“You did the right thing,” Lucas says.
“That dress.” The old man runs his hands through his hair. “It still smelled like her. That wonderful perfume, like baby powder. Oh, God.”
“Bobby, don’t.”
He takes away his hands. Tears smear his face.
Lisa also wore a baby-powder scent. I can barely speak, but I try. “It could be some kind of prank,” I say, although I can’t imagine why someone would want to play a trick of this magnitude on anyone.
When Warren returns to the bar, to “freshen” his drink, as he puts it, Lucas asks if he can get me anything.
“I need to be going,” I say.
“You live in Santa Barbara?”
“I’m staying here while I cover the story.”
“Which story?”
Narrowed eyes behind the glasses. Noncommittal voice. “The only story.”
“Julie’s disappearance?”
“For sure.”
“Or the new candidates for Killer Body spokesmodel.”
“Both.”
“About Julie.” He pauses as if not sure how to continue. “This is really hard on Bobby W. At his age, he doesn’t need any more heartaches.”
“There’ve been others?”
“His life hasn’t been easy. Julie’s like a daughter to him.”
“I’m just writing articles,” I say. “I can’t change the facts. And daughter or no daughter, he sure couldn’t wait to run out and replace her.”
“He doesn’t see it that way.” Lucas shifts in his chair, and in the dim light from the room that was once full of party and people, I can see him changing his approach. “One thing perhaps you can clarify for me. Why is a central California newspaper so interested in this story?”
I feel myself tense, but I don’t make a move. “Many newspapers are interested in this story. A national spokesperson has disappeared.”
“But those newspapers aren’t sending reporters to Santa Barbara.”
“Not yet.” I push back my chair. It scrapes on the balcony.
He stands, too. “Everyone was upset about what happened in there, but you were trembling all over. I was afraid you were going to collapse.”
“Well, obviously, I’m fine,” I say. “And I do need to go now.”
He reaches out for my arm again and brings his face close enough to mine that I can read the suspicion in his dark eyes. “Is this thing personal for you? Do you have some ax to grind with Bobby W?”
I pull away from him. “No,” I say. “No to both of your questions.”
As I cross in front of him, heading for the door, he says, “I want your contact information, the name of your supervisor at the newspaper. Everything.”
I stop in the doorway, take out a card, write Dennis Hamilton’s name and e-mail address on the back of it. “I’m staying at the El Cerrito,” I say. Then, in a final rush of words. “Look, I’m just a reporter trying to do my job.”
“If that’s the case, you’ll receive complete cooperation from us.”
