

# A DEATH IN BEVERLY HILLS

David Grace

Copyright David Alexander writing as David Grace 2009, 2015

Published By David Grace At Smashwords

To visit David Grace's website, DavidGraceAuthor.com, CLICK OR TAP HERE

A screenplay based on this novel is available from the author.

This novel was materially revised in 2014 from an earlier edition.

Novels By David Grace

The Accidental Magician

The Concrete Kiss

Daniel

Death Doesn't Care

A Death In Beverly Hills

Death Never Lies

Death Never Sleeps

Doll's Eyes

Easy Target

Etched In Bone

Fever Dreams

The Forbidden List

Shooting Crows At Dawn

Stolen Angel

The Traitor's Mistress

True Faith

This novel is a work of fiction. All of the people, places, businesses, and events portrayed in this novel are either based on the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Even though the names of real locations may be used in certain parts of this book, none of the people, places, businesses, or events referred to in any of those locales are intended to represent any relationship with any real events. Any and all occurrences in this book are completely unrelated to the actions of any real persons, places, businesses, or events and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or real businesses or institutions, or to any actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

# Author's Note

This book was revised in 2014 to materially reorder the opening chapters.

### A DEATH IN BEVERLY HILLS

# Chapter One

Detective Simon Katz studied the eight-foot-high stone wall surrounding Tom Travis' mansion and thought that it looked like something built to defeat a mob of angry villagers. After a quick glance at Katz, Jack Furley pressed the intercom button and said "Los Angeles Police Detectives" into the microphone. A sharp click sounded and the carved-teak gate swung open. A hundred feet across the lawn a two-and-a-half story beam-and-stucco house blotted out half the night sky.

What did the property taxes on something like this run? Eighty thousand a year? A hundred thousand? Katz wondered as Furley paced down the winding slate walkway.

"Jack, slow down," Katz snapped as the pain flared up in his bad knee. Barren rhododendrons framed an arch over the double-wide front doors. Furley waited for Katz to catch up then rang the bell. A stocky, mid-forties Hispanic woman in a maid's uniform appeared almost instantly.

"I'm Detective Katz. This is my partner, Detective Furley. We're here to see Mr. Travis."

"Yes, he is waiting for you," she said, her face a worried mask, and led the way deep into the house. Furley seemed fascinated by the marble statues and gilt-framed paintings. They passed one room containing a six-foot high fountain in the form of a circular waterfall. Katz ignored it and limped doggedly on.

They found Tom Travis in a leather massage chair in front of a 70-inch flat-screen. Some kind of gangster movie was playing, Pacino in Scarface or maybe the second Godfather film. Travis flicked the remote before Katz could figure out which.

"Guys, thanks for coming." Travis shook hands with Furley giving him a big smile. "Get you anything, coffee, whatever?"

"No thanks," Katz said.

"You hungry? Delfina could fix you up a steak sandwich."

"Thanks, nothing," Katz snapped before Furley could accept. Travis shot Furley a questioning look and the young detective hesitated then gave his head a quick shake.

Without asking, Katz lowered himself onto a leather couch. "You said there was a problem about your wife?" Furley took out his pad, ballpoint poised to take notes.

"Yes, maybe," Travis said, giving Katz a quick, embarrassed smile. "I hope not." Through the windows brief flashes of fireworks flickered across the distant sky. "I came home around six and she wasn't here." Travis paused. Katz just stared at him. "We were supposed to go somewhere, New Year's Eve you know and, well, she wasn't here and the house was dark."

"What about the maid?" Furley asked. Katz kept his face blank though in his head he was shouting, 'Shut up and let him talk!'

"She had the day off. When it got past seven and Marian still hadn't come home I called Delfina and asked her to come in."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why did you want the maid to come in?" Katz asked.

"In case I needed something." Katz and Furley stared as if Travis had been speaking in tongues. "Well, obviously, I had to stay home and wait for Marian so I would need someone to make dinner and then clean up."

Katz paused for a beat then started again.

"Uhhuh. . . . Have you checked with your wife's friends, family?"

"Delfina handled that. . . . Delfina?"

The maid appeared in the study doorway. "Yes, Mr. Tom?"

"Delfina, the policemen want to know who you called about Mrs. Travis."

The maid looked back and forth between the two detectives, finally settling her gaze on Katz. "I call her father, her brother, her friend, Miss Leslie. No one has seen her."

"Is this unusual, Ms. Travis not being home for dinner?"

"She is very tired now, with the baby. She never stay out. She take naps."

"She has a baby?"

"Soon, soon. Maybe two weeks. She is gordo," Delfina made a gesture with two hands in front of her stomach, "Big. It makes her tired." Furley scribbled another note. "Besides, she never stay out this late with Sarah."

"Who's Sarah?"

"My stepdaughter," Travis cut in, "Marian's daughter from her prior marriage."

"She is four. A beautiful child," Delfina added, half in tears.

Katz gave Furley a quick guarded look.

"What was your wife scheduled to do today?" Katz asked.

"Delfina," Travis held out his tumbler and rattled the half melted ice, "while you're up." The maid hurried over and took the glass. "Sure she can't get you guys something?"

"Maybe later," Katz said, muzzling Furley with a sharp glance. "About Mrs. Travis's plans for the day. . . ?"

"Uhhh, not sure. You know how it is," Travis said, turning to Furley. "The wife's always yakking at you. After a while you just say 'Yes, dear' and go back to the game." Travis shrugged. "I don't know. Shopping, I guess. She loved to take Sarah shopping. The kid's got more shoes than the Dodgers starting line-up."

"Where were you today?"

"In the desert."

Confused, Katz looked at Furley, got a quick head shake, and turned back to Travis. "What were you doing in the desert?"

"I just got a new dune buggy. Christmas present to myself. This is the first chance I've had to take her out for a test drive."

"I'll need a time line for my report."

"Uhhh, sure. Okay, I hooked up the trailer to my Hummer and pulled out, oh, I don't know, maybe eight, eight-thirty this morning. I drove to Templeton in San Bernardino County. Got there around ten-thirty. Had an early lunch and hit the desert around noon. Quit about four and got back here around six. That's about it."

"Did anybody see you there?"

"Am I a suspect?"

"A suspect for what?"

"I don't know. It just sounds like you're asking me for an alibi or something."

"We're just getting all the details."

"Yeah, sure, I understand. Sorry. I guess I'm more upset than I want to admit. I should know better. I've played a cop ten, twenty times at least. I know how it works. Okay, well, sure, I saw some people but I don't know their names."

"Did you pay for anything with your credit card?"

"Just gas on the way back. Everything else I paid cash, but I always save my receipts." Travis handed Katz a plain envelope marked "Dune Buggy Research Expenses." Inside was the register tag for lunch at the El Jefe Restaurant, a receipt from the State of California Bureau of Parks and Recreation for the $20 entry fee to the Double Peaks Off-Road Vehicle Recreation Area, and an ARCO pump printout for nineteen gallons of premium gas.

"Why did you save these?"

"In my tax bracket you take every deduction you can get."

"This was a business trip?"

"Research. I might play a dune-buggy racer in my next film." Travis flashed another quick smile. "At least as far as the IRS is concerned, that's my story and I'm sticking to it."

Katz flicked his eyes and Furley hurriedly copied Travis's comment, word for word. They spent half an hour longer questioning Travis and the maid but learned nothing significant. Travis signed a consent for a tap on his phone, gave them his contact numbers and promised to call if he heard anything from his wife. A babble of noise erupted outside and red and white flashes lit the sky.

"Happy new year," Furley said in a flat tone.

"Hell of a way to spend New Year's Eve, Marian and Sarah missing like this. You think they're okay, don't you? It's probably just car trouble or something, right?" Travis looked expectantly at Furley then frowned and drained his glass.

Ten minutes later Katz and Furley were following the twisting walk back to the street. A few distant pops tattooed the night.

"Why didn't you let the maid fix us a sandwich?" Furley complained when they reached the gate. "I'm starving."

"Listen, you never take favors from a suspect. You're already on his turf. You don't make it worse by accepting his food."

"How many times has somebody given you a cup of coffee on the job?"

"A glass of water, a cup of coffee, a Coca Cola, okay, but you never break bread with a perp. You've gotta learn that, Jack."

"When did he become a perp?"

"Did he seem like a broken-hearted husband to you?"

"Not so much. "

"You ever had a millionaire just happen to save a cash register tape for a ten dollar lunch?"

"That could be for the IRS, like he said."

With a grunt Katz settled into the Crown Vic's passenger seat.

"Sure, and OJ was framed."

"I'm just saying—"

"Jack, listen to me. This is not going to end well. Running this case is going to be like slogging through twenty miles of rain-soaked shit and it isn't going to be pretty when we get to the end." Katz glared at the eight foot high wall. "Let's get the hell out of here. My knee's killing me."

# Chapter Two

"Thanks for coming down, Mr. Travis," Katz began. "We appreciate your help."

"No, I appreciate your help. And call me Tom."

Katz forced a weak smile and plowed on.

"We were hoping, Tom, that you might have remembered something new about the day Marian disappeared."

"Gee, guys, I've told you everything I know. You've seen the poster, right?"

Thousands of eleven by fourteen inch placards with the heading:

HAVE YOU SEEN THIS WOMAN?

followed by a picture of Marian Travis in her wedding dress holding a glass of Dom had been scattered all over Southern California. The phone number in red at the bottom was 1-800-MISSING. Travis was reported to have paid someone $25,000 for the number. Katz suspected that he had gotten it in exchange for an autographed head shot and a lunch at Ivy.

"Yeah, Tom, we sure have," Furley assured him.

"We've already gotten over five thousand tips. Most of them are whackos," Travis smirked and fluttered his hands like flapping cuckoo birds, "but we've gotten some good leads too. Turned them over to you guys, of course."

Katz shot Furley an embarrassed glance and turned back to Travis. "Yeah, we're checking them out. But, back to the day she disappeared, were you able to remember anything else she said about where she was going?"

"All a blank, sorry," Travis said, shrugging.

"Your maid, Delfina Angelinez, said Mrs. Travis was planning on spending the day at home with her daughter. Does that ring any bells?"

"Delfina would know better than me." Travis sneaked a peek at his watch, a Patek Philippe, no thicker than a business card, all done in silver and gold and secured to his tanned wrist with a silver strap. "I figure that since you found her car at the Beverly Center someone probably grabbed them from there."

"That's a possibility—"

"You know, I did a film once, Against The Grain, you remember it?" he asked Furley. "I played this private detective hired to find a missing rich girl. Daddy was worried about her but my character thought she had set up her own kidnapping to get daddy's money. But Razor, that was my character, Razor Sands, he was wrong. Her stepmother had really grabbed the girl so that the Old Man would leave all his money to her. So—" Travis held up his hand, "so, anyway," he continued speaking faster, "the way they kidnapped her in the movie, they let the air out of one of her tires at the mall and when she bent over to look at it, two guys jumped out of the van parked next to her and grabbed her up."

Travis paused for a quick breath and studied Katz and Furley for some sign that they were following him. "So, I was thinking, you found Marian's Escalade at the mall, what if . . . " Travis paused theatrically, "the bad guys had studied me, you know checked out my films, and copied that scene. Marian's about to get into the car and bang, the van door flies open, two guys grab her, throw her in, the door slides closed. Ten seconds later, they're gone. Nobody's seen anything." Travis looked expectantly at Furley.

"What about the little girl?"

"Sarah?"

"Yeah, what about little Sarah?"

"Okay, well, after they get Marian in the van, one of them ties her up, tape or something, while the other one grabs Sarah." Travis spread his hands palms up. "Five more seconds is all it would take."

"We'll take another look at the security tapes for any vans near your wife's car," Katz said in as sincere a tone as he could manage. Travis gave him a quick smile.

"So, guys . . . " Travis glanced at his $15,000 watch.

"Just a couple of other things. We don't want to have to ask you to come back again."

"Hey, I'm the star. They aren't making the movie without me."

"We've been going over the list of people who were in your house in the weeks before your wife disappeared. There are still some prints we can't match up. Can you think of anyone else?"

"I gave you the pool guy, right?" Page in hand, Furley checked the list and nodded. "Let's see, Delfina . . . the gardener, he might have come inside to use the can. He's supposed to use the one in the pool house but, well, what are you gonna do? He's probably Delfina's second cousin or something." Travis pursed his lips in thought as if multiplying two five digit numbers in his head. "My personal trainer, the catering crew for the Christmas party, all the guests from the party, Marian's family, father, brother— that kid's a piece of work. I told you to check him out, right?"

Katz nodded.

"Well, okay. You know how it is. The caterer brings his crew, waiters, bartender, busboys, who knows?"

"We've printed all of them."

"Sure, you printed the ones they told you about. Half those people are probably hiding from Imigracion. Last thing they're gonna do is line up to be fingerprinted by the policia. That's probably who your missing prints belong to. Besides . . . ." Travis shrugged.

"Besides what?"

"Well, what are the odds that someone who could have done something like this would leave his prints in my house and not already have a record? I mean, anybody who was in my house who isn't already in your computers is probably a producer or a studio guy, not a kidnapper." Seeing Katz's blank stare, Travis frowned. "I'd like to help you but I'm just saying that I think this fingerprint thing is a dead end. If you ask me, it's some whack job like the guy who killed Lennon."

"You think your wife is dead?"

"No, hell no! I didn't mean that, just that when you're a celebrity, shit like this becomes part of your life, they paint a target on you," Travis tapped his chest and scowled.

I don't believe this guy, Katz thought. His pregnant wife is missing and probably dead and he's complaining that there's a target on his chest!

Simon suppressed his anger and gave Travis another forced smile and as politely as possible said: "You know, Tom, in cases like this, we have to consider all the possibilities."

"Sure."

"It's like a pilot, before he takes off, he goes through the checklist."

