Chasing the Dime by Michael Connelly

number and Monica answered in a gruff voice.
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜It’s me, Henry. My stuff get there yet?’
    â€˜They just got here. Finally. They’re bringing in the bed first. Look, you can’t blame me if you don’t like where I tell them to put stuff.’
    â€˜Tell me something. Are you having them put the bed in the bedroom?’
    â€˜Of course.’
    â€˜Then I’m sure I’ll like it just fine. What are you so short about?’
    â€˜It’s just this goddamn phone. Every fifteen minutes some creep calls for Lilly. I’ll tell you one thing: wherever she is, she must be rich.’
    Pierce had a growing feeling that wherever she was, money didn’t matter. But he didn’t say that.
    â€˜The calls are still coming in? They told me they’d get her page off the website by three o’clock.’
    â€˜Well, I got a call about five minutes ago. Before I could say I wasn’t Lilly the guy asked if I’d do a prostate massage, whatever that is. I hung up on him. It’s totally gross.’
    Pierce smiled. He didn’t know what it was, either. But he tried to keep the humor out of his voice.
    â€˜I’m sorry. Hopefully they won’t take long getting it all up there and you can leave as soon as they are finished.’
    â€˜Thank God.’
    â€˜I need to go to Malibu, or else I’d come back now.’
    â€˜Malibu? What’s in Malibu?’
    Pierce regretted mentioning it. He had forgotten about her earlier interest and disapproval of what he was doing.
    â€˜Don’t worry, nothing to do with Lilly Quinlan,’ he lied. ‘I’m going to see Cody Zeller about something.’
    He knew it was weak but it would have to do for now. They hung up and Pierce started putting his notebook back in his backpack.
    â€˜Lights,’ he said.

10
    The drive north on the Pacific Coast Highway was slow but nice. The highway skirted the ocean, and the sun hung low in the sky over Pierce’s left shoulder. It was warm but he had the windows down and the sunroof open. He couldn’t remember the last time he had taken a drive like this. Maybe it was the time he and Nicole had ducked out of Amedeo for a long lunch and driven up to Geoffrey’s, the restaurant overlooking the Pacific and favored by Malibu’s movie set.
    When he got into the first stretch of the beach town and his view of the coast was stolen by the houses crowding the ocean’s edge, he slowed down and watched for Zeller’s house. He didn’t have the address offhand and had to recognize the house, which he hadn’t seen in more than a year. The houses on this stretch were jammed side to side and all looked the same. No lawns, built right to the curb, flat as shoe boxes.
    He was saved by the sight of Zeller’s black-on-black Jaguar XKR, which was parked out in front of his house’s closed garage. Zeller had long ago illegally converted his garage into a workroom and had to pay garage rent to a neighbor to protect his $90,000 car. The car’s being outside meant Zeller had either just gotten home or was about to head out. Pierce was just in time. He pulled a U-turn and parked behind the Jag, careful not to bump the car Zeller treated like a baby sister.
    The front door of the house was opened before he reached it — either Zeller had seen him on one of the cameras mounted under the roof’s eave or Pierce had tripped a motion sensor. Zeller was the only person Pierce knew who rivaled him in paranoia. It was probably what had bonded them at Stanford. He remembered that when they were freshmen Zeller had an often spoken theory that President Reagan had lapsed into a coma after the assassination attempt in the first year of his presidency and had been replaced by a double who was a puppet of the far right. The theory was good for laughs but he was serious about it.
    â€˜Dr. Strangelove, I presume,’ Zeller said.
    â€˜Mein