Lure of Song and Magic by Patricia Rice

talking. Cop gone? she asked.
    Dscvrd u missg few hrs ago. Cursed. Left.
    He could be anywhere. She hoped he’d returned to L.A., but as long as the man was being paid, it wasn’t likely.
    She could give the hired bodyguard and Mr. Oswin a real panic attack. She didn’t have to leave here until she knew the coast was clear.
    Opening the freezer in her studio kitchen, she dug out a frozen meal and nuked it. She’d spent many long nights on the futon in here. She could occupy herself for days, if necessary.
    Let omnipotent Mr. Oswin put that in a pot and stew it.

Chapter 6
    A text from the Librarian arrived just before Oz shut down the office for the day. The Silly Seal Song was all it said.
    After an hour of Googling every possible variation of that title, when he should have been hunting dinner, Oz didn’t know whether to curse or weep. There was no such title in any index he could locate. Maybe the Librarian simply hated him or thought he ought to give up having a life.
    The title sounded like a children’s song. Oz had bought CDs of kids’ songs to keep his son amused when they were in the car. He and Donal used to sing along with them while stuck in traffic. The kid had crowed over his favorites.
    Donal would be five in May. Would he still listen to silly songs? Or was he too terrified to enjoy silliness? Provided his son was even alive. Oz pressed his fists to his eyes, refusing to trek down memory lane.
    Digging deep inside him to where the pain lived and clamping it down, Oz reached for the phone. Maybe this was the connection to Syrene the Librarian had alluded to. Maybe Pippa knew the song.
    The phone rang before he could key in the number. Checking Caller ID, he answered curtly, “Yes, Bob?”
    â€œShe’s scarpered,” the ex-cop said without preamble, “just like she warned you. If she’s in town, no one’s talking.”
    Oz’s fury escalated, multiplied by the frustration of this past hour. She was his only damned hope . He should be allowed one lousy little hope.
    â€œThey’re her friends. They won’t talk.” He buried his hand in his hair and glared at the desk he’d spent the day emptying. “Go home. I can play this game too.”
    He’d lost any interest in playing games the day his son had been stolen. If Pippa James had any part in Donal’s kidnapping, she would pay, and she would pay dearly.
    Except even he was still rational enough to know that all he had was a hunch and anonymous messages to believe his son was alive. For all he knew, he was badgering the damaged singer for nothing. And yet, he meant to go on badgering her until he lost all hope. That was his idea of fun these days.
    He’d skimmed her file throughout the day, looking for clues. Besides the devastating photos of a lovely child deteriorating into a half-starved, bedraggled hellion, it contained a familiar litany of offenses committed by the entertainment industry, none of them new or unusual.
    Philippa Seraphina Malcolm James had been rescued from poverty and a foster home and given a life of hard work, wealth, and adoration, and she’d blown it all in a spectacular meltdown after her young husband’s death. The only real news was that her management had never robbed her. She’d taken charge of her extremely healthy trust fund on her eighteenth birthday and disappeared.
    He wouldn’t let her fall off the radar again. If she held clues he needed, he meant to find them.
    He went home, packed a bag, and flung it into an old Dodge Ram pickup he’d driven as a kid to carry his surfboard and gear. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone surfing, but the truck had a lot of miles left on it. He saw no reason to throw it away.
    Driving into the mountains, he left his headset and BlackBerry off. He’d spent the day lining up production people for the children’s show. It was a simple, inexpensive concept that in