Angel City Blues

By Caroline Arnold

2018 Writer’s Digest eBook Award - First Place Winner for Science Fiction

Los Angeles: 2065

A wealthy young woman vanishes from her high-security apartment without leaving a single strand of DNA behind. No trace of the victim’s disappearance is recorded on any of the building’s many cameras or security sensors. Her apartment’s memory cores have been destroyed beyond any hope of recovery.

To find the missing woman, Private Detective David Stalin must unravel a crime with no apparent motive, no imaginable means, and no conceivable opportunity. The truth, when he finds it, will blur the lines between pleasure and pain. Between fantasy and reality. Between life and death...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Caroline Arnold
• Release date: Oct 7, 2015
• ISBN: 9781939398529

Caroline Arnold

Caroline Arnold has been writing for children since 1980 and is the author of more than 100 books, including 20 books published by Lerner. Her most recent title is Taj Mahal, the story behind the famous monument. In addition to writing, she does author presentations at schools and teaches part-time in the Writer's Program at UCLA Extension. Arnold lives in Los Angeles with her husband Art, a scientist, who has also been the photographer for some of her books.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Holographic warning stripes flared into existence as I approached the door. Diagonal swaths of vibrant yellow laser light, contrasting sharply with the muted illumination of the foyer. The words POLICE CRIME SCENE crawled across each stripe in five languages, including basic iconics for the illiterate.

I spotted the unit bonded to the frame over the apartment door: a brick of circuitry in a matte gray plastic housing, embossed with the logo of the Los Angeles Police Department. I’d encountered crime scene perimeter monitors before, but this one looked to be a cut above the usual grade. LAPD was showing off the good stuff. Not much of a surprise, given the importance of the alleged victim.

I dug around in the pocket of my windbreaker for the key chip—also embossed with the LAPD logo—and held it out toward the perimeter monitor’s scanning field. Some miniscule fraction of a second later, a man-sized opening appeared in the holographic barrier. I took this as permission to enter, stepping forward to run the key chip through the door lock’s sensor track.

The door glided open without so much as a whisper. I walked through the doorway, into the private penthouse lair of Ms. Leanda Forsyth.

With the master computer shut down, the apartment was very much a dead thing. The subtle pulse of the housekeeping machinery was missing. The cleaning robots lay dormant in their maintenance alcoves, the all-seeing Artificial Intelligence banished to whatever land that machines dream of when they sleep.

Lights and ventilation still worked—along with sinks, toilets, and anything else that could be controlled manually—but the automatic functions were all dead.

That was action-item #1 on the Standard LAPD Crime Scene Check List: Freeze the area within the perimeter of the scene, to preserve the forensic evidence. It usually meant shutting down the domestic gadgetry as quickly as possible. Automated cleaning systems have a nasty habit of vacuuming up telltale hairs and fibers, or scrubbing blood off of floors and walls. Not that after-the-fact cleanup efforts could completely wipe out trace evidence, but they could certainly remove or confuse a lot of the available indicators.

This extravagantly-furnished apartment didn’t look much like a crime scene, though. No blood. No signs of a struggle. No corpus delicti. Just that vague empty feeling that a home gets when the owner is away and probably isn’t coming back.

I stopped at the edge of the lavish rug that dominated the living room floor. As I watched, the color and pattern of the rug changed in synchronization with the five or so paintings that adorned the walls.

The paintings had been something else a moment ago; I was sure of that. But they were all Picassos now—cubist studies, in browns, beiges, and neutral grays.

No… That wasn’t right… The paintings were in the style of Picasso, but the compositions were all from other famous artists. I recognized van Gogh’s Landscape at Saint Rémy, Monet’s Haystacks at Sunset, and Renoir’s Little Girl with a Hat, along with a couple of pieces that I probably should have known, but didn’t. Not imitations of the original works, or even attempts at pastiche. More like reinterpretations. What each painting would have looked like if Picasso had been the original artist.

The paintings changed again and I was looking at the same five masterpieces as they might have been painted by Cézanne. The rug changed hues and patterns to match, becoming an abstract collage of Cézanne’s vivid impressionist palette.

Odd taste notwithstanding, the synchronized art arrangement spoke of money and privilege. It was difficult to believe that foul-play would dare to rear its ugly head in this bastion of luxury, but the police perimeter monitor at the front door seemed to suggest otherwise.

