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If Video Door Bell's murder had made the edition, she didn't say. I took the Metro pages. Nothing there. By eight she'd headed back to the studio and I was running up in the hills, harder than usual, punishing my joints, trying to sweat off adrenaline. I'd promised myself to avoid the paper, but when I got back I thumbed quickly and found the summary of Video Door Bell's death on page. Worded nearly exactly as I'd predicted: senile husband, shocked neighbors, domestic tragedy, investigation pending.
I finished up some court reports a couple of personal injury cases where kids had experienced psychological sequelae and a custody battle with wealthy protagonists that might never end unless the principals died. Printing, signing, sealing, and addressing my findings to various judges, I reviewed my ledger books and tried to figure out door bell if I'd owe taxes in April. By eleven I still hadn't figured it out. By eleven-thirty Robin bopped in, Spike in tow, and informed me she had to deliver two repaired D'Angelico archtops to the Los Feliz home of a movie star who was considering playing Elvis in an upcoming flick. Elvis never played D'Angelicos, I said.
That should be the worst of it. This guy's got a tin ear. A peck on the cheek hard, maybe dismissive and she was off. By noon I was jumping out of my skin. At twelve-eighteen I gave up and drove away. West. Toward Santa Monica. The ocean. Figuring I'd just cruise by Ben Bugger's high-rise, then take a nice, relaxed drive north on Ocean Front, down the ramp to Pacific Coast Highway. Malibu. Day at the beach. Nothing to do with Lauren, because Lauren had left no clues in Malibu, and why should I avoid an entire coastline? I http://www.doorbellcn.com