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Authors: Michael Connelly
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So you might want to say something right off like "This isn't Lilly, you've got the wrong number." Something like that. Otherwise --"
"Well, maybe I should pretend I'm her so I can get more information for you."
"No, you don't want to do that."
He opened his backpack and pulled out the printout of the photo from Lilly's web page.
"That's Lilly. I don't think you want to pretend you're her with these callers."
"Oh my God!" Monica exclaimed as she looked at the photo. "Is she like a prostitute or something?"
"I think so."
"Then what are you doing trying to find this prostitute when you should be-"
She stopped abruptly. Pierce looked at her and waited for her to finish. She didn't.
"What?" he said. "I should be what?"
"Nothing. It's not my business."
"Did you talk with Nicki about her and me?"
"No. Look, it's nothing. I don't know what I was going to say. I just think it's strange that you're running around trying to find out if this prostitute is all right. It's weird."
Pierce sat back down on the couch. He knew she was lying about Nicole. They had gotten close and used to go to lunch together all the times Pierce couldn't get out of the lab- which was almost every day. Why would it end now that Nicki was gone? They were probably still talking every day, exchanging stories about him.
He also knew that she was right about what he was doing. But he was too far down the road and around the bend. His life and career had been built on following his curiosity. In his last year at Stanford he sat in on a lecture about the next generation of microchips. The professor spoke of nanochips so small that the supercomputers of the day could and would be built to the size of a dime. Pierce became hooked and had been pursuing his curiosity- chasing the dime- ever since.
"I'm just going to go over to Venice," he told Monica. "I'm just going to check things out and leave it at that."
"You promise?"
"Yes. You can call me at the lab after the furniture gets here and you're leaving."
He stood up and slung his backpack over his shoulder.
"If you talk to Nicki, don't mention anything about this, okay?"
"Sure, Henry. I won't."
He knew he couldn't count on that but it would have to do for the moment. He headed to the apartment door and left. As he went down the hall to the elevator he thought about what Monica had said and considered the difference between private investigation and private obsession. Somewhere there was a line between them. But he wasn't sure where it was.
^3
There was something wrong about the address, something that didn't fit. But Pierce couldn't place it. He worried over it as he drove into Venice but it didn't open up to him. It was like something hidden behind a shower curtain. It was blurred but it was there.
The address Lilly Quinlan had given as a contact address to All American Mail was a bungalow on Altair Place, a block off the stretch of stylish antiques stores and restaurants on Abbot Kinney Boulevard. It was a small white house with gray trim that somehow made Pierce think of a seagull. There was a fat royal palm squatting in the front yard. Pierce parked across the street and for several minutes sat in his car, studying the house for signs of recent life.
The yard and ornamentation were neatly trimmed. But if it was a rental, that could have been taken care of by a landlord. There was no car in the driveway or in the open garage in back and no newspapers piling up near the curb. Nothing seemed outwardly amiss.
Pierce finally decided on the direct approach. He got out of the BMW, crossed the street and followed the walkway to the front door. There was a button for a doorbell. He pushed it and heard an innocuous chime sound from somewhere inside. He waited.
Nothing.
He pushed the bell again, then knocked on the door.
He waited.
And nothing.
He looked around. The Venetian blinds behind the front windows were closed. He turned and nonchalantly surveyed the homes across the street while he
"Well, maybe I should pretend I'm her so I can get more information for you."
"No, you don't want to do that."
He opened his backpack and pulled out the printout of the photo from Lilly's web page.
"That's Lilly. I don't think you want to pretend you're her with these callers."
"Oh my God!" Monica exclaimed as she looked at the photo. "Is she like a prostitute or something?"
"I think so."
"Then what are you doing trying to find this prostitute when you should be-"
She stopped abruptly. Pierce looked at her and waited for her to finish. She didn't.
"What?" he said. "I should be what?"
"Nothing. It's not my business."
"Did you talk with Nicki about her and me?"
"No. Look, it's nothing. I don't know what I was going to say. I just think it's strange that you're running around trying to find out if this prostitute is all right. It's weird."
Pierce sat back down on the couch. He knew she was lying about Nicole. They had gotten close and used to go to lunch together all the times Pierce couldn't get out of the lab- which was almost every day. Why would it end now that Nicki was gone? They were probably still talking every day, exchanging stories about him.
He also knew that she was right about what he was doing. But he was too far down the road and around the bend. His life and career had been built on following his curiosity. In his last year at Stanford he sat in on a lecture about the next generation of microchips. The professor spoke of nanochips so small that the supercomputers of the day could and would be built to the size of a dime. Pierce became hooked and had been pursuing his curiosity- chasing the dime- ever since.
"I'm just going to go over to Venice," he told Monica. "I'm just going to check things out and leave it at that."
"You promise?"
"Yes. You can call me at the lab after the furniture gets here and you're leaving."
He stood up and slung his backpack over his shoulder.
"If you talk to Nicki, don't mention anything about this, okay?"
"Sure, Henry. I won't."
He knew he couldn't count on that but it would have to do for the moment. He headed to the apartment door and left. As he went down the hall to the elevator he thought about what Monica had said and considered the difference between private investigation and private obsession. Somewhere there was a line between them. But he wasn't sure where it was.
^3
There was something wrong about the address, something that didn't fit. But Pierce couldn't place it. He worried over it as he drove into Venice but it didn't open up to him. It was like something hidden behind a shower curtain. It was blurred but it was there.
The address Lilly Quinlan had given as a contact address to All American Mail was a bungalow on Altair Place, a block off the stretch of stylish antiques stores and restaurants on Abbot Kinney Boulevard. It was a small white house with gray trim that somehow made Pierce think of a seagull. There was a fat royal palm squatting in the front yard. Pierce parked across the street and for several minutes sat in his car, studying the house for signs of recent life.
The yard and ornamentation were neatly trimmed. But if it was a rental, that could have been taken care of by a landlord. There was no car in the driveway or in the open garage in back and no newspapers piling up near the curb. Nothing seemed outwardly amiss.
Pierce finally decided on the direct approach. He got out of the BMW, crossed the street and followed the walkway to the front door. There was a button for a doorbell. He pushed it and heard an innocuous chime sound from somewhere inside. He waited.
Nothing.
He pushed the bell again, then knocked on the door.
He waited.
And nothing.
He looked around. The Venetian blinds behind the front windows were closed. He turned and nonchalantly surveyed the homes across the street while he
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