"It's not that he thinks the gas tank is empty," Furley cut in, "but he still calls off 'Fuel?' and the co-pilot checks the gauge. That way, if something goes wrong later and someone asks, 'Did you run out of gas,' the pilot can say, 'No, we checked that specifically before we took off.' It's like that with us. Just because we ask a question doesn't mean we think something is wrong. We just gotta go through the checklist."

"Sure, I understand. You've got to be thorough."

"Right," Furley said, smiling weakly. "We've got to check off all the boxes."

"Okay, lay it on me."

"You know, Tom," Katz began in a fatherly tone, "we've heard some things, that in the past maybe you've gotten physical with people now and then. True?"

"I don't let anybody push me around."

"Of course not. You're not some pansy musical star," Furley added. "We get that. But, we've got to deal with this part of the checklist."

Katz opened a folder and flipped a couple of sheets over the top. "You were in a fight in August of '98 with a . . . Gary Dolenz?"

Travis waved his hand as if shooing a fly. "One of those guys in a bar who thinks he'll look tough if he sucker punches Tom Travis. I don't sucker punch that easy."

"December '99 at the Ionic Grill?"

"You guys ever jump off the back of a pickup truck doing thirty miles an hour? The director couldn't get the shot he wanted and I told him, 'To hell with the stunt guy. I'll do it myself.' — I did it all right. Fucked up my back for weeks. Anyway, long story short, never mix Vicodin with two bottles of Fogarty Reserve Cab. Did I trash the place? Yes, I did, and I also paid all the damages the next day. Do I remember what happened?" Travis gave Katz a level stare. "Not a fucking thing. Nada. One minute I'm ordering the appetizer, the next I'm waking up in one of your cells." Travis shook his head. "Taught me a lesson — never mix pain pills and alcohol."

Katz looked back at his list. "February of 2000?"

Travis frowned. "Yeah, I messed up bad on that one. That one's on me. Valentine's day. Clare Cantrell had just moved in with me a couple of weeks before. She was my co-star in Danger Nights. You do a movie like that with a woman like her, built like a you-know-what, and stuff's gonna happen unless you're playing for the other team, which I never was. Anyway, we think it's love or lust or some damn thing and the next thing you know she moves in. Brings her fucking rat dog, and her maid and her dietician and her personal trainer and her life coach and twenty other losers and starts taking over. 'Don't eat red meat', 'Don't drink so much', 'Try my herbal tea,' 'Why are you so mean to Mr. Whiskers?' God damn disaster from day one but the sex was good, so what are you going to do?

"Let me tell you, by the middle of February I was at the end of my rope. A nice ass can only take you so far. Anyway, I come home, beat, and she starts in, I don't appreciate her, I take her for granted, I didn't bring her anything for Valentine's Day. . . you get the picture. And she won't shut up. She just keeps going and going and going like the frigging Energizer Bunny!" Travis frowned and threw up his hands. "I snapped, okay? I just snapped."

"You split her lip and knocked out one of her teeth," Katz said, reading from his file.

"I just gave her one shot, one little shot, just to shut her up." Travis waved his hands as if to dispel the unpleasant memory. "She tripped. Yeah, I hit her. I admit that, but not hard. She got excited, I don't blame her for that, and she tried to back up and caught her foot on the rug or something and fell against the coffee table. That's how her lip got split and her tooth knocked out. Hell, you know that, Jack" Travis said, turning to Furley.

Katz glanced sourly at his partner.

"I've told Simon about being the investigating officer that night," Furley said, embarrassed.

"Then you know what happened," Travis said to Katz. "Jack did a great job. You've got one hell of a good cop for a partner here. Professional all the way. He got Clare to the hospital, stayed with her, got her calmed down. An hour later she realized that we were both out of line and neither of us needed the bad publicity. She refused to testify and I went to anger management. Best thing I ever did. Changed me, really. I have to admit that. Hey, we're good friends now. I see her all the time on the Drive. Can't even tell which tooth was the one that got knocked out. Glued it back in. Fucking doctors are miracle workers these days." Travis gave Katz a quizzical glance and looked at his watch. "We just started shooting my new project last week, a horror flick but in sort of a Film Noir style, The Bone Yard. I'll get you guys passes to the premiere. So, are we all done?"

Katz glanced at Furley then closed the file. "Yeah, Tom, we're done. If you think of anything else, you give us a call."

"You bet. Oh-oh," Travis took another quick glance at his Patek Philippe, "gotta jet."

"Tripped on something sticky and fell on something hard?" Katz muttered after Travis had left the room.

"He hit her with a solid right cross. His ring knocked out the tooth. She figured pressing charges would just cause her grief in the industry and anyway, at most all he'd get would be a slap on the wrist."

"Well, at least he took an anger management class."

"Yeah. I wonder how that worked out for him?" Furley mused, hitting the 'Off' switch on the video camera.

# Chapter Three

"They said I should talk to you." The girl said softly in a breathy, whispering voice. Katz gave her a quick once over and then looked again. She was five feet five with coal black hair, pale gray eyes, pouty lips and breasts a man could get lost in. Were he any younger a girl like her could infect his nights and torture his days. Even now, just looking at her raised his pulse five or ten beats.

"I'm Detective Simon Katz. You are . . . ?"

"Kaitlen Berdue," she said with a Catholic school girls' smile and extended a slim hand. Katz took it and didn't want to let it go.

"Please take a seat." He gave her what he hoped was a fatherly smile and released her hand. "How can I help you, Ms. Berdue?"

"Call me Kaitlen, please. It's about Tom Travis, well, about his wife, I guess."

"You have some information concerning her whereabouts?"

"Huh? Oh, no, I mean, I don't know where she is. I never met her. I'm here about Tom, Mr. Travis."

"You know him?"

"We were . . . involved." A quick frown painted her face.

"Romantically involved?"

"Yes." Her eyes flicked down and her cheeks went from alabaster to pink.

"When did this relationship begin?" Katz asked in as matter-of-fact a tone as he could manage.

"About ten months ago. I didn't know he was married, well, I mean I knew but he said it was just for show, that she was gay and that it was just a play marriage to keep her ex-husband from using the lesbian thing to get custody of her daughter. Tom said he was doing her a favor, you know, to help her keep her child. I believed him, until I read the stories in the papers. Is it true, what the paper said about his wife?"

Katz gave her a level stare and a tiny, almost regretful nod. "The father of Marian Travis' daughter died in a car crash a little less than a year before she married Tom, and as far as we know, she was not a lesbian."

"So he did lie to me. I'm such a stupe!"

"Uhh, no, Ms. Berdue." Katz wanted to take her hands in his but didn't. "It's not your fault. Tom Travis is a very convincing person. Remember, he's a professional actor."

"Men are always lying to me." Kaitlen sniffled and pulled a pink tissue from her bag.

"Don't blame yourself." Katz made a note on his pad. "When did your relationship with Mr. Travis end?"

"Uhh, well now, I guess. I can't continue seeing him after . . . this!"

Katz felt an excited shiver run up his spine. "When was the last time you talked to him?"

"Last night. We made a date for this weekend. He's, he was taking me to Cabo."

"So, he doesn't know that you know the real story about his wife?" Katz asked in almost a whisper.

"I didn't want to accuse him of anything until I was sure. You shouldn't believe everything they put in the papers," Kaitlen said with deep sincerity. "But now that I've talked to you . . . well, I'll have to break it off." Kaitlen sniffled then jammed the worn tissue back into her purse. "And I liked him so much! He was always nice to me, except when he had too much to drink, but he was getting better about that."

"Do you think you could get him to talk to you about his wife?" Katz asked gently.

"On the phone? Because I don't want to see him again, not after the way he lied to me and all."

"Sure, the phone would be good."

"Well, I guess so. Do you mean you want to tape record what we say?"

"Would that be okay with you?" Katz asked politely and held his breath.

"Well, sure! I mean what if he killed that poor woman? We have a responsibility to her, I mean as citizens and all, don't we?"

"Yes, Ms. Berdue, we absolutely do. I couldn't agree with you more." Katz wanted to leap over the desk and smother her with kisses but restrained himself. "If I could just get your contact information, then we can plan the call."

An hour later Furley wandered into the squad room. Kaitlen was having lunch in the deli across the street while Katz blocked out her script.

"What are you up to?" Furley asked, pointing at the pile of hand-printed pages. Katz gave him a wolfish grin. "Jesus, what canary did you swallow?"

"Guess who had a girlfriend?"

"Tom Travis? Is that a surprise?"

"I phrased that wrong. Guess who has a girlfriend?"

"He thinks she won't talk? He can't be that stupid."

"He thinks she's that stupid. He told her Marian was gay and she believed him. He thinks she still believes him. He thinks he's taking her to Mexico for the weekend."

"Were you able to convince her to help us?"

"She volunteered! She says it's her civic duty to help us find out what happened to that poor, poor woman."

"Son of a bitch!" Furley shouted and held out his hand for a high-five. "Damn! What's she like? Bimbo? Skank?"

"Hey! She's very, very sweet."

"Does that mean 'airhead'?"

"Listen up! She's a very nice, very decent young woman. And that's how you're going to treat her. Do I make myself clear?"

"Jeez, Simon, I was just—"

"I mean it! You don't treat her right, I'll find a new partner who will. Got it?"

"Sure. I got it. As far as I'm concerned she's Mother Theresa."

"Good. She's due back here in ten minutes. Help me script her call to Travis."

## * * *

"What's this word?" Kaitlen asked, tapping Katz's notes.

"Hmmmm." Simon scratched out 'impetuous' and replaced it with 'silly.' Kaitlen read through the rest of the page.

"I don't know if I can do this," she said, frowning.

"It's really important." Furley gave her his best 'We need your help to catch the bad guys' stare.

"No, I mean, reading this. I can't keep it all straight. What if I lose my place or he says something I don't expect? I'm just not smart enough." Her lips pursed and she glanced down. "Couldn't I just talk to him and ask him about his wife?"

Furley and Katz exchanged a look then a shrug. "Sure, let's try that," Simon agreed.

Travis picked up his cell on the third ring.

"Hi, Tommy, it's me."

"Hey, baby, I've missed you."

"I've missed you too. Tommy, have you told anybody about us, I mean, well, me?"

"Has somebody called you?" Travis asked, clearly concerned.

"No," Kaitlen said with a little tremor, "but with all the stuff in the papers I was wondering if I should worry about reporters or anything."

"No problem, Sweetie. I wouldn't let you get dragged into this. Nobody knows."

Furley and Katz exchanged another look.

"Have they found out anything, about, you know?"

"It's a mystery."

"What do you think happened to her?"

"Jeez, I don't know. One minute she's here, the next she's gone."

"Has her ex called? Do you think he did it?"

"Could be. Who knows?"

"You said they had a terrible divorce, with her being gay and all. I was just thinking that maybe he did it and took the little girl. Is he violent? You said he was a big jerk."

"The biggest. Sure, he could have been behind it."

"But the police are after him, you know, investigating him, right? You told them about him?"

"Sure, he's their number one suspect, but don't tell that to anyone. It's kind of a secret between me and the cops."

"This is so sad, even if you weren't really, you know, married, her being gay and all. Do you miss her?"

"Sure, I miss her, in a way. She was a friend, I mean I married her to help her out with her custody fight. How many guys would do that?"

"Only you, Tommy. Do you think about her? What was the last thing she said to you?"

"Oh, hell, I don't know."

"You're blocking, Tommy. We've talked about that. You've got to open up to your emotions, not block them out. Come on, what did she say?"

There was a long pause and Katz's eyes strayed to the cassette's revolving spools. Finally, Travis responded.

"Sweetie, you know I don't like this touchy-feely stuff."

"You can't fight Karma, Tommy."

"Okay, fine, the truth is, we had a fight."

"Oh no. What happened?"

"Oh, the same old crap. I wasn't supportive enough. I wasn't there for her. All the pregnancy stuff. She was still on me to be her coach, like her having another kid was my idea. We both knew the baby wasn't mine but she still wanted me to act like I was the daddy. It made me feel like a patsy."

"But you paid for the doctors and the artificial whatever it was they did to get her pregnant. That was a really nice thing. Didn't she appreciate that?"

"Hell, no. She didn't give a damn about me. The handwriting was on the wall. As soon as the kid was born she was going to divorce me and move in with her lesbian lover. That was always her plan. But," Travis sighed, "I agreed to it." Furley and Katz both rolled their eyes. "I told her I'd cover for the pregnancy and she could have her girl friend, so long as I could be with someone I loved. I guess I can't complain since that's how I got you."

Kaitlen's lips formed a little girl's smile.

"Oh, Tommy!"

"It's true, Sweetie. I can't wait to see you. The guy dropped off the ticket, right?"

"Oh, yeah, I got it, but, well, there's a little problem."

"Like what?"

"I'm afraid we'll be seen together."

"Don't worry, Sweetie, I'll protect you."

"That's not what I mean, silly. I mean, I'm worried about you."

"Me?"

"Well, sure. I mean, what if one of those awful photographers gets a picture of us together or they bribe the maid or the bellhop or something? I mean, the world doesn't know about Marian being gay and it not being your baby. Here she is like, disappeared, and pregnant and everybody's looking for her, and if they catch us together, how will that look? If they find out my name they're going to talk to my friends, my boss, it will all come out. They'll say terrible things about us."

"We'll be real careful. No one will see us."

"Silly, somebody's always watching, and that was before Marian disappeared. We can't take the chance."

"But, Katey, honey—"

"What if they come to my job? What if they put my picture in those terrible papers? 'Tommy Travis's Cheating Whore' that's what the headline will say. No, I can't, we can't."

"Sweetie, Katey, it—"

"No, Tommy, not until this is over." A sob caught in Kaitlen's throat. "I have to go. I'll call you." She clicked off the phone. "Was that okay?" Kaitlen asked Simon nervously.

