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course, their modern-day equivalent, the movies. It was smoke and mirrors, and Salomon knew it all too well.
    “Larry?” repeated the man who had driven the movie producer home. “I want to make sure you’re going to be okay.”
    “I miss her,” said Salomon.
    Luke Ralston put his Porsche in neutral and pulled up the parking brake. He had worked on Salomon’s past six films, and the two men had developed a very deep bond. With his tall, fit frame, rugged features, whitened teeth, and expensive haircut, Ralston looked like he could have been one of the producer’s top actors, if you overlooked the limp that plagued him from time to time.
    But Ralston wasn’t an actor. He was what was known in Hollywood parlance as a “technical consultant.” A former Delta Force operative, Ralston used his extensive military experience to make sure Salomon’s actors and actresses looked like they knew what they were doing in their action scenes, especially when those scenes had to do with firearms, hand-to-hand combat, evasive driving, or any number of other tactical situations.
    “It’s supposed to get easier,” Salomon continued, staring into space. “That’s what everybody tells you. They tell you to stay strong. But it doesn’t get easier.”
    A mist had begun to build on the windshield. The temperature was dropping.
    Ralston pondered raising the car’s windows, but decided not to. It would have broken the mood and sent the two men in their separate directions too early. Salomon still needed to talk, so Ralston would sit and listen for as long as it took.
    A pronounced silence grew between them. The only sound came from the throb of the GT3’s engine and the water cascading in the fountain. Eventually Salomon spoke. “I think I’ll go inside.”
    “Do you want me to come in for a while?”
    The older man shook his head. He unlatched his seat belt and searched for the door handle.
    Ralston put a hand on his friend’s arm. “Skip the nightcap, Larry. Okay?” The movie producer had already consumed enough alcohol.
    “Whatever you say,” the man replied, waving him off. “The guesthouse is free if you want it.”
    The younger man looked at his watch. They had left Salomon’s car at the restaurant when it became apparent he wasn’t in a condition to drive. “I’ve got an early morning run with friends,” said Ralston. “I’ll call you when I’m done and we’ll work out getting your car back.”
    The producer grasped the handle and opened the door. “Don’t bother. I’ll figure it out,” he said as he climbed out of the car.
    There was an edge to Salomon’s voice. He was making the alcohol-induced transition from maudlin to angry.
    Ralston shook his head. He shouldn’t have let his friend consume so much booze. But, at the end of the day, that’s what sorrows were meant to be drowned in. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay?” he asked as the producer shut the car door and began to walk away.
    Salomon didn’t bother to turn; he just waved over his shoulder and mounted the steps to the entrance of his home.
    Ralston knew him well enough to know that he’d probably go inside and keep drinking. There was little he could do about it. “Try to get some sleep,” he recommended as the producer reached the top of the stairs and opened his etched glass front door.
    Ralston waited and watched until his friend was safely inside before putting his Porsche in gear and pulling out of the motor court.
    On his way down the winding drive, he wondered if he should turn back. Of all the nights of the year, this was the roughest for Salomon.
    Had she not been murdered three years ago, it would have been his daughter Rachael’s twenty-first birthday. Within a year of Rachael’s murder, Larry’s marriage had fallen apart. Losing a child was a pain no parent should ever have to bear, having been abandoned by his spouse in the process was almost too much.
    When his wife left him and moved back east, Larry never