Interspersed among the paintings were at least a dozen pictures of the missing woman, from small framed photographs with family and friends—to near-poster sized trids in hi-rez 3D. She was (or had been) an investigative reporter for one of the news vids, and most of the trids looked like publicity stills. The centerpiece was a 3D shot of her standing—microphone in-hand—in front of an expanded-foam police barricade, while a rioting crowd overturned vehicles in the background.

If the pictures were to be believed, Leanda Forsyth was a beauty. Dark hair, dark eyes, and an intensity of expression that came across as smoldering.

I turned my attention to the rest of the room. The panoramic windows opposite the door were set to opaque. I spotted the local operating panel, walked over to it, and ran my thumb across the control sensor. The glass cycled itself from mirrored black to full transparency.

Leaning against the windowsill, I stared out into the deepening twilight. Los Angeles flickered and shimmered twenty-three stories below me, a dazzling latticework of holograms, animated billboards, and laser imaging systems which seemed to etch the streets in grid lines of liquid neon. A hundred meters overhead, the lightshow repeated itself on the underside of the dome, glimmering ghost images mirrored in faceted panes of transparent polycarbon.

Through the eastern curve of the dome, I could see cascades of falling sparks where construction robots were arc welding high in the superstructure of the new dome. It was too dark to see the robots now, but I’d seen them plenty of times before: metallic centipede-shapes with multi-jointed appendages that could double as arms or legs. It would be full dark soon, but the robots didn’t care. They didn’t need light to see by.

Detective Bruhn’s voice came from behind me. "She sure as hell didn’t go out that way."

I straightened up and turned away from the window. I’m sorry?

Bruhn gestured toward the window. "The Forsyth girl… She didn’t go out the window. Not that one, anyway. Or, if she did, nobody reported scraping her off the sidewalk."

I reached for my cigarettes and then caught myself. This was someone else’s apartment, and a crime scene. So you don’t believe that Leanda Forsyth is dead?

Bruhn shrugged one shoulder. "She’s not classified as a homicide. Not yet, anyway. Officially, she’s just missing."

I’ve heard the official police party-line, I said. "What do you think happened to her?"

Bruhn stuffed his hands in the pockets of his dark blue LAPD jacket. I’m not getting paid to do your thinking for you.

I sighed. Okay, fine. Just get me copies of the files, and we’ll call it even.

Bruhn shook his head. The lieutenant told me to show you the apartment, so I’m showing you the fucking apartment. He didn’t say anything about giving you access to the files.

Come on, I said. We’re both trying to figure out what happened to Leanda Forsyth. There’s no reason we can’t work together on this.

I had the departmental AI run a data pull on you, Bruhn said. It summed you up in four words… Drunk. Loser. Has-been.

I’m pretty sure that ‘has-been’ is a hyphenated compound word, I said. So that’s really only three words.

"I don’t give a shit if it’s three-hundred words. I don’t need you to grade my fucking grammar, and I don’t need your help with this case."

I rubbed my left eye and thought about the cigarette again. It had been a long day and it was getting longer. Can we skip the bad cop routine? I’m just trying to do my job.

"Your job is interfering with police business, Bruhn said. And if your client wasn’t Ms.-Rich-Bitch-Senator’s-Wife, I’d tell you to take your job, and stick it up your ass."

Unfortunately for you, said a voice from the other end of the room, "Mr. Stalin’s client does happen to be Ms.-Rich-Bitch-Senator’s-Wife."

My eyes jumped to the source of the voice. Vivien Forsyth stood in the open front doorway of the apartment. Even from across the room, she was strikingly attractive. Her coal-black hair was short, but stylishly cut. She wore a beautifully-tailored turquoise silk business suit that probably cost more than my car.

She walked through the opening in the perimeter hologram and strolled toward us. The door slid shut behind her.

The fabric of her suit adjusted itself minutely as she moved, tensioning itself in some areas and relaxing in others. Not silk then, some sort of intelligent fabric that reacted to her every movement, keeping its smoothly tailored appearance regardless of her body posture. Was there such a thing as smart silk? I had never heard of it, but then I hardly traveled in the same circles as Vivien Forsyth.