"Okay?" Furley cut in. "It wasn't just 'okay.' It was perfect."

Kaitlen beamed.

# Chapter Four

The road was packed dirt and meandered through a valley formed by two crumbling shale cliffs. Katz and Furley followed a San Bernardino County Sheriff's Cherokee, choking in its trailing plume of alkali dust. Katz's window vibrated to the rhythm of an unmufflered engine a quarter mile to the east.

"People do this for fun?" Katz muttered as their Crown Vic bottomed out in a dry wash.

"Not in a car like this. We need one of those bad boys." Furley pointed at a bathtub-sized ATV bounding over a stretch of low dunes.

The Cherokee pulled into blade scraped parking lot. Katz had finally given in to necessity and today was wearing Sears sneakers and jeans instead of his customary baggy brown suit.

The deputy, Harley Kress, stepped out and poured himself a cup of coffee from a chrome Thermos. "You want some?" he asked. Katz tried to identify Kress's accent, some kind of a flattened twang. Blond and rangy, all elbows and knees, the deputy slurped half his coffee in a gulp. "You think we'll find her today?" he asked Furley, then glanced at the sky. Somewhere above them a National Guard plane with ground-penetrating radar and thermal imaging was flying an imaginary grid.

"We've covered sixty percent of the park. If she's here. . . " Furley shrugged and shaded his eyes, searching the sky for the buzzing black dot. Of course, Katz reminded himself, if Travis wasn't the killer, they were wasting their time. But what were the odds of that?

"Not like the old days, I guess," the deputy said, nodding at Katz.

"I've never searched the desert for a body before."

"I mean the gizmos they've got now, GPS, the stuff in that plane up there." The deputy waved vaguely at the pale sky. "That guy knows exactly where he is, where he's been and where he's goin', down to a couple of feet. Try and search fifty wild acres without somethin' like that, and well hell, good luck to ya."

Katz nodded, muttered something innocuous, and scratched a line in the dust with the toe of his new shoe. Gizmos. The bastard, son-of-a-bitch Tom Travis had murdered his wife and their unborn baby and left them out here in this God-forsaken wilderness and all this kid wanted to talk about were the latest toys from Best Buy.

A squawk sounded from Kress's radio. "Baker Four, this is Eagle One. Over."

Harley pressed a plastic box the size of a jumbo Hershey bar to his lips. "This is Baker Four. GA Eagle One. Over."

"Thermal's showing a point of interest nine hundred meters northwest of your position."

"On the move, Eagle One. Hang on." The deputy jumped into the Jeep and waved at Katz and Furley. "You guys will have to ride with me the rest of the way."

The Cherokee bounded over rocks and scrub occasionally taking a detour around boulders and the banks of dead streams too steep to traverse. "Baker Four, turn twenty degrees to your left," the pilot ordered, then refined his directions yard by yard until they reached the site.

"You see anything?" the pilot asked once they were on foot.

To Furley the patch of desert looked no different from any other piece of dirt a mile in any direction. Ahead of them a twenty-foot high ledge of mud-colored rock showed through the side of an eroded slope. More rocks, red, brown, burnt orange and dark gray littered the earth at the base of the hill, turning to sand and tussocks of wild grass all the way to the broken streambed behind them. A huge, lonely boulder, twenty feet high, stood to their left almost at the edge of the bend in the dry creek. In its shadow lay an eight-foot oval-shaped litter of rocks in colors from ashes to chocolate.

"Just some rocks. Why don't you go get back on your grid while we take a look? Over."

"Roger, Baker One," the pilot said, slipping back into protocol. "Out."

"Okay, boys, let's move these guys." The deputy smiled and grabbed a pitted gray stone the size of a loaf of bread.

"Put on your gloves!" Katz ordered.

"I can take it." Kress smiled and held up a calloused palm.

"I'm sure you can, Deputy, but this is a potential crime scene. First we take photographs with yardsticks in them for reference. Then we sketch and measure. Then, wearing gloves, we move the rocks to a specific location for forensic analysis if needed."

For a moment the deputy froze then carefully replaced his stone. Fifteen minutes later they had exposed a ten foot by ten foot patch of gray sand. Furley took three more pictures then handed Kress a shovel.

"Scrape, don't dig!" Katz shouted before Harley could turn his first spade full of earth. The deputy frowned but did what he was told. This was the fifth time they had come out here and the third time they had used the National Guard plane. On each expedition they were assigned a different deputy. By the time they were done, Katz figured he and Furley would have trained half the San Bernardino Sheriff's Department in proper forensic procedures.

"Huh!" Harley muttered and knelt close to the ground. Barely eight inches down the shovel's blade had snagged something then slipped free. Kress reached down, then pulled. A piece of grimy plastic ballooned, shedding puffs of gray dust.

"Jack, get a picture!"

"Is this her?" Harley asked, not believing his eyes.

"Back up!" Katz pulled brushes and small garden tools from a bag. Together he and Furley removed enough dirt to confirm they had an adult female body then called it in over the deputy's radio.

Harley carefully approached the excavated grave and peered down at the corpse, then backed away.

"I guess you've seen a lot of them," he said to Furley, "DB's." Jack didn't reply. Harley turned toward Katz and shook his head. "Gee, Marian Travis. I can't believe we found her."

"That's not Marian Travis," Katz said almost under his breath.

"Huh? You mean that's some other poor—"

"That's just what's left of the container Marian Travis came in," Simon said wearily. "Marian Travis, the human being, was lost forever the instant she died. That over there is just a bag of bones."

An hour later a helicopter dropped the Sheriff's forensic team and all their gear. It took them eight hours to fully expose, photograph, and remove the body. Every handful of sand was sifted, every rock photographed.

Katz and Furley were still there when Marian Travis's corpse was lifted from her shallow grave, a lamp cord still knotted around her neck. A slight swell distended her belly containing the body of her unborn child, a little girl the coroner later reported.

Secretly, Simon Katz named her Rachel and for her, secretly, he wept.

# Chapter Five

FIFTEEN MONTHS LATER

Judge Malcolm Burris' lips drew wide in a tortured line and, with a soft, mewing sound, he toppled over behind the bench. The defense attorney, Greg Markham, rushed forward and found the judge kinked sideways clutching his stomach. Little moans slipped through Burris' clenched teeth.

"Call 911! Call 911!"

The courtroom filled with layers of voices:

"What happened?"

"Is he dying?"

". . . heart attack?"

A pair of deputies roughly pushed Markham aside. Slapping dust from his trousers, he paced back to the defense table where Tom Travis patiently waited.

"Is he dead?" Travis asked, glancing at Burris' up-pointed toes. Travis's tone was little different than one he might have used to ask the waiter if the sea bass was frozen or fresh.

With frost-gray eyes and a trim, salt and pepper mustache, Tom Travis had the kind of face that might have been worn by a Special Forces Colonel who had survived a lifetime of black ops, or a faded private eye who had loved and lost too many times but maybe, just maybe, had the heart for one last romance, both of which were movie heroes Tom Travis had played at one time or another.

Travis had gotten his start in a failed project to revive the TV western. The show died at the end of the first season but that was long enough to get Tom the lead in a new cop series that was canceled halfway through its second year. Seemingly charmed, Travis's publicist managed to cadge him a cover on TV Guide the week before the last episode aired. He started shooting his first starring movie role two months later and never looked back.

Travis picked up a spiral pad and doodled mindlessly as paramedics pushed through the crush. Soon the image of a jet plane firing rockets at a mangled tank began to take shape. It had good perspective, lots of energy. One or another of Travis's paintings, battle scenes, prizefights, all macho stuff, were usually on display at Ramona's on Rodeo Drive. Word was that when he was short of money he would knock one out in an afternoon.

"Pocket change," he once smirked off-camera to a talking head from Entertainment Tonight, but for the last ten years the prices had been slipping. Now, with Travis on trial for capital murder, the market had re-bounded to its old level of $50,000 a painting. But Travis wasn't doing any oils from his cell in the County Jail.

Sleek, Markham decided, that was the word to describe Tom Travis. Fashionably thin with a sharp angled nose and chin, a trim mustache, short dark hair, thin fingers, clever hands. Sleek like the spies and assassins, gamblers and gigolos he had imprinted onto miles of celluloid over an almost thirty year career.

Maybe that's the problem, Markham mused for the hundredth time. The jury was so used to seeing Tom Travis with a scowl on his face and blood on his hands that they walked into court already half-convinced that he was the monster who had first cheated on and then strangled his eight-month pregnant wife. He had killed on film so many times what was one more murder on his resume?

Markham turned at a clatter behind him. White-faced and hesitant, the jury was being herded from the room. A couple of them glanced uneasily at Travis who, oblivious, continued sketching shattering armor and roiling flames, as if death and destruction were the most normal things in the world. Sensing the weight of the jurors' eyes, Travis turned toward them and smiled. Embarrassed, they quickly looked away. Travis gave Markham a happy smile as if to say, "My fans."

Staring at the contempt painting the jurors' faces, the thought, They're going to send him to death row, trickled like acid through Greg Markham's brain.

# Chapter Six

Steve Janson stared at the refrigerator in the corner of his tiny apartment. It held five cold, long-necked beers, one fewer than yesterday. Behind him the muted TV flickered in a wash of color. For another moment he considered downing today's allotted beer in four long gulps. Clenching his fingers he turned back to the couch.

Colonial Indemnity's lawyer needed his review of the plaintiff's deposition by noon tomorrow. Steve grabbed his red pen. Images swirled on the TV, grabbing Janson's attention. Head down, Greg Markham appeared and shoved his way through a forest of microphones. Cynthia Allard's face edged into view, babbling mutely into the camera. "Trial of the Decade", "Movie Star Murder", "Sensational Details," Janson knew all the sound-bites by heart.

Frowning, he hit the remote. When she had worked for the D.A.'s office Allard had been a competent prosecutor and a decent enough person, easy on the eyes too, as the Old Man used to say. Now she was just another Talking Head. And what am I? Janson asked himself sourly. A disbarred, no suspended, attorney reviewing whiplash cases for a bunch of insurance lawyers. Frowning, Steve glanced at the refrigerator then jerked around at the trill of his phone. He sucked in a hasty breath. It was probably Gustovson wanting an update on the deposition.

"Janson."

"Steve, it's Greg Markham. You got a minute?"

Speak of the devil . . .

"How's it going, Greg?"

"You going to be home for a while?"

"What's up?"

"I'd like to talk to you about my case. How about it?"

Janson glanced at his watch, a quarter to four. He had about half an hour's work left on the file.

"Four-thirty okay?"

"I'll be there." The phone went dead. At this time of day the drive from Santa Monica was a bitch and Steve wasn't surprised that it was almost a quarter to five when Markham finally arrived.

"Thanks for seeing me on such short notice," Greg said, extending his hand.

"Anything for the guy who kept me out of prison."

"They couldn't convict you. You know that."

"They tried."

"Ted Hamilton tried, but he was only going through the motions. The most he really thought he could get was your disbarment."

"Thanks to you, that didn't happen either."

"I could have gotten you off Scott-free if you'd been willing to fight it all the way through to the end."

"I needed it to be over. I couldn't let it drag out for another year. You did what I asked you to. I told you to settle with the State Bar for something short of disbarment and you did. It's done." Steve grabbed a couple of beers and handed one to his guest. "So, how is Ted Hamilton? Are you kicking his ass?"

"What do you think?"

"He's a jerk and you're not. Enough said."

Markham frowned and shook his head.

"Unless something happens, we're cooked."

"When's the last time Ted Hamilton beat you?"

"The jury hates Tom Travis. Hates him!" Markham took a long pull on his beer. "He cheated on his pregnant wife and lied to his mistress. A mistress, I might add, that the jury loves as much as they hate Tom."

"Okay, your guy's a prick, but—"

"He's not just a prick. He's a lying, deceitful, cheating, arrogant, spoiled jerk of a prick, and they're going to stick it to him and smile when they do it. Nothing I've said or done is going to make the slightest bit of difference to that jury. They're like the fat couple in the buffet line, just rubbing their hands together and waiting for their chance to cash in."

"Look, Greg, you know the facts of life as well as I do. I used to be a Deputy D.A. I did criminal trials for six years and you've been doing them for fifteen. You've got the evidence you've got. You do the best you can with it and then it's out of your hands."

"That's a great philosophy when your client is guilty, but the D.A. has very little real evidence that Travis actually did it. No fibers, no blood, no witnesses, no DNA, no prints. All they've got is that the electrical cord around her neck could have come from a lamp he used to own or from any of a hundred thousand other lamps. That and the fact that he's a cheating bastard and that his wife is dead and his stepdaughter is missing. It's guilt by the process of elimination. It wasn't a robbery. It probably wasn't a rape gone wrong, so what's left? Obviously, the lying, cheating, bastard husband did it! Shit, that's a good enough reason to send a guy to death row, isn't it?" Markham angrily paced the tiny room, his bottle already empty.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"I need your help."

"What good can a disgraced, suspended, lawyer do you? Do you want me to sit at the defense table and put the evil eye on Ted Hamilton? Do you think that maybe my being there will piss off Old Man Burris so much that he'll make a reversible error?" A bitter laugh escaped Steve's lips.

"I want you to find me something that will get me a hung jury."

"How am I supposed to do that?"

"I'll give you everything I've got —- police reports, interviews, forensic reports, lab tests, crime scene photos, autopsy reports, Grand Jury testimony, everything. You were a cop for nine years before you became a prosecutor. You know how to run an investigation. The line cops will still talk to you on the QT. They like what happened to Alan Lee Fry. Find me something the detectives missed."

"Like what?"

"Like what? Like a witness they didn't interview, a piece of evidence they never examined, a tip they never followed up on. You know they took one look at Tom Travis and wrote 'The son of a bitch did it' on page one of their Murder Book. They never looked at anybody else. Anything that pointed another way went to the bottom of the pile as a waste of their time."

