ABOVE THE CITY, AS THE RETREATING DAY shed its grizzled beard in wet ravelings of mist and drab drizzles, the hard face of night had not quite yet appeared.
On a west-side street of art galleries, of high-end shops, of restaurants in which elitist attitude was served more efficiently than the food, Ethan tucked the Expedition tight up against a red curb, two wheels in a flooded gutter, confident that the parking patrol issued tickets far less enthusiastically in foul weather than in fair.
The businesses in this neighborhood, seeking a sophisticated and exclusive clientele, stood behind shop fronts without flash, relying on subdued signage. Mere money shouts; wealth whispers.
The retail shops were not yet closed, and most restaurants were an hour away from opening their doors. Early lamplight gilded the dripping leaves of curbside trees and transformed the wet sidewalk into a path paved with pirates’ treasure.
Without umbrella, Ethan moved in the shelter of shop awnings, all of which were tan or forest-green, silver or black, except for that in front of Forever Roses, which was a deep coral-pink.
The florist’s shop might as aptly have been named Only Roses, for [147] beyond the glass doors of the coolers that lined the big front room, no flowers other than roses could be seen, along with supplies of cut ferns and other greenery that were used to soften bright bouquets and arrangements.
Because of Hannah’s gardening interests, now even five years after she had been laid to rest under mounded roses, Ethan could identify many of the varieties in the coolers.
Here was a rose so dark red that it almost appeared to be black, with petals that looked like velvet, earning its name: Black Magic.
And here, the John F. Kennedy rose: white petals so thick and glossy that they resembled sculpted wax.
The Charlotte Armstrong: large, fragrant, deep pink blooms. The Jardins de Bagatelle, the Rio Samba, the Paul McCartney rose, the Auguste Renoir, the Barbara Bush, the Voodoo, and the Bride’s Dream.
Behind the customer counter stood an exceptional rose who looked as Hannah might have looked had she lived to be sixty. Thick salt-and-pepper hair cut short and shaggy. Large dark eyes brimming with life and delight. Time had not faded this woman’s beauty, but had enriched it with a patina of experience.
Reading the name tag on the clerk’s blouse, Ethan said, “Rowena, most of what I see in these coolers are hybrid tea varieties. Do you also like climbing roses?”
“Oh, yes, all kinds of roses,” Rowena said, her voice musical and warm. “But we seldom use climbing roses. Varieties with longer stems work better in arrangements.”
He introduced himself and, as was his habit in such situations, explained that he’d once been a homicide detective but recently had gone to work as an assistant to a high-profile celebrity.
Los Angeles and environs were acrawl with poseurs and frauds who claimed association with the rich and famous. Yet even those who had been made cynical by this city of deception nevertheless believed what Ethan told them, or pretended that they did.
[148] Hannah had said that people trusted him easily because combined in him were the quiet steely strength of Dirty Harry Callahan and the earnest innocence of Huck Finn. That, he had replied, was a movie he never wanted to see.
Rowena, whether responding to the Harry-Huck of him or to other qualities, seemed to accept Ethan for who and what he claimed to be.
“If I guess your favorite variety of climbing rose,” he said, “will you answer a few q............