I knew from personal research that Vivien was in her late fifties, but she had the benefit of the finest surgical boutiques and genetic tailoring that money could buy. Between them, the scalpel and the test tube had halted her apparent age at about twenty-nine. Young enough to be beautiful, but old enough to be regal.

Bruhn turned to face her. Ms. Forsyth, I take it?

Vivien gave him a patently false smile, flashing a set of even white teeth that undoubtedly cost more than the suit. An astounding display of logical deduction, she said. You must be a detective.

Bruhn returned her fake smile with a twitch that only included one side of his mouth. That’s what it says on my badge.

Vivien stopped about a meter from his position. Her gray eyes had a sparkle to them that might have been amusement, or might just as well have been annoyance. I see you boys aren’t getting along. Is it something serious? Or are we just comparing Testosterone levels?

I made eye contact with Bruhn. Nothing we can’t work out.

Bruhn opened his mouth, but Vivien interrupted. Excellent. I was told we’d have full police cooperation, and I expect nothing less.

Bruhn stiffened. The department can handle this case, ma’am. Your rent-a-cop here is only going to get in the way.

Vivien arched an eyebrow. "I compliment you, Detective. You work quickly. You promoted me from bitch to ma’am in... what? About four seconds? That’s got to be some kind of record."

Bruhn’s neck turned red.

Vivien smiled. And it’s hardly fair to call Mr. Stalin a rent-a-cop. He’s a detective, just like you are. He just happens to work in a private capacity.

Now, my ears were burning. This felt altogether too much like having my kindergarten teacher defend me from the class bully.

Don’t try to compare my job to his, Bruhn snapped. This guy hasn’t got—

Vivien cut him off again. You’re right. It’s not a fair comparison, is it? Mr. Stalin has a reputation for getting results. My daughter has been missing for nearly two months, and your department has produced no results whatsoever.

Bruhn’s right hand jerked, and for a fraction of a second, I thought he was going to hit her. But some deep-buried survival instinct must have warned him that his career was sliding toward the abyss. He flexed his fingers slowly and then extended his hand to be shaken. Detective Lawrence Bruhn, Missing Persons, West Hollywood Division.

Vivien brushed his fingertips with a minimalist handshake. Vivien Forsyth, she said. But you can call me Ms. Rich-Bitch.

She glanced around the apartment. What happened to Becky Hollis? I thought she was working Leanda’s case.

Bruhn started to say something, and then he caught himself. A half-second later, he said, They moved the case to me. I usually get the ones that are at a standstill.

I see. Detective Hollis wasn’t up to the job?

Bruhn shook his head. I didn’t say that, ma’am. But, as you pointed out, she had the case for two months without making any real headway.

"So Hollis was the B-Team, and you’re the A-Team?"

The corner of Bruhn’s mouth crooked. I didn’t say that either, he said.

"Then what are you saying?"

I’m saying that I’ve got the case, ma’am. I’ll handle it.

Vivien nodded. A nice diplomatic answer. It dodges my question rather neatly. But the real answer is that someone pulled the plug on Detective Hollis. If I’m not mistaken, she’s on indefinite loan to Traffic Division.

It’s... ah... not appropriate for me to discuss departmental politics with a civilian, Bruhn said. No offense, ma’am.

None taken, Vivien said. But you don’t have to worry about airing your department’s dirty laundry in front of me. I already know about Detective Hollis. I’m the one who had her taken off the case.

Bruhn stared at Vivien.

Detective Hollis was dragging her feet, Vivien said. Refusing to share information with me. So I made a couple of calls. It’s amazing what a little pressure can do, if one knows where to apply it.

Bruhn’s eyes narrowed. Is that some kind of threat, ma’am?

Consider it a prediction, Vivien said. "I predict that you will give Mr. Stalin full access to my daughter’s case files, and you will answer his questions—and my questions—without the need for strong arm tactics and circumlocutions. Otherwise, I predict that you will have a long and illustrious career handing out parking citations."

Bruhn’s voice hardened. This is a crime scene, he said. As senior officer present, I’m exercising my right to clear it of civilians. I’m going to have to ask you both to leave. He held out his hand. Stalin, give me the key.

Vivien’s eyebrows went up. Are you trying to show me the size of your testicles, Detective?

The key, he said again.

I dropped the key chip into his palm.

Don’t test me, Vivien said.