Steve eyed his empty bottle and carefully placed it on the edge of the coffee table.

"Why didn't you have somebody do this already?"

"I did but he wasn't you."

"Who?"

"Ben McGarrey out of the Foster Agency."

"McGarrey was on the Homicide Squad for ten years before he went private. If he didn't find anything there was probably nothing to find."

"He just went through the motions, documenting his hours. He's not you."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning you're a single-minded, determined son-of-a-bitch who won't let go of something you really want no matter what it costs you." Markham glared at Steve, then, embarrassed, turned away.

"Thanks. I'm glad to know that's the kind of person you think I am." Janson's tone was as dead as ashes. He headed to the fridge for another beer.

"Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that the way it sounded."

"No, you did. — It's fine. Think what you want. It doesn't matter because I couldn't help you even if I wanted to."

"It would only take—"

"It would take me, what, a week just to read the files and another week, maybe two to actually do anything? You can't be more than four or five days from going to the jury."

"You didn't hear?"

"Hear what?"

"Your former father-in-law, the Honorable Malcolm Burris, collapsed on the bench this afternoon."

"Is he—"

"No, he'll recover. Hot appendix. It burst before they could get him to the hospital. He wasn't in the best of health before so he'll be out for a couple of weeks, three at the outside. The trial's in recess until he gets back."

Janson gazed blindly out the window. Markham hadn't a clue what bladed memories were crawling through Steve's head. "Two thousand dollars a day plus expenses," Markham said in a hopeful tone.

Janson gave a weary laugh. "So, all those rumors about Tom Travis being broke are crap?"

"I put a hundred fifty thousand in my trust account for costs the day I took the case. I need your help, Steve."

"And I owe you for getting me only a two year suspension of my license to practice law instead of being flat-out disbarred, right?"

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to. You do remember what got me kicked out of the legal community?"

"Let's not go there."

"Let's not go there? You come into my house and ask me to help you get your wife-beating, cheating, lying, scumbag, prick client off the hook and you don't want to 'go there'? My wife was murdered, Greg, murdered! Her god damn head was cut off and . . ." Janson froze and turned away. "And I . . . " the words caught in his throat. Steve sucked in a harsh breath and tried again. "And now you want me to help Tom Travis get away with murdering his wife? And you tell me, 'Let's not go there?'"

"He didn't do it! My prick of a client is innocent, just like your wife was innocent—"

Janson moved quickly for a big man. In an instant he had lifted Markham clear of the floor. "Don't you ever mention Lynn and that God damn cheating Tom Travis in the same breath!" Steve shouted. He held Markham suspended for a full two seconds before finally dropping him to the couch and storming away.

For a moment Markham sat there, frozen, then adjusted his lapels, tucked in his disarrayed shirt, and headed for the door.

"How do you know he's innocent?" Steve called from across the room.

"The cops had more than a year and an unlimited budget and the only evidence they've found was that she was strangled with a cord that might have come from one of his living room lamps, that and the fact that Travis is a lying, adulterous, cheating, bastard, so he must be guilty. He's not that smart. If he had done it he'd have left a lot more evidence behind, trust me."

"So now he's innocent by reason of stupidity?"

"He's innocent because the law says he's innocent unless he's proven guilty. That's supposed to mean something to us."

"To us? Lawyers? Yeah, well, they kicked me out of the club."

"You let them kick you out of the club because you wanted it all to go away!" For a long moment Markham stared into Steve's blazing eyes, then turned away. "Fine, whatever." The hinges on the front door squeaked.

"I'll do it," Steve called.

Markham slowly turned around.

"What?"

"I owe you. I'll do it."

"Don't do it because you owe me. Do it because—"

"Now you don't want my help unless it's for the right reason? Do you think Tom Travis will care why I took the case if I manage to find something that gets him a hung jury? I said I'd do it. Isn't that good enough for you?"

"Yeah," Markham said after a long pause. "I guess it is. Thanks."

"This squares us, Greg. I do this and we're done."

"Yeah, I know," Markham said and quietly shut the door behind him.

# Chapter Seven

The bell rang a little before ten. A burly man in brown khaki looked up at Steve from a paper-stuffed clipboard.

"You . . . Steven Janson?"

"Yes."

"Okay, I've got a delivery for you from . . . the law offices of Gregory Markham." The deliveryman peered past Steve into the apartment. "Where do you want it?"

"Put it in the living room. I'll figure it out later."

The driver made a little grunt and turned away. Two minutes later he returned with a hand-truck stacked with four cream-colored boxes. Block black letters were carefully stenciled on the narrow sides of each:

FORENSIC REPORTS - I

WITNESS STATEMENTS A-J

MEDICAL REPORTS

WITNESS STATEMENTS K-R

Without a word he wheeled the stack inside and deposited it next to the couch then headed down the hallway for another load, passing a second worker approaching with four more cartons. There were eleven in all by the time the deliverymen were done.

"Sign here," the driver ordered and shoved the clipboard into Janson's hands. Steve scrawled his name. As he handed the pad back he noticed a tattoo of a broken cross in faded blue ink beneath the deliveryman's right ear. An omen? A moment later the man was gone.

Steve stared at the three stacks of boxes and imagined the awful truths they contained. Five minutes later he was still staring as if his mind was stuck like a needle in an old record. According to the index the police reports had been packaged in chronological order. Deciding that he might as well start at the beginning. Steve extracted a packet of stapled pages.

On December 31st the year before last two detectives had visited Tom Travis' Beverly Hills home in response to a report that his stepdaughter, Sarah, age four, and his wife, Marian Travis, eight and a half months pregnant, had both disappeared. Jansen read the file with growing unease. He forced himself to leaf through the folders in the first box of police reports. It held months of interviews generated while the police went through the motions of looking for a missing person whom everyone believed was dead.

The files contained statements from witnesses swearing that they had seen Marian Travis in San Diego, Reno, Vancouver, Saint Louis and points east. She had supposedly bought gas in Tacoma, a burger in Baton Rouge and rented a sail boat on Maryland's Eastern Shore. One psychic had reported her dead and buried near a large body of water. In another's vision her lifeless body was covered with rocks ten feet west of a tall pine tree.

Janson skipped them all, flipping almost four months forward to the next bit of forensic solid ground, the fifth search of the Double Peaks Recreational Preserve. Steve let his mind slip past the report's stilted police jargon, translating Simon Katz's cold words into a sad, flickering movie that unspooled in his brain and for a moment it seemed that he could almost see Marian Travis' body peeking from her shallow grave.

Steve dropped the report and closed his eyes. Would he have been better off if Lynn had just disappeared, if her body had never been found, if he had never gone after the monster who had killed her? A vision of Alan Lee Fry's face filled Janson's head.

## * * *

Somehow you expect the important events in your life to be highlighted with signs and portents like the scene in the movie where the cop notices the lipstick-stained cigarette next the body and the music swells. In that instant the hero knows who the killer is and that she's there in the dark behind him with her pistol centered on his spine. But in real life our turning points slip past us unnoticed until it's too late to do anything but remark later on what we have lost.

It had been just such an ordinary day when Alan Lee Fry had shown up at Steve Janson's cubbyhole in the D.A.'s office. Janson was the paperwork monkey on the Headless Killer case, preparing the dozens of subpoenas and search warrants that the detectives needed in order to narrow the list of suspects. Phone records, bank records, credit card purchases, auto repair invoices, DMV transfer forms, orders for the collection of DNA samples, the scud work that a lawyer has to do to keep a major case moving forward all fell on him. If he was lucky and the cops caught the guy, Steve's supervisor might let him second or third chair the trial. He might even get to cross examine a couple of witnesses.

At about eleven Steve was distracted by the beep of his phone. "Mr. Janson, there's a Mr. Alan Lee Fry here to see you."

"What's he want?"

"He says it's about the Headless Killer case."

"Does he look like a nut or a reporter?"

"I don't think so."

"Okay, send him back."

A few moments later a slender dark-skinned man about thirty years old appeared in Steve's doorway. "Mr. Janson?"

Steve gave the guy a brief glance — dark gray sport coat, burgundy silk shirt, gray slacks, black shoes, Italian, expensive.

"Can I help you?"

"I'm Alan Lee Fry." He said as if his name carried a deeper significance which was so self-evident that no further explanation was required — I'm Alan Lee Fry, the richest man in the world, or I'm Alan Lee Fry, the President of the United States.

"Yes?"

Fry stepped into Janson's tiny office and plopped into the only chair. "You ordered the police to search my home," Fry said in an accusatory tone. Steve frowned. He didn't order the police to do anything. He had probably processed the paperwork that facilitated the search of Fry's home.

"The Superior Court ordered the search of your home, Mr. Fry." The unsaid words, So What? floated like smoke in the air.

"Then why is your name on the papers?"

How dare you inconvenience the incomparable Alan Lee Fry? his tone seemed to demand.

Steve could have taken a deep breath, smiled and carefully explained that he was merely the Deputy D.A. who presented the cops' search warrant request to the Judge. That would have been the polite thing to do. But Fry's tone irritated Janson and challenged him in some unconscious, primal way. Unbidden, hormones dripped into Steve's blood and he found himself spoiling for a fight as if another, more violent man, had suddenly invaded his body.

"What's your problem Mr. Fry?" Steve snapped.

"Your police officers made a mess of my house!"

Steve bobbed his head in mock regret. "Sorry to hear that." As if I care.

"What are you going to do about it?"

"You can file a claim with the City Attorney's office for any damage." For all the good that will do you.

Fry glared and for a moment Steve wondered if he was going to get physical, then, in an instant Fry changed. His shoulders slumped, his head pulled back.

"So, there's nothing you can do?" he asked in a smarmy tone that, if anything, enraged Steve even more.

"Obviously the detectives thought you might have evidence that was relevant to their investigation. I processed their request for a warrant. The judge signed it. They did their search. That's pretty much how things work." So, stop wasting my time.

"I understand," Fry said with a sudden, saccharin smile. "I'll handle this another way."

"You do that. Claim forms are on the Internet at the L.A. City Attorney's web page. The Board of Supervisors will have six months to rule on your claim. After they reject it, you can sue the County if you want to." Good luck with that.

Fry's face went cold and flat. "Beautiful woman," he said, nodding at the photo on the corner of Steve's desk.

"What?"

"Your wife?" Fry pointed at the picture of Lynn standing under a tree in Griffith Park.

"Mr. Fry—"

"I noticed your ring." Fry gestured to Steve's plain gold band. "Any children?"

"I think you should . . . ." Steve began, rising.

"No, if you had children, you'd have pictures of them, a man like you."

"What do you mean, 'A man like me'?'"

Now it was Fry's turn to stand.

"You're very territorial, aren't you, Mr. Janson? You protect what's yours."

"You need to—"

"I understand that. I'm very territorial too. Of course, I don't have a beautiful wife, like you do. I've never been very lucky with women." Fry sighed. "No, for me, my work and my home are what I care about. I don't like having either of them violated, defiled by you and your cretinous thugs. I—"

"Get out of here, now!"

Fry paused a heartbeat, then smiled with all his teeth. "I understand how you feel, Mr. Janson. Unfortunately, I don't think you understand how I feel. But you will."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"The City Attorney's web site you said, for the claim forms? I'll make my claim, don't doubt that for a moment."

Fry gave Janson another smarmy smile and then walked out.

This was the point, Steve later decided, when a benevolent God would have tapped him on the shoulder and given him a wink or a nudge. But eerie music did not swell, no lightning bolts split the sky. Instead the sun still shined, the birds still chirped, and the phone was silent for the rest of the day.

No one from the DMV called and warned Janson that someone calling himself Lawrence Adams had claimed that Steve had dented his car in the Bloomingdale's parking lot. No one told him that they had given Mr. Adams Steve's home address. The manager of his apartment house didn't notice the well-dressed man who knocked on Steve and Lynn's door. The technicians at the police crime lab didn't rush to process the items seized from Fry's home. If they had they would have discovered blood and tissue matches to evidence left on the first two of the Headless Killer's victims. But the sample sat in their overcrowded In-Tray.

So, Steve filled out his papers in nerve-deadening solitude, left a message on Lynn's cell saying that he would be late, and around nine finally returned to a home that after that night he would never set foot in again.

# Chapter Eight

As Steve closed the file a heavy brown envelope slipped free. Inside were a dozen plastic pages each holding six color prints — the rock strewn burial site, the scratched earth with one silk-clad arm exposed, a chronicle of the body's excavation and, finally, the sad, withered corpse that had once contained two human lives.

Against his will, Steve stared at the remains, the matted hair, skin sloughing off the bone, and then doubled over in spasm. Lynn! Lynn! A voice screamed in his head. Finally Janson fell back against the cushions, his face clammy and damp. With his left hand he managed to slide another file on top of the photos.

Behind his closed eyes a movie again began to play: He opened his old apartment door. It was dark and the light switch clicked loudly. A sealed card was propped in the center of the kitchen table, Steve was written across the front in Lynn's handwriting.

"Now you're writing me notes instead of talking to me face to face?" he had shouted toward the light spilling from the bedroom doorway at the end of the hall.

He stormed into the bedroom and saw Lynn's body sprawled across the blood-soaked bed. . . Steve pressed his palms to his skull and forced his eyes open, battling the relentless memory, willing away the horrible pictures. Drained, he half staggered to the phone.

"This is Steve Janson. I've got to talk to Greg."

The line clicked and in a few seconds Markham picked up.

"Greg, it's Steve Janson. I can't do this. I just can't."

"Steve, slow down. What happened?"

"What happened? What do you think happened? I can't deal with this."

"Greg, you—"

"I can't go through this again, not for Tom Travis."

"He's not that bad. Don't believe everything you read in the papers."

"That's not it."

