“I dunno. We get lot’sa ladies in here,” she said tightly, avoiding the photo I rested on the bar as well as my eyes.

Warwick was warming up. Doors opened at ten and closed at two. Every night. If you were on the list, a bouncer in suit and tie unhooked the velvet rope, freeing you and other Hollywood pilgrims into the golden glow of crystal chandeliers and mirrored tables. Bowie’s “China Girl” seduced through the sound system and a pair of antique armored knights watched from an upstairs balcony. Wilhelmina’s year-end party was just starting, and already the models’ legs were spilling over the seaweed-colored velvet loungers like tentacles of anemones. Just as hypnotizing, just as dangerous.

Cherry-red nails grasped the shaker, expertly hoisting it above her platinum mane. She spun away from me, pouring the concoction into a v-shaped glass. She didn’t spill a drop.

Drying a glass, biceps as big as my thigh, a Jaiman Hansu look-a-like softly nudged her with a nod that said, He’s okay. I’d known Wills for sometime. Fixed a few tickets for him over the years and kept an eye on his kid sister when he was in class at UCLA. He threw me local information when I needed it.

The pretty palomino softened, turned back towards me. Her eyes were cool green, but her words were warmer. “I’ve seen her. Scared of somethin’. Got outta town a while ago with no forwarding address. All I know is she talked about Paradise.”

Wills slid a San Pellegrino my way. “How’s things, Tino? On the hunt?”

“I’m good.” My full name is Valentino DeAngelo, a PI of a small firm. Real small: DeAngelo and DeAngelo. The second DeAngelo is for my pop, who retired two years ago.

“Yeah, a girl reported missing by her high school. Parents couldn’t’ve cared less. Should be nineteen now.” I rested a loafer on a gleaming brass footrail.

“Hmm,” Wills had a soft spot for kids in trouble.

“Still cutting up bodies?” Wills was into the home stretch of med-school.

“It’s my passion, man.”

“Nice threads,” he grinned, poking fun at my Gucci shoes and orange cashmere socks. Threads coming out as ‘treads’ in his Trinidad-flavored accent.

“I’m Italian!” I defended myself, “My mama spent a fortune on these Zimmerlis. Like walking on clouds. Hand knit.”

“Looks like her cousins knitted ’em.” Wills laughed, his ivories white against mahogany skin. “Ya need anything, let me know.”

I left a Benjamin on the polished granite and made my way through the crowd into the cool November air.

.   .   .

I was two hundred and fifty miles into US 395 with another fifty ahead of me, passing Bishop. Snowflakes dusted the windshield, shining like barite in the thin mountain sunshine. My cell beat out a samba ringtone.

“Hey, Tino, how’s the ride?” It was Mike Brown, an old law school classmate and the source of many cases for me. His mind worked like the intricate wheels and springs of a timepiece.

“Fine, if you like long cold stretches of nowhere,” I whined.

“I’m certain you’re dressed for it.”

“You calling me a clothes-horse?” I smirked. Indeed, a felt fedora warmed the top of my head and a sheepskin coat hugged my torso.

“Listen, word just in. The stepdad did time for aggravated assault six years ago. With an inheritance going to this kid, better watch your back.”

“Gottcha,” I scratched my three-day growth of GQ beard. “Over and out.”

.   .   .

Paradise, Population 600, the sign read.

Shouldn’t be hard to find her if she’s here. I parked in front of Trout Town Bar. As watering holes go, this was as far away in miles as it was from ambiance to Warwick. Wood plank floors, jukebox softly playing an old Tammy Wynette song, bartender with no city edge.

“Hey,” he said.

“I’m looking for a Lila Wong.” I showed him the photo and my credentials.

He paused, guarded, “‘Nother dude askin’ ‘bout her in the last hour.”

“She could be in trouble. I’m here to help.”

“Told him I didn’t know her.” He sized me up. “She goes by Lily. Lily Geist. Bakery near the lake.”

.   .   .

At 3 p.m. snow fell steadily, and there was a closed sign on door of Paradise Bakery. I tried the knob anyway, and it gave with one turn, releasing the smell of fresh baked bread as a little bell chimed. My mouth watered. When was the last time I ate?

An orange tabby was enjoying a bowl of cream on a freckled formica floor just inside the door, and light classical played.

Out from the kitchen, wiping a floured hand on a red apron, came a slight, pale girl with hair like a raven’s wing, her head barely clearing my shoulder. Her white T-shirt sported the words: “You Can Get More with a Smile and a Gun than You Can with Just a Smile - Al Capone.”

“We’re closed,” she said, resting a rolling pin on the counter. She reached down to pick up the empty bowl as kitty wound between my ankles. Matching tattoos of koi swam around both her forearms, the ink covering old cigarette burns. I handed her my card.

“I’m not going back. I’m not her, the person who lived with them before. Ate bitter. I only eat what appeals to me now.” Her jet eyes sparked, and edges of the strength that got her here tinged in her voice. A feather of a girl on the outside, steel on the inside.

“I’m not here to make you go somewhere. A Mrs. Bloom said you used to weed her flower bed and feed her cats.”

“Nice lady.” Her face gentled. “Used to lend me books. She okay?”

“She’s passed away,” I said, softly. The girl’s eyes watered. “You’re mentioned in her will.”

The bell tinkled and a look of horror seized Lily’s face. I torqued just in time to catch a glimpse of an ogre in a dirty checked flannel shirt. One minute I was upright and the next I saw stars. When my eyes opened, Lily was bent over me with a cold cloth to my head. I tasted blood. The ogre lay in a heap on the floor.

“In a bakery, rolling pins come in real handy,” Lily smiled.