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“I’m sorry, Mr. Cole, this has nothing to do with you. Please excuse me. ” Ellen Lang stood up out of the director’s chair across from my desk. I’d had it and its mate fitted in a nice pastel burgundy a year ago. The leather was broken in and soft and did not crack when she stood. “We shouldn’t have come here, Janet,” she said. “I feel awkward. ”

Janet Simon said, “For Christ’s sake, Ellen, sit down. ”

Ellen sat.

Janet Simon said, “Talk to him, Ellen. Eric says he’s very good at this sort of thing. He can help. ”

Speak, Ellen. Arf. I rearranged two of the Jiminy Cricket figurines on my desk and wondered who the hell Eric was.

Ellen Lang adjusted her glasses, clutched her hands, and faded back into the director’s chair. She looked small, even though she wasn’t. Some people are like that. Janet Simon looked like a dancer who’d spent a lot of time at it. Lean and strong. Good bones. She wore tight beige cotton pants and a loose cotton shirt striped with shades of blue and pink and red. No panty line. I hoped she didn’t think I was declasse in my white Levis and Hawaiian shirt. Maybe the shoulder holster made up for it.

Ellen Lang smiled at me, trying to feign comfort in an uncomfortable situation. She said, “Well, perhaps if you told me about yourself. ”

Janet Simon sighed, giving it the weight of the world. “Mr. Cole is a private detective.

“Thanks, Mom,” I said.

Janet Simon gave me a look, then turned away and stared at the Pinocchio clock. It’s on the wall beside the door that leads to my partner’s office, just above the little sign that says The Elvis Cole Detective Agency. As the second hand sweeps around, Pinocchio’s eyes move from side to side. Janet Simon had been glancing at it since they walked in. Probably thought it was peculiar.

Ellen fidgeted. “I was just curious, that’s all. I’m sorry. ”

“You don’t have to be sorry, Mrs. Lang,” I said. “I’m thirty-five years old and I’ve been licensed as a private investigator for seven years. The state of California requires three thousand hours of experience before they’ll give you the license. I spent that time with a man named George Feider. Mr. Feider was an investigator here in L OS Angeles for almost forty years. Before that I was a security guard, and before that I spent some time in the Army. I’m five feet eleven and one-half inches tall, I weigh one hundred seventy-six pounds, and I’m licensed to carry a firearm. How’s that?”

She blinked.

“Yeah, it impresses me, too,” I said. “I don’t take custody work. I might find your husband and your son but after that it’s up to you. I don’t steal children unless there’s reason to believe the child is in danger. ”