"Then what is it?"

"I don't want to get into that."

"Are you telling me that you have personal issue with Travis? Did something happen between you two?"

"Just drop it, okay? I don't want to talk about him. I just can't handle this poor woman's murder."

"But what about the girl?"

"I can't bring back the dead. God, if only I could."

"I don't mean Marian Travis."

"I'm sorry about the baby too, but what's done is done."

"I'm talking about her daughter, Sarah. She's still out there somewhere. What about her?"

"Sarah, she—"

"She disappeared with Marian but they never found her body. If the murderer had killed her, why wasn't her body in the grave? The cops searched the whole damn park. Sarah isn't there."

"So he buried her someplace else. Who knows why people do what they do?"

"She wasn't in the grave because she's not dead. She was too young to identify the killer so he didn't have to murder her. He just got rid of her, did something with her, kept her, sold her, dumped her, but she's out there alive, alone, and in trouble. We're her last hope. Steve, you're her last hope."

"Let the cops find her."

"The cops think Travis killed them both and they've stopped looking for her. They can't search for her because if they did that would make it look like maybe they believed Travis didn't do it."

"Travis probably did do it. He's the one who knows where she is. Get him to tell you."

"Jesus, Steve, if Travis is the killer he'll never, ever admit it and, alive or dead, we'll never find that little girl. If Travis didn't do it, there's a chance, a good chance, that she's alive out there someplace, alone and in trouble. Steve, she's depending on you."

"Find someone else."

"There isn't anyone else! The trial's going to be over in a couple of weeks and unless you find some new evidence Travis is going to be convicted and everything will stop, case closed. I won't have authority to look for the girl. Once the verdict is in, I'm done. No money, no subpoena power, nothing."

"Greg, I can't—"

"Stop thinking about yourself for once! You didn't do what you did for Lynn. You did it for you! It was all about you! Well, fuck you! Fuck you! Do something for somebody else for a change! This time, God damn it, save the innocent instead of punishing the guilty! I'm begging you, Steve, do the right thing. Forget about yourself just for once and save that little girl before it's too late, before she ends up like Lynn. . . . Steve. . . Steve?"

For a long moment the line crackled faintly, the only sound a hollow, whooshing noise.

"I'll never forgive you for this."

"Steve—"

"I'll try," Steve whispered and the line went dead.

# Chapter Nine

"Here you go, Mr. Janson." Smiling, Markham's receptionist handed Steve a buff envelope. Inside was a written authorization to interview Tom Travis in the County Jail, authorizations to review copies of Marian Travis's and Tom Travis's medical records, a "To Whom It May Concern" letter attesting that Steven Janson was retained by the Law Offices Of Gregory Markham as an investigator in the case of "The People versus Thomas Travis" and requesting all possible cooperation, and lastly, a check for $14,000 covering the first week's work. As much as he hated everything about this job, Janson allowed himself a small measure of satisfaction in taking fourteen thousand dollars of Tom Travis's money.

Markham's offices filled a restored Victorian in Santa Monica a few blocks from Kenny's, a deli that Steve hadn't visited since Lynn's death. He was debating going back there when he noticed a woman standing in the shadows beneath an old sycamore in front of Markham's gate. As he approached a thin breeze rustled the leaves and gray shadows crawled up and down Cynthia Allard's bare arms.

"Hi, Steve. What are you doing here?" Expensively dressed in a silk business jacket, pearl blouse and charcoal skirt, Cynthia extended a ring-free hand.

"I could ask you the same thing."

"Are you kidding? Greg Markham's the lead defense attorney in the Trial of The Century."

"What is this, the fourth or fifth Trial of The Century in the last fifteen years?"

"That depends on where you rank Michael Jackson." Cynthia glanced quickly from Janson to the building and back. "Some new development in your case?"

"No comment."

"Don't tell me you're helping Markham with the Travis case?"

"Deal," Steve said with a thin smile and turned to leave.

"Steve, come on, your working on the Travis case is major news."

"Do you have any proof that I am?"

Cynthia gave him a weak smile.

"It's been swell. Now, I'm going to lunch."

"Can I come along, for old time's sake?" Steve looked up and down the tree-shrouded street. "It's just me, no cameras."

"Will I be having lunch with Cynthia Allard, old friend from the D.A.'s office or Cynthia Allard, Girl Reporter?"

"I'll keep my microphone in my purse."

"Everything that's said between us today is completely off the record, not background, not deep background. It never happened, right?"

"Fine," Cynthia agreed after a slight hesitation, "you drive."

## * * *

Kenny's was still as Steve remembered it, huge laminated menus and vinyl booths, each table holding a bowl of sour pickles.

"So, how are you doing?" Cynthia asked once the waitress had shambled away.

"Okay. I'm mostly consulting for insurance defense firms, summarizing depositions, doing pre-trial motion research, interviewing witnesses, nothing that crosses the line into the actual practice of law."

"I don't work for the State Bar, Steve."

"Sorry. Defense mechanism. I know Ted Hamilton's just praying for me to do something he can prosecute me for."

"He had it bad for Lynn."

"If he had had it bad for Lynn," Steve said with a harsh edge creeping into his voice, "he wouldn't have tried to have me disbarred."

"I didn't mean—"

"No, I'm just a little wound up when it comes to Ted Hamilton. Territorial."

"Excuse me?"

"Someone . . . somebody once told me that I was territorial." Janson took a swallow of iced tea then carefully set down the glass if it were woven from gossamer threads. "I'm going to say this very calmly and not lose my temper. Ted Hamilton is a toadying jerk. He went after Lynn mostly because she was Lynn Burris, daughter of the Honorable Malcolm Burris, scion of the Burris Family Conglomerate. No fragrance is as sweet to Ted Hamilton as the scent of old money. The fact that Lynn was beautiful and smart and fun was just icing on the cake. Ted Hamilton hates my guts because I took Daddy's family away from him. Lynn was just incidental. Then, in his eyes at least, I got her killed. He and Daddy finally found something they could agree on, that Steve Janson is a complete jerk.

"Now Ted's doing his wet dream of a murder case, on TV every day, a million dollar book deal waiting in the wings, and I'm practically disbarred, living in some crummy apartment in Studio City, and it's still not enough for him! Hamilton still wakes up every day asking himself, 'Is this the day I'll get to put Steve Janson in prison?' So, you want to know why I'm a little on edge whenever anyone mentions Ted Hamilton to me?" Steve took a bite out of a fat pickle as if it were Hamilton's neck.

"You're telling me you're not working for Greg Markham?"

Steve gave Cynthia a sharp glance and she dipped her chin as if slapped. "Sorry."

"Do you like being a reporter?" he asked her a moment later in a transparent attempt to re-start the conversation.

"It has its moments. I like it more than I enjoyed prosecuting coked-up car thieves. And the pay is a lot better."

"It hardly seems like there's enough going on in the Travis case to keep you busy full time. What else are you doing?"

Cynthia fiddled with her sandwich, adding brown mustard in precise dabs. "It's like an assembly line, cops are investigating one case, the defendant's just been arrested in a second, the third one is about to go to trial, you know the drill."

"And Tom Travis is just a hop, skip, and a jump from a verdict."

"Until the judge got sick. How is he, by the way?"

"Daddy and I aren't close. You might say that I'm off the mailing list for the family newsletter."

"You said he blamed you for Lynn's death. I would have thought that once he calmed down he would have realized that it wasn't your fault."

Steve nervously rubbed his nose and turned away. "That's just his cover story," he began, as if talking to himself. "Daddy was never happy about Lynn and me. Ted Hamilton went to Stanford. I went to City College. Ted graduated from Boalt Hall Law School. I took night classes at the UCLA extension. Ted's father was an executive Vice President for Excell Development Corporation. My dad was a carpenter. You see where this is going?"

"The Judge didn't think you were good enough for Lynn."

"He thought Lynn had committed the disgraceful sin of letting a mongrel into the thoroughbred's pasture. Deep in his heart I suspect he thinks her murder was just karma, life punishing her for having the bad taste to marry below her class." Steve took a swallow of tea and banged down his glass. "There was one Christmas. . . ." Scowling, he paused in mid-sentence and gave his head a little shake. "Never mind. That's all in the past now. How about you? Any new romance in your life these days?"

"No romance at all."

"What about, who was it, Larry Baldwin, the litigator from Crowell and Jones?"

Cynthia grimaced. "That was ages ago. I saw him a couple of months ago," she said, and suddenly grinned.

"What?"

"Oh, just thinking, one of those 'what if' things. I barely recognized him. He looked like he weighed three hundred pounds. His head was puffed up so much I thought it was going to explode."

"Dodged a bullet on that one."

"You bet. How about you? You seeing anyone?"

Now it was Steve's turn to frown. "Too many ghosts."

Cynthia hurried to change the subject.

"So, off the record, what do you think about the Travis case?"

"He's a prick, excuse my French, and he probably did it, but the evidence is pretty thin."

"If he didn't kill her, who did? Surely you don't buy Greg's serial killer/Satanic Cult theory?" Cynthia cut the second half of her sandwich into three precise, ladylike sections.

"I must have missed the day in law school where they covered the doctrine of Guilty By The Process Of Elimination. How does that work? Once you have eliminated all other logical motives for a crime, the sole remaining person with a strong motive is presumed guilty?"

"You have to admit that the girl friend's testimony is pretty compelling."

"I've heard the sound bites on the news, but all they tell me is what I already said, the guy's a prick. He cheated on his wife and he lied to his mistress about his wife. That doesn't make him a killer."

"So you think somebody else did it and framed Travis by burying Marian's body in the same place where he was driving his dune buggy?"

Steve took a bite of pastrami, his eyes darting around the room, drawing out the silence until Cynthia decided that it was his way of telling her that he wasn't going to discuss the case. She picked up the last wedge of her own sandwich.

"Nobody cares what a semi-disbarred attorney thinks," Steve said half a minute later.

"I care."

"Okay, then in that case, I think he probably did it."

"But you're not convinced."

"I'm not on the jury. I don't have to be convinced."

"If you found out something that proved Travis didn't do it, would you turn it in?" Cynthia's asked in a nonchalant tone.

"You think I'd let an innocent man go to prison?"

"He's a prick, you said it yourself. He lied to his girlfriend. Probably hit his wife. Cheated on her at least. And. . . ." Cynthia let the sentence drop.

"And what?"

"Well, you know the rumors."

"What rumors?"

"Nothing," Cynthia said quickly, "just malicious gossip."

"Gossip about what?"

"I shouldn't have said anything."

"But you did. Now finish it," Steve demanded.

"I'm sure it isn't true," Cynthia began after a long pause, "but there were rumors that Tom and Lynn went out a few times after he met her at one of her family's charity functions. She never mentioned him to you?"

"It looks like Cynthia Allard, Girl Reporter, is back in town," Steve said, his voice flat, harsh. Standing, he dropped a twenty on the table.

"Steve, I'm sorry." Cynthia grabbed his hand. "It's this job, sometimes things just slip out. I really do want to be your friend." Steve jerked his hand away. "Let me make it up to you. If you ever need anything, even if it's just a friend you can talk to, call me, please."

"I'll have the waitress call you a cab," Steve said in a tone as dead as clay and turned toward the door.

# Chapter Ten

Steve barely noticed the drive home, his arms and legs operating on automatic pilot like so many pistons and gears while his mind replayed the last time he had seen Tom Travis. It had been at the La Paloma Grill up in Malibu Canyon. Two miles east of the Pacific Coast Highway the villagers liked to think of themselves as residents of another world, someplace rural and organic and as remote from the grit of Los Angeles as Catalina Island is from the mainland shore.

They had driven up in Lynn's crimson Mercedes SL. Steve remembered tossing the keys to the all-American kid at the valet parking stand. At his age Steve would have been thrilled to get behind the wheel of an eighty thousand dollar car. Jaded by Ferraris, Bentleys and quarter million dollar Aston Martins, the boy looked at the Mercedes with no more interest than he would have given his grandma's Toyota.

Behind La Paloma's main building lay a patio sheltered by pale stucco walls which in turn were almost hidden beneath bougainvillea, wisteria, and climbing roses in sprays of purple, white and butter gold. Steve remembered everything about that night in exaggerated colors. Lynn's dress floated in his memory, a lustrous cobalt that matched the glimmering blue of her eyes.

The patio seemed a fairy garden sunken beneath the bowl of the night. Candles flickered within crystal lamps and here and there in the shadows twenty-dollar cigars pulsed like oversized lightning bugs. Tom Travis had reserved a table two-thirds of the way across the glazed brick patio, directly opposite the restaurant's rear doors. Muted strains of a string quartet drifted on the breeze, a counterpoint to cricket chirps and distorted voices which all twisted together like the babble of a small stream. When they reached the table Travis gave Lynn a dazzling smile, stood, and kissed her cheek. Steve glanced at the empty fourth chair.

"Great to see you guys. Steve, right? Tom Travis." Travis's palm was firm and dry. "How do you like this place? One of my little hideaways where the tourists can't find me." Travis swept his arm in an expansive gesture as if proclaiming the La Paloma part of his personal domain. "It's just the three of us tonight, Elena had a thing," Travis said referring to his current girlfriend. Travis paused, then broke into a sour grin. "Actually, she's pissed at me. She doesn't have Lynn's sunny personality. Everything's a freaking drama. I guess that's what I get for dating an actress." Tom spotted a white-coated bus boy and waved him over. "Bring me a nice red, French. Champagne for you Lynn? Steve, what's your poison?"

"I'll have whatever you're having."

"Great choice! You got that son?" Travis pressed a twenty in the kid's palm and turned away.

"Lynn, you look terrific, as always. You hit a home run with this lady, Steve. If I had had any sense I'd have dumped Sally Sizemore the instant I laid eyes on Lynn, but timing is everything, right? My loss is your gain." A waiter brought their drinks.