Bruhn pointed to the door. I am formally directing you to leave the premises, he said. If I have to ask you again, I’m going to consider it obstruction of an on-going police investigation. I’m also formally admonishing you against making threats, however veiled, to an active duty police officer in the performance of his duties.

He seemed to take particular pleasure in those last words. This was his threat, disguised even more thinly than Vivien’s had been.

Vivien stood for a couple of heartbeats, and then smiled. "I understand completely, Detective Bruhn. Of course Mr. Stalin and I will vacate your crime scene." She nodded to me and then headed toward the door.

I followed.

As soon as we were on the other side of the holographic police barrier, she stopped and pulled a slim oblong of blue polymer from her pocket. It was a phone, the exact same shade of turquoise as her silk business suit. Wait here, she said. I waited while she walked to the other side of the elevator lobby to make her call.

I leaned against the wall next to the door and watched her out of the corner of my eye. It looked more like three calls, all of them extremely short. I couldn’t hear anything that she said, but it was obvious that she was pleased by the results. I fully expected her to stomp back into her daughter’s apartment and take Bruhn by storm. Instead, she pushed the button for the elevator and beckoned me over.

I was surprised. We’re leaving?

She smiled. "No. We’re almost leaving."

"Why are we almost leaving?" I asked.

Because fifty-percent of winning the battle is holding the high ground, she said. And in this case, the high ground is downstairs in the parking lot.

Right, I said, without the foggiest idea of what she was talking about. Let’s almost leave, then.

A few seconds later, the elevator doors opened. I followed her in. The doors closed smoothly, and the elevator dropped at a speed that ratcheted my adrenaline up a half-notch.

Pale blue holographic digits superimposed themselves on the burled paneling above the door and began counting down rapidly.

Vivien stabbed a button, apparently at random, somewhere in the middle floors. The elevator began to slow.

Now, what are you doing? I asked.

We left quickly, Vivien said. Detective Bruhn needs a chance to catch up.

The elevator coasted to a stop and the doors opened. Vivien waited patiently for them to close. The elevator dropped again, still moving too fast for my stomach.

When we got to the lobby, Vivien pulled out her phone again, thumbed an icon, and then put the phone back into her pocket.

We didn’t speak again until we were past the doorman, and standing under the parking shelter.

What was the deal just now with your phone? I asked.

I was summoning my chauffeur, Vivien said. Ordinarily, I do it as soon as I know that I’m leaving. But, in this instance...

I nodded. You’re not in any hurry, because you’re waiting for Bruhn to catch up.

Precisely.

I reached into the pocket of my gray windbreaker and pulled out a pack of Brazilian Marlboros. Mind if I smoke?

Vivien looked at me out of the corner of her eye. Suppose I say ‘yes?’

I pointed across the parking lot. Then I go stand way over there, and smoke by myself. And you can wait here for Bruhn by yourself.

Go ahead. Light up, Vivien said. She shook her head. Why does every man I meet today want to show me how large his testicles are?

I touched the tip of the cigarette against the circular ignition patch on the bottom of the pack. It took a second or so for the catalytic reaction to light the tobacco. I inhaled a lungful of smoke and exhaled. This is not about the size of my testicles. I just want a cigarette. Are your cancer immunizations up to date?

She nodded.

Then it can’t hurt you.

"I know that it can’t hurt me, she said. I just don’t like the smell."

Fair enough, I said. I’ll go stink up the other side of the parking lot.

Vivien grabbed my sleeve. You’re staying right here. She wrinkled her nose. Why do you do that, anyway? Get your genes tweaked. You can walk away from those nasty things with no cravings at all.

I’m a dinosaur, I said. I resist change. My nasty little habits are damned near all that’s left of the old me.

Vivien rolled her eyes. What in the hell does that mean?

I shrugged. Makes as much sense as calling this parking lot the high ground.

Touché, Vivien said.

I took another drag off my cigarette. Tell me what you know about your daughter’s disappearance.

Not very much, Vivien said. "No one does. What little I do know, you’ll be able to read when you get the police files.

Indulge me, I said.

Vivien took a deep breath, and then paused for a few seconds. She... Leanda... came home on the evening of September seventeenth. The lobby security cameras caught a clear shot of her entering the building at six fourteen p.m. The camera recorded her walking into the elevator—then the door closed, and she was gone. No one has seen a trace of her since.

Vivien looked at her watch. Fifty-four days. She’s been gone for fifty-four days already.

