Dorothy watched the California coast whip by in a blur until a surge of anger welled up inside of her. Paul, slow down. You're making me sick. The car slammed to a stop, and they sat in silence, engine idling in the middle of the road. Paul's eyes were wide with rage. He put his hand up like he might slap Dorothy across the mouth, and she shrunk back in fear. Instead, he took a deep breath and lowered his hand. Of course, anything you wish, he said calmly. The tension of the car ride disappeared as they pulled up to the Playboy Mansion. Paul slid out of the driver's seat and tossed the keys to the valet. He was dressed in full pimp regalia, mink coat, skin-tight pants, shirt unbuttoned to his navel, and that signature diamond Star of David hanging off his chest. Dorothy was barely in costume at all, a unicorn painted on the side of her face. But dressed in all white, she looked radiant. As they walked towards the front door, two men stopped smoking to turn and stare at her. Paul raised his eyebrows. Holy shit, that's James Caan and Warren Beatty. Inside, the party was in full swing. Scantily clad young women danced on a table, and outside, a band was wailing away out by the infamous pool grotto, rumored to be the site of more than one orgy, while a crowd of actors, politicians, and business tycoons mingled with an endless array of beautiful women. Dorothy quickly spotted Playboy's editor-in dressed in his signature silk pajamas. She grabbed Paul's hand and began to lead him across the room. Come on, I want to introduce you. Hef stood near the stairwell holding court, surrounded by half a dozen women. But his face lit up when he saw Dorothy. He kissed her outstretched hand. Dorothy turned to introduce Paul, but instead, Paul squeezed past her. Hey, Hugh, it's Paul. Paul Snyder, Dorothy's boyfriend and manager. He shook Hef's hand with his trademark iron grip. I see, Hef replied. How are you enjoying LA so far? Oh, it's great. I got a lot of deals lined up already. Gonna do a strip night for the ladies at this place called Chippendales. I was thinking it would be perfect for Dorothy and a couple of playmates to come down and judge the amateur contest. But we should set up a meeting. Hef replied in the affirmative, but Dorothy could tell he didn't meet him. Trust me, Hef, I've got the golden touch. Dorothy was just a little ice cream shop girl when I found her, and look at her now. Hef turned his gaze to Dorothy. Indeed, look at her now. We have big plans for Dorothy. She's going to be our next Marilyn Monroe. Dorothy blushed, half-winked, and kissed her hand once more. Dorothy, dear, lovely to see you. And only you, his voice implied as he walked away. If Paul noticed, he didn't show it. Hours later, with the party winding down, Paul and Dorothy climbed back into the black dots and head home. Paul was on cloud nine. Can you believe it? Hugh fucking Hefner. He loved the idea, don't you think? We're on a rocket ride to the top, baby. The car was silent for a moment as Paul envisioned his future glory. You know you might have to sleep with him, right? To get Playmate of the Year? Everybody says you have to sleep with them, but it's cool, baby. As long as you know you're with me, I'll take care of you. Paul flipped up the collar of his mink coat and pushed her on the gas pedal. The Datsun flew. Dorothy just stared at the California coast whipping by. As Dorothy finishes her story, a small tear rolls down her cheek. Personally, I never trust anyone that gets paid to cry on demand, but I can't help but feel sorry for her. She slides out of the booth and tosses her luscious blonde hair once more. I just thought you should know, she says. And then she says she's going to be in New York the next few days. Reshoots or something like that. Tells me I can take a break from being her shadow. Then she glides out the door like a vision and into her business manager's waiting car. As the car pulls away, I get a strange sensation that it's the last time I'll be seeing Dorothy Stratton. Alive, that is. We'll be right back after this word, word, word. Looking to improve your diet in the new year? Try seeing a personal dietitian with Nourish. Nourish has hundreds of dietitians who specialize in a variety of health concerns, including weight loss, gut health, and more. Meet with your dietitian online and message them anytime through the Nourish app. Nourish accepts hundreds of insurance plans. 94% of patients pay $0 out of pocket. Find your personal dietitian at usenourish.com. That's usenourish.com. At Sierra, discover top workout gear at incredible prices, which might lead to another discovery. Your headphones haven't been connected this whole time. Awkward. Discover top brands at unexpectedly low prices. Sierra, let's get moving. After hearing Dorothy Stratton's story, I have no idea what to do next. So I follow my instincts right into the bottom of a bottle where I spend the next three days dodging phone calls from Paul Snyder. When I wake up, it's Thursday, August 14th. My head is killing me. There's a low, pounding thud in my ears that won't quit. Eventually, I realize the pounding isn't coming from inside my head. It's coming from the front door. And I stumble to the peephole. Paul Snyder is standing outside yelling at me to open the fuck up. I swing the door open and the LA sunshine hits my booze-addled brain like a shotgun. Where you been, man? I've been trying to reach you. I tell him I've been on a little vacation with my buddy Jack, but he doesn't catch my drift. Whatever, man. Listen, I gotta talk to you. Dorothy is cutting me out. It's that fucker Bogdanovich and I can prove it. I sigh and tell Paul to quit yelling and come