Why do you say that?”
“It’s just a feeling I have. If she was alive, why wouldn’t she have turned up by now?”
“Could we talk about this face-to-face?” I said. “Breakfast, lunch, or whatever?”
“LAPD’s buying?”
“I’m buying.”
“Cool,” he said. “Sure, my screen’s blank, anyway—can’t gear myself up for a go at ‘Ginkoba Ginger Gumdrops.’ Let’s see, what time is it— ten. Make it brunch, eleven. I’m over in Baja Beverly Hills—Edris and Pico, east of Century City. There’s a Noah’s Bagel right down the block—nope, too dinky. How about the kosher deli on Pico near Robert-son?”
“Sure, I know the place.”
“Or maybe I should go for something even pricier.”
“The deli’s fine.”
“Yada yada,” he said. “Maybe I’ll get an extra sandwich to go.”
I arrived ten minutes early, secured a rear booth, and nibbled sour pickles while I waited. The deli was clean and quiet. Two elderly couples bent over soup, one young, bewigged Orthodox Jewish mother corralled five kids under the age of seven, and a Mexican weight lifter in bicycle tightsand a sleeveless sweatshirt trained on chopped liver and a rye heel and a pitcher of iced tea.
Adam Green showed up at 11:05. He was a tall, lanky, dark-haired kid wearing a black V-neck sweater over a white T-shirt, and regular-cut blue jeans that transformed to easy-fit baggy on his ectomorphic frame. Size-thirteen sneakers, gangly limbs, a face that would’ve been teen-idol handsome but for not quite enough chin. His hair was short and curly, and his sideburns dropped an inch lower than Milo’s. A tiny gold hoop pierced his left eyebrow. He spotted me immediately, plopped down hard, and grabbed a pickle.
“Killer traffic. This city is starting to entropize.” He bit down, chewed,
grinned.
“L.A. native?” I asked.
“Third generation. My grandfather remembers horses in Boyle Heights and vineyards on Robertson.” Finishing the pickle, he lifted a mustard jar, rolled it between his palms. “Okay, now that we’re auld acquaintances, let’s cut to the chase: What’s really up with Shawna?”
“Just what I told you.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Another investigation. But why? ‘Cause some other girl dropped off the face of the earth?”
“Something like that,” I said.
“Something like that. … I always thought it would make a good book, Shawna’s story. Death of a Beauty Queen—something like that. You’d need an ending, though.”
A waitress came over. I ordered a burger and a Coke, and Green asked for a triple-decker pastrami-turkey-corned beef deluxe with extra mayo and a large root beer.
“And to go?” I said.
He showed lots of teeth and slapped his back against the booth. “Don’t think you’re safe yet.”