I take it the security camera never caught a shot of her leaving.

No, Vivien said quietly. The police have been over every microsecond of video since Leanda’s disappearance at least twenty times. They even ran it through an AI designed to identify people by posture and body language, just in case she had decided to sneak out of the building in disguise.

Would Leanda do something like that?

Vivien shrugged. She might, if she thought she had reason.

Your daughter is an investigative reporter, right? Have you considered the possibility that she’s gone under cover to investigate a story? Maybe she’s working on something big, something with enough explosive potential to make it necessary for her to drop off the radar.

Vivien’s lips turned up in a weak smile, a fraction of the confident grin she’d unleashed on Detective Bruhn. You certainly know how to say what a worried mother wants to hear, Mr. Stalin. That’s precisely the scenario that my feverish little mind concocted when I learned that my daughter had taken an express elevator to Never-Never Land.

Vivien brushed a lock of hair away from her forehead. It may be foolish. It might even be delusional, but it helps me get to sleep at night.

The look in her eyes told me that it was time to redirect my line of questioning. Let’s get back to the night of September seventeenth, I said. Did Leanda make it up to her apartment?

Probably. It’s impossible to be absolutely certain, because nobody actually saw her up there, but the data files in her apartment’s AI were tampered with on the night she disappeared. Twelve hours’ worth of recordings have been erased—starting about six hours before she walked through the lobby, and ending about six hours later. The police think something happened in her apartment that night, and someone erased the AI’s files so we couldn’t find out what it was.

Maybe we should call in a data-retrieval expert, I said. Digital information can leave trace evidence, even after it’s been erased. With the right equipment, a skilled technician can read those traces. It might be possible to resurrect some of the data.

Vivien shook her head. The police called in a whole team of data retrieval experts. The files weren’t just erased; they were eradicated, using a custom-tailored virus that wrote and re-wrote nonsense data to the deleted file sectors thousands of times. Any trace data that might have been left in the AI’s memory is long gone. I hired a few experts of my own, to get a second opinion. They spent a week on Leanda’s AI. They provided me with a nicely bound report of their findings, essentially repeating what the police computer evidence team had already told me: the data was irretrievable. The bill they sent me was positively obscene.

Somebody definitely doesn’t want us to know what happened in that apartment on the night of the seventeenth.

Vivien nodded. I would say that’s a safe assumption.

A sleek green Dornier hover-limousine slid up to the curb. It stopped with the right rear door carefully aligned with the tips of Vivien’s shoes. The big car settled onto its ground-effects apron with a sigh that was barely audible. The blowers were whisper-quiet, and I couldn’t hear the car’s turbines at all. Hover-cars are noisy by nature. It took serious money to build a car that quiet, and equally serious money to maintain the kind of near-silence that the rich were apparently accustomed to.

The gull-wing door opened with a muted hiss, folding itself up and out of Vivien’s way. The interior was an elegant womb of dark green diamond-tucked leather. The rear seat was more like an overstuffed couch than anything I would expect to see in a car, however luxurious. With the addition of legs, it would have been at home in a Victorian parlor.

I looked at Vivien again. The fact that Leanda’s AI was tampered with doesn’t necessarily rule out the idea that she arranged her own disappearance. If she was planning to drop out of sight, she might well have zapped her own files to cover her trail.

Vivien got in and slipped over to the far side of the pseudo-couch. A possibility that I’ve considered, she said. She patted the leather beside her and cocked her head impishly. Do I have to issue a formal invitation?

My car is parked over there, I said. Anyway, I thought we weren’t leaving.

"We’re not. This is how we’re going to almost leave."

I took another hit from my cigarette and held it up as I exhaled. Can we almost leave in a minute? I’m not done with this yet.

Put it out, Vivien said. At what I’m paying you, I’m reasonably certain you can afford another one.

I dropped the cigarette and ground it out with my toe. Alright, but this is going on my expense account.

I climbed in. The leather was even softer than it looked.

Leave the door open, Vivien said.

Of course, Madam, said a disembodied voice.

I glanced up toward the front of the car. There was no driver. In place of the traditional wraparound instrument panel and control yoke was another Victorian couch. An AI driver. In my mind, the already-staggering cost estimate for the car surged upward by an entire income-bracket.

I thought the rich preferred human service to machines, I said.