"I couldn't agree with you more, Tom." Steve let his words hang in the air like a toast and clinked Travis's glass.

"Happy days," Lynn said when Tom's goblet kissed hers.

For a man having girlfriend trouble, Travis seemed in high spirits, regaling them with celebrity anecdotes and inside jokes. A few times he slipped into reminiscences with Lynn about some society family or charitable function and Steve used the void to order another drink.

"So, Steve," Travis said shortly after their meals arrived, "I understand that you were a cop before you joined the D.A.'s office. Were you ever in any hairy situations while you were on the street?"

"I was shot at a couple of times. Luckily, they missed." Steve smiled and cut a piece of veal.

"You get the chance to shoot back?"

"They frowned on us letting the bad guys get away with that sort of stuff."

"So, did they?"

"What?"

"Get away."

Steve paused and glanced at Travis's glistening face above the candle flame. His teeth were so white that he seemed like the Cheshire Cat, slowly disappearing until only his smile was left behind. "No," Steve said, putting down his fork. "They didn't get away."

"So you took care of business, both times?"

"Yeah." Steve finished his last swallow of wine.

"See, Steve, that's how you're different from the phonies in my business. If any of them had put a guy down, that's all they'd talk about and every time they told the story there'd be another bad guy in the mix. See, that's why I wanted to meet you—"

"Excuse me?"

"Lynn told me a little about you, the kind of stand-up guy you are." Steve gave Lynn a quick glance that seemed to bounce off unnoticed. "I'm doing a new film, In The Dead Of Night. I play a lawyer who used to be a cop who's defending this beautiful woman who's accused of killing her cheating husband. We need to hire somebody as the technical advisor."

"If you're going to play a defense attorney—"

"There are going to be some flashbacks to when the hero was a beat cop. And here's the twist, when he was a cop he was involved with the defendant, crazy about her, but she dumped him for the husband. Now, years later, she begs him to defend her, and he's still crazy in love with her and he keeps remembering being with her during his days as a cop. So, we'll have to get an advisor for the cop stuff and one for the lawyer stuff." Travis pointed his finger at Steve like a cocked gun. "Bam, two birds with one stone. We'd only need you for a few days of actual shooting, maybe you could schedule some vacation time, and you'd have to look over the script and give the director your notes."

"I—"

"There's a ten grand payday in it. Not like you guys need the money, but, hey, that would cover a nice little getaway for you two down to Saint Bart's. Am I right?"

Steve glanced at Lynn who was working so hard at not showing any emotion that in the dim light her face looked like a marble mask.

"Maybe somebody from the studio could email me the dates when you'd need me and I could talk with my boss and make sure I can get the time off."

"Sounds like a plan. Hey, we'll have a great time. Who knows? This could develop into a nice little sideline for you. I know some cops who do two, three movies a year." Tom raised his glass and Steve, smiling, followed suit. After that, by imperceptible degrees, his memory of the evening slowly dissolved. At some point Travis switched to brandy. His stories became louder, his gestures more expansive. Finally, around eleven Lynn said something about work and scraped her chair back across the bricks. For an instant Travis's attention seemed to freeze then he gave them a sloppy smile, rose and engulfed Lynn in a long hug and short kiss on the lips. Steve got a hug too, but, mercifully, no kiss.

Once on the street, the air seemed sharper and Steve felt a subtle wobble tilt his brain.

"Sweetie, you mind driving? I'm not sure I could pass a Breathalyzer test right now."

Instead of answering, Lynn gave him a long kiss. "Ummm, you don't taste drunk to me."

"I guess we'll have to put that to the test when we get home."

Lynn gave him a slow smile and slipped behind the wheel. "You're not going to work on the movie, are you?"

"Without the actual shooting schedule. . . ." Steve let the sentence die.

"You don't like Tom, do you?"

"Was I that obvious?"

"In his world he deals with professional phonies. You're nowhere near their league."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"I meant it as one." Periodically in the distance below them white dots flickered on the PCH. "He's not that bad, you know."

"I didn't say he was."

"No, I mean he comes off like this self-centered, egoistical person, but underneath, he's really very sweet." Steve slightly reclined his seat and closed his eyes. "Some people in this town are very good at making themselves seem a lot better than they really are. Tom's just the opposite. The harder he tries to play the good guy, the worse he looks. It's sad, really."

"That's a penetrating analysis. I thought you didn't know him that well."

"Are you jealous?"

"Of a Hollywood star and the most desirable woman in the world? You bet I'm jealous."

"Good, then my plan has worked."

"So, how well did you know him?"

"He's ancient history. I wouldn't trade you for two Tom Travises."

"But what about three Tom Travises?"

"Hmmm, three Tom Travises? I'll have to think about that one."

They made love through half the night until Steve wondered if La Paloma's wines had been enchanted or drugged. It was only halfway through the following afternoon that he realized that Lynn never did explain how well she had known Tom Travis, and by then, he didn't want to find out.

A Porsche Cayenne ran the yellow at Dover and, in a squeal of brakes, Steve snapped back to the present. That dinner was when? Like an American transplanted to Paris converting feet to centimeters, Fahrenheit to Celsius, Steve converted time to and from normal calendar dates to so many days and months BLD and ALD — Before Lynn Died and After Lynn Died. Dinner at the La Paloma. That was not long after they were married, about two and a half years, BLD. The intersection cleared and Steve accelerated on through.

# Chapter Eleven

Steve got himself a beer and drank it slowly, enjoying every swallow. Around him the pile of boxes seemed to have multiplied. He was well into his second day of research and he felt as if he had barely scratched the surface. Behind the transcript of Kaitlen Berdue's first taped phone call with Travis was her background information. The next folder held a copy of the detectives' interview with Kaitlen's brother, Bobby Berdue.

## * * *

Furley and Katz found Bobby Berdue in a little house in the northeast corner of San Diego County. The road to Bobby's cottage was cracked asphalt that wound its way past brush-filled canyons and dust devil flats. Dotted along its path were broken-down gas stations, an evangelical church and a host of honky-tonk bars. Berdue lived in a sagging bungalow sheltered beneath two ancient black oaks. A Ford F150, headed out, sat at the back of the dirt drive. As he pulled close to the porch Furley caught the glint of a decaying Airstream trailer hidden behind the house.

"Welcome to Meth Country," Furley said glancing at the deserted highway and manzanita-choked hills. "What do you think we'd find if we kicked in the door to that trailer?"

"I wouldn't want to be lightning any matches around it."

As Furley and Katz stepped from the Crown Vic a swirling gust pelted them with dust and broken leaves. Furley squinted and hurried for the door. Katz's limp was worse and in spite of not wanting to give his wife the satisfaction of having told him so, he had finally called the doctor a week ago. He was supposed to see the Sports Medicine specialist on Friday. Shit! Katz thought, Sports Medicine! It used to be the 'bone doctor', then it was the 'orthopedic surgeon', but people got frightened by the 'surgeon' part so now they called themselves 'Sports Medicine Specialists'. Katz frowned against the ache in his knee and hobbled after Furley to the door.

There was no bell. Furley pounded on the jam with the side of his fist but the wind muffled the blows against the background of the plastic rattle of the oak tree's leaves.

"Mr. Berdue, LA Police Detectives!" Furley shouted, then pounded again. An icy gust cut through Katz's shirt. A tangle of gray clouds rapidly scudded east against an approaching wall of blue-black thunderheads blown in off the sea. Studded with tufts of mosquito grass, the rutted earth in front of the cottage flaked off at the touch of the wind. If they weren't out of here before the rain hit Katz knew that the mud would be an inch deep up the sides of their shoes. Katz glanced at his black wingtips. Fifty bucks at Shoe World and it had taken him three weeks to break them in. Shit!

Scowling, Katz twisted the knob and pushed inside. "Police!" he shouted and angled forward to where he could see into the kitchen at the back of the house. A young Caucasian man sat at a dented, white-painted table, a can of beer in front of him.

"Mr. Berdue?" Katz called, watching the man's hands.

"Who wants to know?" Bobby asked then took a long swallow.

"LAPD. Didn't you hear us knocking?"

"Was that you? Thought it was the wind. What do you want?"

Furley and Katz carefully paced toward the kitchen, both keeping a careful watch left and right.

"You alone here?" Furley asked, his hand hovering nervously near his gun.

"You see anybody?"

"Are you alone here, sir?" he demanded, the 'sir' sounding like a curse.

"Sure." Berdue laughed and took another swig. "You want one?" He held up a gaily painted can, "Milwaukee's Pride, Premium Lager." Furley had seen the brand on sale at Costco at a case price that worked out to thirty-eight cents apiece.

"Thanks, but we're on the job."

Berdue took a final swallow, crushed it against the scarred table, then grabbed fresh one from the fridge. Foam spurted onto the worn linoleum when he popped the tab.

"This about that Travis woman?" he asked then dipped his head to slurp the foam.

"Mind if we sit down?"

"Help yourself."

Furley and Katz grabbed chrome bent-pipe chairs and arranged them facing Bobby Berdue.

"Your sister told us she'd been seeing Tom Travis before his wife went missing. Did you ever meet Travis?"

"Why would he want to meet me? It's my sister he's poking." A sour grin twisted Berdue's lips.

"So, you never met him?"

"You playin' a game with me?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Let's cut the crap. My sister's one of the 'good people.' When we were kids, it was always 'Don't do this, Bobby.' 'Don't do that, Bobby.'" Berdue's voice assumed a falsetto tone. "So, if you asked her if I ever met Tom Travis, she's told you that I did, once, when she was showing off her movie star boyfriend. You cops!"

Katz gave him a quizzical stare.

"You and your fucking games, always trying to get on top of people, catch them in something."

"Look, Bobby, is it okay if I call you 'Bobby'?"

Berdue shrugged.

"I think we got off on the wrong foot here," Katz continued. "Maybe me coming inside like I did was a mistake. We saw your truck and then when nobody answered the door, I got suspicious. Sorry. Occupational hazard. This is your house and I shouldn't have come in like that without an invitation. But we're here because your sister has been very helpful to us and we're following up on what she told us. We're not looking at you for anything but we need some help on this lady's disappearance. Okay?"

Berdue stared at Katz for heartbeat, then shrugged. "Yeah, sure, sorry. Like you said, I was a little pissed off, you coming in here like that." Berdue glanced at Furley then seemed to relax. "Let's forget it. Hey, you want that beer now, for real?"

"No—"

"Sure," Katz agreed. "It's a hell of a long way out here from LA." Katz nodded at Furley. "He's driving. I'm not." Berdue popped a fresh can and Katz took a swallow. "That hits the spot. Thanks." Simon put the can down and opened his notepad, paused, then flipped it closed. "What's your take on this guy, Travis?" Katz gave Berdue his 'just between us guys' stare.

"You want to know what I think of Tom Travis?" Katz shrugged. "Okay, since you're asking, I think he's a prick!" Katz smiled broadly. "What?"

"Nothing, just that you and my partner here," Katz dipped his head in Furley's direction, "have the same opinion. That's just what Jack called him the first time he came in for an interview. A prick." Katz took a small sip of his beer. "Go on. I'm interested in what you've got to say."

Berdue gave Katz a quick smile then held up a finger and got himself another beer. "Thirsty work," he said. Katz smiled and took another pull from his own can. "Okay," Bobby continued, "Tom Travis. First off, my sister's a decent person. Sure, maybe she's not an Einstein, but she's got a good heart. Too soft-hearted, really. I've told her a million times, 'Katey, don't let people take advantage of you' but she never listens. She's always picking up strays and feeding them until they bite her. Then she meets Travis. Did she tell you how?"

Katz and Furley just stared.

"His wife comes into Katey's studio to sign up for a yoga class. One day Travis comes in for something or other, the wife forgot her sunglasses, whatever. While he's waiting for the class to be over he gets a look at Katey in that Spandex thing she wears at work — well, hell, you've seen her, right? Katey walks by and guys jump out of cars, fall out of trees. Next thing you know, he's coming by almost every day with one excuse or another. Then one day it's: 'My wife lost her cell, did she leave it here?' and he moves in for the kill. He thanks her for all the fine work she's doing for his wife and invites her out for a 'thank you' lunch. That's what he calls it. Takes her to La Belle in Beverly Hills. Then he walks her around the room. 'Oh, there's Anthony Hopkins. Hi, Tony. There's Julia Roberts. There's George Clooney. How's it goin', Georgie?' On the way back he gives her the story about his wife being gay. Give me a fucking break!"

"Did you tell her Travis's wife wasn't a lesbian?"

"How do I know which way she swings?"

"But if you thought he was using her. . . ."

Berdue gave a little shrug. "Truth is, I didn't find out about them goin' out until two or three months after it started. By then it was too late to try to break them up, not unless I had a good reason, which I didn't, no proof or nothing. I'm no private dick." Bobby took another swig of beer.

"And maybe you didn't want to break them up?" Katz asked softly.

Berdue frowned, then nodded. "Yeah, if we're bein' truthful here, maybe I didn't. I mean, the guy's a big star, lots of connections. Maybe he can do Katey some good. Get her a job at a studio or modeling stuff. I figure he's at least good for a nice birthday gift or something for her. Maybe he even falls for her, dumps his wife and marries her. She moves into the big time. Hey, it happens. At least that's what I thought before I got to know the jerk better." Angrily, Berdue finished his beer and rang the empty against the table.

"You know what the asshole gave her for Christmas? A purse! A fucking $200 leather purse from Macy's! Katey hates leather. She feels sorry for the fuckin' cows for God's sake! That's the kind of person she is, somebody who feels sorry for cows. Jeez!" Berdue staggered to his feet, muttered, "Gotta see a man about a horse" and teetered from the room. Furley continued scribbling notes. A minute later a flush sounded and, walking more steadily, Berdue got himself another beer and slumped back into his chair.