inside. Once we're in the living room, I ask what the hell he's talking about. He starts on about this poster idea. Dorothy is the playmate of the year and there's a killing to be made. They did a shoot with her wearing a sexy leotard and roller skates. He tells me I should see it. He says Dorothy loved the idea too. It's a goldmine. Only now, she's decided not to do it. Says it's not a good move for her career. Okay, that's rough. I get it. I tell him. But what does that have to do with Bogdanovich? I ask. And that's when he tells me, Bogdanovich, the director, the guy who wants to turn her into a movie star, this guy has sent her all these love letters. Paul found a stash of them that Dorothy had hidden away and forgot about when she left. I'm telling you, man, Paul says, Bogdanovich, Hefner, they're trying to ruin my fucking life. I had to buy a gun for protection. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I tell them to settle down. Don't do anything stupid. We've got the evidence. Now let's just try to make them pay. He waves me off. What's the point? I can't even get near her anymore. They banned me from the mansion, man. The fucking mansion. If she wants a divorce, she's going to have to ask me in person. Eventually, I send Snyder home to cool off. It's a humid day and I can already feel a hangover creeping in. I wish I could go back to bed, but I've got work to do. I leaf through the phone book for the address of Bill and Susan LeChase. The photographers for this poster deal gone bust, and I hop into my cutlass. On the way to the studio, I buy a fresh pack of smokes. Just in case. When I tap on the studio door, a man answers. Bill LeChase? I ask. That's right, he responds, eyeing me suspiciously. I tell him I'm a friend of Paul and Dorothy's, trying to help save this poster deal. I figure, as the ones who snapped the photos in the first place, they want to see this thing happen as much as anyone. Susan appears next to him and pulls the door open. She tells me to come in and waves at a small bar card in the corner. Feel free to make yourself a drink, although you smell like you don't need one. I ignore her sage advice and pour a double whiskey over ice before taking a seat. I ask them when they last saw Dorothy. They say it's been a few days. She'd been hard get a hold of, so they flew to New York to show her the proofs in person. They couldn't get her at the hotel, but someone in production sent them to Bogdanovich's apartment. Dorothy answered the door looking terrified, like she'd been caught. She asked if Snyder sent them, and they swore he hadn't. Dorothy left them waiting at the door and went inside the apartment. They could hear her talking with someone, and they guessed it was Bogdanovich. When she came back to the door, she said no. She was sorry, but she didn't think it was the right move. Just like that, Paul Snyder's last chance at a big score was history. I have to know, did Bill and Susan LeChase tell Snyder about any of this when they got back to LA? Susan hesitates. I can tell she doesn't want to say what's about to come out of her mouth. Well, we tried not to, but we just said she'd declined and he started ranting about Peter Bogdanovich. Look, we tried not to give anything away, but he could read our faces. I knocked back the rest of the whiskey and suddenly I'm not feeling so good. I politely excuse myself. Not even a minute later, I'm standing next to my car hurling up last night's liquid dinner, and that hair of the dog didn't do me much good. I needed to get my eyes on Dorothy Stratton. Fast. I make tracks toward our most likely whereabouts, Peter Bogdanovich's Bel Air mansion. As I pull up, I see Dorothy's business manager leaving, and I wave the guy down. His face goes pale, Says Dorothy just left to meet Paul to sign some papers. It feels like I'm about to retch again, but I hold it down this time. And I jump back in the car and haul ass for West LA. While I'm driving, I dial Snyder's number from the car phone again and again, but there's no answer. And when I finally get to the house, Dorothy's car is parked next to Paul's Mercedes. I park and I sit there and I wait. I reach for my pack of smokes. Now it's ten hours later and I'm stubbing out my last cigarette. That sick feeling in my stomach is more than just a hangover. I've delayed it as long as I can. I pick up the car phone and call Paul's roommate, Steve. One house, two landlines. Steve answers. I ask if Paul's been around. Nah, he tells me he hasn't seen him all day. Listen, I tell him. His car is in the driveway and he's not answering his phone. I ask the guy to go check Paul's room. He puts the phone down and I can hear the TV playing in the background. Sounds like Fantasy Island. I can hear him call out, Paul, you there? There's a guy on the phone for you. Paul. I hear the stairs squeak, then silence. Suddenly, a bone-chilling scream rips through the receiver. I'm out of my car now, sprinting toward the house. I throw open the front door, and Paul's roommate comes running upstairs. Don't go in there. Don't go in there! He's screaming. But of course, I do. The dread is overwhelming as I make my way down the stairs. I inch forward toward the bedroom, and I brace myself and throw it open. Oh. My. God. There is so much blood. The walls are painted red. Paul is slumped up against the wall. Dead. A giant 12-gauge shotgun between his legs. In front of him is a naked woman, her face mangled by the shotgun blast. But I recognize that long blonde hair. It's Dorothy Stratton. Also dead. Just 20 years old. years old. I sit back in the booth and I finish my cup of coffee. In the corner of the diner, the television is playing MTV.