Vivien brushed a lock of raven-colored hair behind her ear. As a rule, I do. But human servants will talk. I don’t always care to advertise where I’ve been, and what I’ve been doing.

I nodded.

She turned her face toward me, the first signs of strain glimmering in her gray eyes. Can you really find my daughter?

Maybe, I said. I’m pretty good at this kind of thing, but I don’t work miracles. Right now, I’m just trying to get a feel for the case. I don’t know enough about your daughter, or the circumstances of her disappearance, to give you a better answer than that. If I reach a point where I don’t think I can help, I’ll tell you. I don’t pad my expenses, and I’m not in the habit of wasting my clients’ money.

I knew that before I hired you, Vivien said. That’s one of the reasons I chose you over the big firms.

"One of the reasons?"

She dipped into a side pocket of her silk jacket and pulled out one of my business cards. It was a simple affair, black lettering on white cardboard. No holograms, no active-matrix graphics, not even a logo.

My contact information was on the back.

Vivien fanned herself with the card. It certainly wasn’t your stellar advertising campaign.

I shrugged. The people who need me seem to find me.

I looked back toward the doors of the building. Bruhn was coming down the front steps, two at a time. Speaking of advertising, your most recent campaign seems to have snared a customer.

Bruhn covered the distance between the stairs and the curb in about three long strides. He stopped when he got to the car, took a deep breath, and leaned over to glare through the open doorway. He was coming to Vivien on her turf, now, and the look on his face said that he knew it.

He let out the breath. All right, Ms. Forsyth, it looks like your phone tips heavier on the scales of justice than my badge. For the moment, anyway.

I expect full access to the files, Vivien said, and anything else pertaining to my daughter’s case.

Of course, Bruhn said quietly.

You will extend that courtesy to Mr. Stalin, as well.

The muscles in Bruhn’s jaw tensed. I understand.

Good. You can begin by giving Mr. Stalin a copy of the computer files.

I don’t carry them with me, Bruhn said.

Vivien turned her wrist over and glanced at her watch, a slim Breguet on a braided gold bracelet. I didn’t really expect that you would, she said. I’ll send a bonded courier to your office in two hours. I trust you’ll have a copy ready when he arrives?

Yes ma’am.

Perhaps you’d better make Mr. Stalin a copy of the door key, as well, she said. He may want to spend some time there, to get the scent of the case, or whatever it is that Private Detectives do.

Your daughter’s apartment is still classified as a crime scene, Bruhn said.

"Only because it’s a high-profile case. If my daughter had been a mid-grade computer programmer for one of the multinationals, you would have turned her apartment back over to the property manager a month ago. We both know that preserving a crime scene for this long in a missing persons case would be unheard of—if the victim’s family didn’t have money and power. Well, we do have money. And we do have power. I’ll get that key, Detective. I’d rather not run over you to do it, but I will get it. Do you understand?"

I... understand, Bruhn said.

Vivien nodded. Excellent.

Bruhn paused for a second. Why are you doing this?

"I want my daughter back, Vivien said flatly.

Obviously, Bruhn said. "But I don’t understand why you aren’t letting us handle it. I thought you guys were big time pro-cop. It seems like I can’t turn on the vid without catching a sound byte of your husband painting himself up like Mr. Law-and-Order. Cops have a friend in the Government. Is that all just bullshit?"

Not at all, Vivien said. "My husband is quite sincere; I assure you. He really does think he’s a one man crusade against crime. But he has his agenda, and I have mine."

Bruhn didn’t bother to mask his scowl. So, as far as you’re concerned, cops can pretty much stuff it?

Vivien flashed him a sardonic little smile. I didn’t say anything like that. I happen to agree with about ninety percent of the senator’s political beliefs. You and your fellow officers are overworked, underpaid, and improperly supported. Despite that, you manage to do a pretty damned good job most of the time. I respect that, and I am grateful to you for doing it.

Bruhn cocked his head and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. But you’re still going to yank my chain?

Vivien shook her head. "I have no desire to yank your chain, Detective. But I would dance naked in the streets if I thought it would bring Leanda back even ten seconds sooner. If you find her, I will be forever in your debt. Mr. Stalin is here in case you don’t find her. Think of him as a frightened mother’s insurance policy."

Bruhn turned his eyes to me. I think you’re throwing your money away,