"Sounds like a real tightwad," Katz said. "If I was a movie star and I was dating your sister I'd do a whole lot better than a purse." Berdue raised his beer in salute and pointed it at Katz's chest. "What's a thousand or two to a guy like Tom Travis?" Katz continued.

"You've got that right! Shit, with his money, he should've given her something good, you know, a diamond necklace or a Beemer or something. A fucking purse!" Berdue's head weaved in a small circle and he put down his beer.

"What did you talk about when you met Travis?"

"What a phony!" Berdue said and took another drink.

"In what way?"

"Look, you guys checked my record, right? You know I've seen the inside of a cell a few times, this and that. We're having dinner together, Katey, me and Travis, and he starts off, first thing, asks me what jail is like. Katey is all 'Tommy! What are doing?' but he just ignores her, like, 'Quiet, woman, we're talking man to man here.'"

"How'd he know about your record? Did Kaitlen tell him?"

"No way! She's in love with the guy. Last thing she's going to do is tell him her brother's a jailbird. I figure he had some detective check her out and then check me out."

"Was he upset that you had a record?"

"He thought it was cool, like a guy who fights bulls or races sports cars. What a load of crap. You ever know anybody who thought being locked up was cool?"

"What else did he say?

"He wanted to know what it was like, being in jail. Did I know any really bad guys? He said he might want to interview some hard guys to get tips for a movie, how to play a killer, how to play a cop who deals with killers. Then he asks me: 'If you wanted to hire a hit man, how would you do it? How much does it cost to get a guy knocked off?' All kinds a crap like that. It pissed me off, let me tell you. Here I am, sitting with my little sister and he's making me out to be some low-life scum. I mean, who does that to a guy he's just met?"

"What did you say?"

Berdue waved his hands. "What could I say? I wanted to punch his lights out, but Katey's sitting there so I went along with it. You gotta understand, he'd had a few drinks and I'd had a few drinks and I knew that if I said what I was thinking we were gonna rock and roll right there, so, for Katey's sake, I kept it together, just went along with his shit, smiled and told him what he wanted to hear. Cheap bastard."

"He didn't pick up the bill?"

"Oh, sure, he picked up the bill. My steak was like fifteen bucks."

"So, it wasn't Spago?"

"Marco's Rib House in Burbank. Mr. Movie Star."

"Did you ever talk to him again after that?"

Bobby paused and stared out the window at the gathering storm.

"Yeah, once," he said finally, his voice beginning to slur. A couple of raindrops spattered the glass. "It was around Thanksgiving and, bam, out of the blue he calls me. I guess Katey gave him my number. He's all friendly and says he's getting ready to do a cop movie or something and he really needs to talk to a hit man for background on his role. So I ask him, 'A real hit man?' and he says 'Yeah, a real stone cold killer, somebody with notches on his gun.' Notches on his gun? Man, who talks like that?"

"What'd you do?"

"What'd I do? I told him I'd ask around and get back to him."

"Did you?"

"Are you nuts? You think I want to tell some psycho killer that I'm going to give his name and phone number to a guy who's making a movie? That's not a healthy conversation to have with those kinds of people. Shit, I learned that much in the joint."

"Did he ever call back?"

"Once. He left a message on my cell asking me to call him. I erased it. Then his wife went missing. I didn't hear from him again and he didn't get any calls from me."

"So, you never gave him any names of guys who'd do The Big Job?"

"No fucking way!"

"When his wife went missing, did you think he did it?"

"Two plus two still makes four, right?"

"You think that's what he wanted the hit man for?"

"What do you think?"

Katz and Furley glanced at each other then slid back their chairs. Katz extended his hand. "Thanks for your help, Mr. Berdue. We'll give you a call if we have any other questions."

"Yeah, sure," Bobby said, taking a second or two before he was able to connect with Simon's hand. He let go and grabbed for his beer, accidently knocked it over and frowned. The detectives had just reached the door when they halted at a shout from behind.

"Hey, can you guys call the San Diego D.A. for me? They've got some hummer beef they're after me on. Maybe you could tell them I've been cooperating with you guys?"

"One hand washes the other," Katz said.

"Huh?"

"If the LA D.A. asks you, are you going to testify about Travis looking for a hit man?"

"What? Oh, yeah, sure. No problem."

"You've got my card. Leave the San Diego deputy D.A.'s name on my voice mail. I'll give him a jingle."

Behind them, Katz heard the tab snap on another can of beer. Furley beeped the remote and they jogged to the Crown Vic through the growing rain. Katz's knee throbbed harder with every step.

# Chapter Twelve

Steve was just putting his dinner plate into the dishwasher when the phone rang. He peered at the receiver as if it were a coiled snake. Had Cynthia told anyone he was working for Tom Travis? The phone trilled a second time. Jesus, if the media found out about him being involved, all the crap about Lynn would come up again. His own voice filled the room: "Hi, this is Steve. Leave a message."

"Steve, it's Greg. Pick up."

For a second Steve froze, then, reluctantly, grabbed the phone.

"You got any plans for nine tomorrow morning?" Markham asked.

"I'm still going through the files."

"Meet me at the main jail. Tom wants to talk to you."

Steve frowned. "I don't know enough to know what questions to ask him."

"I didn't say you needed to talk to him. I said he wants to talk to you."

"Look, I've got a million things to do here . . ." Steve stared at the stacks of boxes he had not yet opened.

"We're in the service business. This is part of the service."

"Okay," Steve reluctantly agreed.

## * * *

As a VIP defendant, Tom Travis had his own cell, isolated from the rest of the prison population. Freshly showered and shaved, his thinning hair neatly combed, Travis was escorted into the jail's tiny conference room. A square stainless table was bolted to the floor. Four metal stools like steel petals extending from an oversize metallic flower sprang from the central post. Steve took the seat opposite Travis.

"Steve," Tom gave Janson a weak smile and extended his hand to limit of the chain securing it to his waist. "Sorry we have to meet under these circumstances." A grimace marked his glance around the barren room. "A little different from La Paloma, I guess."

"Yeah, " Steve agreed, "a little bit."

"Listen, guy, I didn't get the chance to say it before, but I'm really sorry about—"

"Sure, I know. I'm trying to put that behind me."

"She was a special lady."

"Yes, she was." Travis seemed genuinely sad, both for Lynn and for his own situation. Tom had lost weight since their dinner together. Now, clothed in a baggy orange jumpsuit, he seemed only a shadow of the man he once had been. In spite of his personal dislike for the actor, Steve felt the beginning of a small sympathetic ache.

"Hell of a thing for us to have in common," Tom said. Markham's face paled. "Both of us, I mean, having our wives murdered by lunatics."

Steve thought about leaping over the table and burying his fist in Travis's face but found he couldn't move, as if rage and pain battled each other for dominance and only succeeded in canceling each other out. Travis seemed to sense he had said something wrong and pulled back but he didn't seem to know quite what or why. People have been smiling and kissing his ass for so long, Steve decided, the guy no longer has a clue how he pisses people off.

"Hell of a thing," Markham said and glanced at his watch. That was one gesture Travis understood.

"Well, anyway, thanks for coming. I was really pleased when Greg told me that you were going to get involved. God knows I can use all the help I can get. Nothing against the last detective, McGarrey, but the guy never believed me. I could tell his heart wasn't in it. But I know you won't let me down, Steve. We go way back, this guy and me," Tom said to Markham.

"Tom, you know I've only started going through the files, but since we're here, maybe I can ask you a few questions?"

"Why not? Everybody else has had their shot at me."

Steve paused while a passing guard peered through the Plexiglas window, then opened his yellow pad. "Kaitlen Berdue's brother, Bobby, told the police that you asked him for a referral to a hit man. Something about a movie you were going to do. According to your interview with the police a few weeks after Marian disappeared the movie you were shooting was a horror film called The Bone Yard, which doesn't sound like it has any hit men in it. Was Berdue making that up?"

"Not exactly, I mean I said something about needing to research roles as a hit man, but just as, you know, casual dinner conversation." Steve pretended that was the most reasonable answer in the world and after a brief pause, Travis continued. "There was this book, Hard Contract, that was really hot. Eastwood, Ridley Scott, and some other guys, all of them were bidding on it. The main character is this aging hit man hired by a rich guy to find and kill the person who murdered his wife. The twist is that the killer was a woman and the deeper the hit man gets into it, the more it looks like the rich guy hired her to kill the wife and now he wants the hit man to kill her to clean up the loose ends. Of course, my character starts to fall in love with the target. Hell of role."

"So, you were negotiating for this part when you talked to Berdue? Will the director and the producer back you up?" Steve stared at Travis expectantly and was met with a blank stare.

"Fuck!" Travis finally said, banging his fist on the table and turning away. "I gotta say it? You want me to spell it out?" Puzzled, Steve looked at Greg to see if he had a clue what Travis was talking about. "This town," Travis hissed, "this town has no heart, it's like a fucking robot monster. It doesn't care what you've done, who you were, only who you are. I was the number one box office star for four years in a row. Four years. Now, half the time they hear 'Tom Travis' they won't even let me read for the part. This was a big book with real talent behind the movie. I could have played this guy, played the hell out of him. A-Class director, A-Class production, bestseller, this role would have put me back on top, like Frank Sinatra after From Here To Eternity.

"Yeah, sure I wanted to talk to a hit man. I wanted any edge I could fucking get! I figured that if I could get some coaching, pick out a good scene from the book and get them to give me a chance, just let me read for it, I could get the part. So, yeah, I asked Bobby Berdue if he could help me. I knew he'd been in the joint. I figured maybe he could turn me on to somebody who could, you know, coach me."

"But he didn't."

"Didn't even return my call. Can you believe that? This fucking small time, ex-con loser won't return my call. Unbelievable."

"Okay, it's not that bad. Even if you didn't get the part, the director—"

Travis waved his hand and scowled when his wrist was snapped to a halt at the end of the chain. "See, that's the thing. I never got the chance to read for the part. By the time I figured out I wasn't getting any help from Bobby Berdue there was a story in the Trades that Eastwood was taking the role for himself. Well, fuck, if Clint Eastwood is going to star and direct nobody wants to hear from Tom Travis. If I'd have called them after that, they'd have laughed me right out of town. God damn Leno would have put it in his opening monolog."

"So you took the horror movie."

"Yeah, I took the horror movie. A million bucks! Christ, there was a time when I wouldn't cross the street in this town for a million bucks. Hell, if you offered me a million bucks a few years back and I'd have punched your lights out for insulting me with chump change." Travis gazed sadly around the cell. "And I thought things couldn't get any worse than doing some screamer for a million flat, then I end up in here." Travis shook his head.

Have you forgotten that your wife and baby are dead? Steve wondered. He sat perfectly still, offended into silence and realizing for the first time the immense gulf between Tom Travis's view of the world and that of normal people, that everything Travis heard and saw was distorted through the prism of his own celebrity. Steve turned back to his notes.

"Tom, you told Kaitlen Berdue that you had had an argument with your wife the day she disappeared. How big an argument was it, I mean was it the typical husband-wife stuff or was there screaming and shouting?"

"Where I come from screaming and shouting is a normal husband and wife stuff," Travis said, smiling. Steve just stared at him. "Yeah, okay," Travis continued, "no flying plates, nothing physical. Look, it was a constant thing with her the last couple of months. I put it down to hormones and her being fat. She'd get on my case and I'd tell her to get off. She'd say something and I'd tell her to go to hell. She'd call me names—"

"What kind of names?"

"Jeez, we gotta get into that?"

"Think of me like your doctor."

"What kind of names?" Tom muttered. "Okay, 'fool', 'jerk', 'lazy self-centered bastard', 'narcissistic, lazy, self-centered, bastard'. I thought that last one was just plain redundant," Travis said with a thin smile.

"Then what?"

Travis scowled. "Then I'd say some things." Steve stared and finally Travis continued. "I'd remind her that it was my house and my money that paid for it and if I wanted to sit on my butt in my own easy chair that was my right. I'd remind her that I started out with nothing, moving furniture, pumping gas, that I'd gotten into the business risking my neck doing stunts and that I'd earned every dollar she was spending. Then she'd scream some more, and I'd want to punch her lights out but I wouldn't. I learned that in anger management. When I started to feel like that, like hitting her, I'd just got out. Went to the weight room or hit the pool or, like that day, I took off to pound the dune buggy against the desert.

"So, yeah, okay, we argued, but I never touched her. I just left. I didn't put her in the back of the Hummer. I didn't take a shovel with me. I didn't bury her in the desert. I was pissed off, sure. But, like I said, I put her behavior down to her hormones being out of whack because of the pregnancy. I figured once she had the baby, she'd go back to normal."

How many women are there on the jury? Steve wondered.

"Tom, I know you've been asked this a hundred times, but I've got to go back to it. Who could have done this? It wasn't a robbery. It wasn't a sex crime. The odds of this being a random serial killer are like billions to one. Someone wanted Marian, or you, dead. Who could it have been?" Travis sat immobile, staring at his distorted image in the steel table top. "How about Kaitlen Berdue?" Steve asked a moment later.

"Kaitlen couldn't swat a fly. She doesn't have it in her."

"She sure did a number on you. Have you heard the tapes she made for the cops?"

"Yeah, I've heard them. They took advantage of her."

"Tom, the main reason you're on trial" Greg broke in, "is those tapes. They inflamed the public and turned everybody against you. If we don't find some evidence pointing to someone else, they're going to get you convicted. If she could set you up that way, is it that long a jump to thinking that maybe she had something to do with your wife's death?"

Travis kept his head down, slowly shaking it from side to side. "I lied to her," he said finally in almost a whisper.

"What?"

"It's my own fault. I lied to her, all that shit about Marian being a lesbo." Suddenly, Travis looked up. "This is all confidential, right, attorney-client privilege?"

