"We better hang around here this evening," Breda said. "Mrs. Devon said she might go home to L. A. today. If she's gone he might not stay home."
"Wait here," Lynn said.
He jumped out of the car and did a very painful jog on water-filled knees to the Devon property. Peeking through the oleander he saw both the silver Mercedes and the black Range Rover. Pausing a moment, he also saw a slender woman in lounging pajamas walk past a window with a drink in her hand. Then he jogged even more slowly back to his Rambler.
"She's there having a drink," he told Breda. "And she's wearing her Frederick's of Hollywood silkies for beddy-bye. With that drink in her hand she ain't going to L. A. till tomorrow."
"Okay," Breda said. "Let's go back to the office. I want to hear all about today."
"The Furnace Room?" he said hopefully. "You can buy me a drink."
"Not The Furnace Room," she said. "I sat in chicken gravy last time. Do they ever clean that dump?"
"Couldn't a been chicken," Lynn said. "Wilfred doesn't serve it. Was it sorta sweatsocks gray? I think I know what Wilfred calls it but I dunno what's in it."
In ten minutes they were seated in the bar of a French restaurant with huge tapestries on the walls, where sauces were identifiable by name and ingredients, not by color. It was a very expensive, quite lovely restaurant that Lynn had never entered in the twelve years he'd lived in Palm Springs. When the valet had taken their cars Breda had to assure Lynn that she'd take care of the tips.
They sat at the bar and were served by a Belgian in formal attire. One wall of the barroom was lined with low plush banquettes, and the place was bustling with well-heeled drinkers. Lynn doubted that the management needed to reduce prices at happy hour. He figured that when people drank from crystal tumblers and goblets they weren't worrying about price.
Most of the chic older women were drinking white wine, of course, and Lynn was surprised when, after he ordered Chivas, Breda said, "Two."
"I'm trying to learn to drink like a P. I.," she explained. "I never did learn to drink like a cop, and all my male partners were so disappointed in me."
Lynn took a couple of big hits of Scotch, showed her a yum-yum smile, then said, "Okay, here's how my day went. First I followed him down to the Salton Sea. Ever been there?"
"Not on business," she said. "I've done a few bike rides around there. What was he up to?"
"Met his squeeze," Lynn said. "They went for a picnic out near Painted Canyon. It was touching. She even brought her doggie along."
"Did they do anything besides picnic?"
"He didn't spread anything on the blanket except maybe peanut butter," Lynn said. "And he fed her doggie from his very own sandwich. It was a domestic scene if ever I saw one. After they were through they went for a hike in Painted Canyon."
Lynn hesitated, finished the drink, and nodded to the bartender for another. Breda noted that the nervy bastard didn't bother to ask if she'd pop for one more.
After he got his fresh drink, Lynn said, "Only thing is, I wasn't able to get the babe's license number."
"Shit!" she said. "Why not?"
"Hey, I was lucky he didn't make me! It's open country out there. I got enough sand in my shoes to toilet train a thousand cats!"
"Okay, but do you know where she lives?"
"I didn't follow her. You said to stay with his car. He drove her back to the cafe and then went home. But there was a weird part."
"What?"
"He wasn't alone. He picked up a guy in Painted Canyon. Devon and the guy drove back to Palm Springs together. He dropped him down by Indian and Ramon Road. Weird."
"What'd the guy look like?"
"Dark, maybe Mexican. Husky. Wore a baseball cap and a windbreaker."
"I wish you'd followed the woman."
"You told me to stay with Devon."
"I know."
"I wish I'da followed the guy with the baseball cap."
"Why?"
"It bugs me. Who was he?"
"Some guy that needed a lift."
"But all the way to Palm Springs?"
"Maybe he lives in Palm Springs."
"Then how'd he get to Painted Canyon?"
"Does the Sun Bus run down there? What difference does it make?"
"I don't like third parties barging in on a nice clean soap opera is all."
"I just wish you'd followed the woman."
"You said that. How about buying me another drink?"
Breda pushed her tumbler of Chivas toward him. "Here, drink mine," she said with a barely concealed sneer.
And then her jaw muscles tightened because the son of a bitch turned the lipstick mark the other way before he drank!