The Manipulated (Joe Portugal Mysteries) by Nathan Walpow

porch the door opened. The woman standing there was wearing a Che sweatshirt and cutoffs and a dab of green paint on her nose. Her black hair was piled on top of her head, held in place by a red, white, and blue ribbon. “I’m Samantha,” she said. “Which you probably figured out. Come on in.”
    The windows were arched and there was stained wood trim around them and bordering the doors. There were a couple of bookcases and some art on the walls and magazines scattered all over. Something sweet was or had been baking.
    “How come there’s paint on your nose?” I said.
    “I’m an artist.”
    “Do all artists have paint on their noses?”
    “At some point, yeah, all of us do.”
    Carrie popped out of the kitchen, said tea and scones would be ready soon, retreated.
    “Let’s go out back,” Samantha said.
    “Lead the way.”
    I followed her toward the back. Near the end of the hall were two doors, one on each side, with a tiny bedroom beyond each. The one on the left was a mess. Samantha’s, I guessed. The one on the right was in perfect order. Carrie’s.
    Another door in the back, and we were through it and in the yard. It was a little bigger than the front one, but still miniscule, and most of it was filled with a rundown gazebo. Several paper Japanese lanterns hung down. There was a table with four chairs, and sitting in one of the chairs was Dennis Lennox.

Eight
    “Hi,” Dennis said. “Surprised to see me?”
    “I guess I am.”
    He came down the two steps to ground level, walked over, shook my hand. “I thought it was time we talked.”
    “You could have had your girl call my girl. We could have taken a meeting.”
    He smiled. Real? Maybe. “Dad said you had a good sense of humor.”
    “What else did Dad say about me?”
    “That you’re a hell of a guy. Sam?”
    “Hmm?” she said.
    “Could you give us a little time alone?”
    “Sure, Sweetie.” She stepped over, kissed his nose, went back in the house.
    “Let’s sit,” Dennis said.
    We took over a couple of chairs in the gazebo. The table was set for four. The plates and cups had a steel gray undercoat, a green iridescent glaze. The flatware looked vaguely Asian.
    “Let me see,” I said.“Your father’s involved with Carrie, who lives with Samantha, whom you met and are now seeing.”
    “Very good.”
    “How do you feel about your father and Carrie?”
    “Fine. Shouldn’t I?”
    “You don’t think he’s being—”
    “Unfaithful? Let’s face it. My mother’s dead.”
    “You seem pretty sure of that.”
    “I am.”
    “Your father’s not.”
    “No.”
    “This person he saw at Staples. The one he has me looking for. You do know about that.”
    He was nodding. “Someone who looked a little like my mother. Or even a lot. Come on. They keep her in captivity for four-plus years, she escapes, comes back to L.A., doesn’t tell my dad?”
    “Amnesia.”
    “If one of my writers on
Protect and Serve
came up with that … well, I’d probably let them run with it. But this is real life.”
    “What did you want to talk about?”
    “I want you to tell Dad you found the woman.”
    “Oh?”
    “And that it wasn’t my mother.”
    “I see. And why would I do that?”
    “How does a recurring part on
The Galahad Sisters
sound?”
    “Like a bribe.”
    He smiled, looked at the house. The light had gone on in Samantha’s bedroom. She was watching us and gave a little wave. He blew her a kiss, she moved from the window, he turned back to me. “That’s exactly what it is.”
    “Look, kid, I don’t even care about my commercials. Being on a sitcom isn’t much of an inducement for me.”
    “On
Protect and Serve
then.”
    “Neither is being on a cop show.”
    He sighed. “Thought I’d give it a shot. “
    “So what comes next? I’ll never work in this town again?”
    “No. I may have more power in this town than anyone my age should ever have—did you know I was number forty-two on
Entertainment Weekly
’s list of the most