Greg and Steve gave each other a quick look and Markham nodded.

"Okay, well, the truth is that I was in love with her, Katey. I figured I'd wait until the baby was born and when Marian was back on her feet, emotionally I mean, we'd have a nice quiet divorce. We had a pre-nup so it wasn't going to be any problem, financially. Flat payment of a million bucks, $10,000 a month alimony for two years and child support. My divorce lawyer told me that child support would be another $5,000 a month until the alimony ran out then it would go up to $10K. I had no problem with those numbers. Anyway, right after the divorce I was going to ask Katey to marry me. Then everything went out of control. I don't blame her. How was she to know I was going to marry her? As far as she knew, I just flat out lied to her to get her into the sack. I don't blame her. Hell, I can't even blame the cops. They took advantage of her sweet nature but I guess they were just doing their jobs."

Steve shook his head in amazement. "Tom, you do remember telling Kaitlen on one of the tapes that you and she could get married as soon as the publicity over Marian's disappearance died down? And she didn't believe you."

"Well, given everything that happened, who would? I guess I'll never get her back now, will I?"

Steve wanted to grab Travis's shoulders and just shake him. You're about to be convicted of first degree murder and maybe get sentenced to death and you're still thinking that the woman who betrayed you to the cops is going to take you back and you'll both live happily ever after? What fucking planet are you living on?

"Okay, Tom," Steve said more calmly than he felt, "if Kaitlen wasn't involved, who else is there?"

"My money's on her brother."

"Why him?"

"One," Travis raised his index finger, "he's a low-life punk. He could put the hammer down on somebody, or find a guy who could. Two, he wanted a piece of me. I could see it in his eyes. He looked at me like some big lotto ticket that was about to pay off. If Katey and me got hitched, you can bet Bobby planned on being right there with his hand out. But as far as he knew, that wasn't going to happen, at least as long as Marian was in the picture. I figure he hired some scumbag ex-con friend to do it and they screwed it up and dumped her in the desert."

"It was just coincidence they buried her within two miles of where you were driving your dune buggy?"

"Okay, maybe they kept her body someplace and when everything hit the fan and Katey turned against me, they figured the marriage was never gonna happen and they put Marian there to implicate me and take the heat off themselves."

Steve and Greg exchanged a brief look of disbelief.

"Is there anybody else who might have wanted to hurt Marian or get her out of the way?"

Travis shook his head and sighed. "Like I said, we weren't getting along so good but there's nobody who'd be angry enough with her to want her dead."

Except you, Steve said to himself. "How about someone who might want to hurt you?"

"You think somebody murdered Marian to make me look bad? Why not just kill me in the first place?"

"Tom," Greg said very quietly, "if we can't convince the jury either that someone had a motive to kill Marian or that they killed her to get even with you, then they're going to go with Plan A and figure that you did it. So, who might have wanted to cause you trouble?"

Travis stared at the wall for a long three seconds, then, reluctantly, gave his head a little shake. "I've got nothing. What about all those leads that came into the Tip Line? Are you sure there's nothing there? What about those other pregnant women who went missing? Why are you so sure this wasn't a serial killer or a cult murder or something?"

"We'll check them again," Steve said wearily.

"And the brother. . . "

"He's my next stop. I'll have a long talk with him, check out his known associates, get his credit card receipts and phone calls for the day of the disappearance. Greg, you'll handle the subpoenas?"

"I've already done it. I'm just waiting for the docs to come in from AT&T and VISA. It should only be a couple of more days."

"Okay, then." Steve stood and offered Travis his hand. Under the cell's harsh lights the gleam of perspiration made the star's face seem sunken, his hair sparse, his pallid skin almost glowing beneath the fine hairs.

"I really am sorry, about Lynn," Tom said as he grasped Steve's hand. "I mean, she was so . . . special. All the phonies I've known in this town, and I meet two real women, Lynn and Katey, and lose them both. Shit, what a jerk. If I only . . . but hell, we don't get do-overs in life, do we, Steve?"

No, we don't, Janson mumbled to himself as the jailer led Tom Travis back to his cell.

# Chapter Thirteen

It was late afternoon when Steve reached Bobby Berdue's cottage. The old Airstream, sagging and weathered, still crouched behind the structure, but Bobby's F150 was nowhere to be seen. Steve parked at the end of the gravel drive and, cupping his hands, peered through the window. The front door soaked up his knocks without response. Stepping off the porch, tufts of ankle high grass tugged at his feet. Around him the air was full of sounds. A raven the size of a small hawk cawed from the top of an oak tree. The breeze, funneling in through the far end of the canyon, carried scents of spring grass, eucalyptus, manzanita, camphor and dust as it rustled the oak's fleshy leaves. At the edge of the valley the highway was as deserted as if man had disappeared from the world leaving all his works behind. Steve turned at a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye.

Across the meadow a red tailed hawk skimmed low, his claws darting into a clump of fennel stalks and emerging with a flailing black squirrel. Involuntarily, Steve glanced over his shoulder as if fearing that some predator might be swooping in behind him, but there was only the sky tinted in the palest of fading blues and smeared at the edges with streaks of white and gray. A brief gust ruffled Steve's hair, then died leaving behind the scent of mold and dead leaves. Steve took one more look at the forlorn landscape then paced back to Lynn's Mercedes which, together with an oil painting she had bought on their honeymoon in the south of France, were the last tangible pieces of their life together that he still possessed.

The nearest town was Coulton, barely more than a clump of buildings housing a general store, a church, a bar, and a gas station. The church was closed but the other three establishments announced their availability with smears of neon tubing in red, blue and green. A scatter of haphazardly parked pickup trucks and motorcycles filled the asphalt lot in front of Pilgrim's Bar & Grill. A blue neon blunderbuss spitting red neon sparks flickered on the roof. The license number on one of the trucks was a match to Bobby Berdue's.

Inside, the air glowed Marlboro blue in the shafts of late afternoon light. The two guys playing pool, the bartender, and a pony-tailed thug in the back booth all gave Steve a suspicious once-over then turned away. Dressed in worn jeans, black t-shirt and a denim jacket he seemed to have passed muster. Steve wondered how long Greg Markham wearing his usual button-down collar shirt, $150 slacks and black wing-tips would have lasted before someone would have accidently spilled a pitcher of beer over his head. Ninety seconds, Steve decided, barely long enough to use the pay phone to call the Auto Club.

The bartender had a gut that sagged four inches over his belt buckle and a frizzy beard that almost covered the swastikas tattooed beneath each ear, prison tats done with a pin and ball point pen ink, as permanent as death itself.

"Beer," Steve ordered, slapping two singles on the bar. It arrived sloshing over the lip of the glass. Steve downed it in four long gulps. Wordlessly he put down another two dollars and pushed back the empty glass. The barman refilled it and wandered away. Steve took a long swallow, then looked around. Berdue's DMV picture depicted a hollow-cheeked young man with pale skin, black hair and blue-green eyes. At five feet eleven and a hundred forty pounds Berdue was either anorexic or a chronic consumer of crystal meth.

At the back of the bar a shadowed booth crouched between a vandalized jukebox and the hallway leading to the bathrooms. The booth held two men who were engaged in a whispered conversation. By his profile one of them was Bobby Berdue. The other was the pony-tailed tough who had glared at Steve when he first entered. Janson turned away from the booth, his eyes vacant. Propping his feet up on the edge of a rickety chair, his shoulders angled just enough to see anyone entering or leaving, Steve let himself drift into a state as close to suspended animation as he could manage. He spoke to no one, looked at nothing, just gazed vaguely at the hazy mirror behind the bar.

Half an hour later Berdue's companion scuttled through Steve's field of vision and out into the gathering night. Steve tossed the bartender two more singles and carried the fresh beer into the booth. Berdue gave Steve a cross-eyed glare.

"You look like you could use a beer," Steve said, pushing the glass over the scarred table.

"Who're you?"

"I'm the guy buying you a beer."

Bobby squinted in the dim light and gauged Steve's two hundred pounds and six foot three inch frame, his meaty fingers and big hands and decided that a shove and a punch were not a wise response.

"What do you want?" Bobby asked suspiciously, but he still took the beer.

"Just a few minutes of your valuable time. Is that a problem?"

"Maybe I don't like guys butting into my life."

"You got something better to do? What's the matter, you don't like beer?"

Bobby sneered and chugged the glass without taking a breath. Steve smiled and gestured to the barman to bring a pitcher. Nothing further was said until both had refilled their glasses.

"Okay," Bobby said, two swallows later, "you bought us a pitcher. What do you want?"

"I was talking to Tom Travis and your name came up. I thought I'd stop by and say hello."

"You're not a cop and you don't look like a lawyer."

"I'm not, any more. Got disbarred."

"They catch you with your fingers in the cookie jar?"

"No, they thought I had aimed a .45 at a guy's mouth and he didn't pay attention when I told him to say 'Ahhh'."

"Yeah, I heard they disbar lawyers for that all the time." Berdue laughed at his own joke.

"The LA D.A. doesn't like me very much but when he couldn't lock me up he did the only thing he could and had them pull my ticket."

"You're breaking my heart."

"I'll get by. It all worked out though. You know why?"

"Why?"

"Because the guy they think I killed is still dead." Berdue gave Steve an uneasy glance. "So, let's talk about Tom Travis."

"World class jerk," Berdue said, sticking out his chin as if inviting an argument.

"Yeah, that's the general opinion. He ever hit your sister?"

"He's still got all his parts, don't he?"

"Is that a no?"

"Yeah, it's a 'no'. Anybody who hurts Katey has to answer to me."

Steve let the boast pass. "Know anybody who disliked Travis enough to kill his wife and pin the job on him?"

"Nope," Berdue said instantly and refilled his glass.

"You didn't think about that answer very long. How about we increase the incentive? Five hundred bucks for the name of anybody who might want to hurt Travis or his wife."

"And if I don't know anybody?"

"Then you don't get the money. Come on, it's easy work. Nobody's got to know. Like you said, I'm not a cop."

"Why should I trust you?"

"Trust? Who said anything about trust? You're selling me your opinion for cash. Where's the trust in that?"

"Why should I help Tom Travis?"

"Hey, am I speaking Martian here? For-the-money." Steve gave him an 'Am I talking to an idiot?' stare.

Berdue fiddled with his glass as if five hundred dollars for some hot air was a hard decision for a guy who risked five years in prison for every packet of Meth he sold out of the back of his truck.

"I've heard some rumors," Berdue said finally.

"Rumors are good. I like rumors."

Bobby scratched his lip. "Well, did Travis tell you he was into prescription drugs?"

"That sort of slipped his mind. Tell me more."

"Well, okay," Bobby leaned across the table, "when the three of us had dinner and Katey went to the ladies room, Travis leans over to me and says, 'Bobby, I need your help with something,' real secret like. So, I ask him what, and he says he needs a source for some special drugs. I ask him what, crank, X, smack, what's he talkin' about? And he says, 'Prescription drugs, the real thing, not the junk you get on the Internet.' So I'm thinking, 'What the hell's goin' on here? The guy's loaded. There must be twenty Beverly Hills doctors he can get to write him a scrip for whatever he wants. Hell, Elvis didn't have any problems in that department, why should Tom Travis?"

"Did you ask him what he wanted, specifically."

"Sure, but he wouldn't tell me. 'It's confidential,' is all he'd say, that and that he needed to keep it off his medical records. He said that in Hollywood the reporters paid nurses and janitors to steal the medical records on guys like him, that they even hacked into the drug stores' computers. He said that he couldn't take the chance of getting a prescription from his doctor, that somebody might find out and put it in the papers."

"Why not just get the stuff in Mexico?"

"I asked him. 'Who's not going to recognize me?' he says. 'Besides, what if its counterfeit?' So, he gets in my face: Do I know a guy who can hook him up with honest to God real prescription drugs with no bullshit Chinese copies or don't I?"

"And?"

Berdue shrugged. "And I gave him a name."

"You ever find out if he called the guy?'

"Yeah, right!" Bobby laughed.

"I say something funny?"

"Who do you think these guys are? You ask them any questions about their business, they'll gut you like a pig. It's like that Army thing, 'Don't ask, don't tell.'" Bobby laughed and poured another beer.

"Did he ever mention it again, ever give you any clue what it was he wanted?"

"Not a word. Me, I figured it was Hillbilly Heroin. Fancy guys like him are scared of needles. They want something they can chop up in their hundred dollar electric coffee grinders and then put up their nose."

"So, what's this got to do with somebody killing his wife?"

"Like I said, these are dangerous people. What if he disrespected the guy? What if he opened his mouth and it got back to the guy? What if he shorted him on a payment? You think the dealer's gonna hire a lawyer and sue Travis for the money? These are two strike people. One more conviction and they're gone for life. They don't fuck around with anybody. Movie star? They don't give a crap. If Travis even looks like he's gonna cause them any trouble at all, it's TCB baby."

TCB was a patch sometimes embroidered on a gang member's jacket — Took Care of Business. For an instant Steve imagined those letters burned into his own chest.

"So?"

"So, you asked if I could think of anybody who Travis might know who could have knocked off a pregnant woman. That's all I've got."

"And if I offered you a thousand for another name?"

"Hey, I'll give you all the names you want, John Smith, Bill Jones, but they'd all be bullshit. I gave you what I had, there ain't no more."

"You didn't give me the guy's name."

"Hah!" Berdue barked. "You keep your money and I'll keep my life."

"Where were you the day Marian Travis disappeared?"

"You think I'd off a pregnant woman just to get even with Travis for screwing over my sister?"

"No, but maybe you'd kill a pregnant woman so your sister would have a clear shot at marrying Travis and moving on up to the big time, like the song says."

Berdue just snorted and drained his glass. "That's not my act, man. I've done some stuff, no good lying about it, but murder a pregnant woman? I don't have no TCB on my arm." Steve just stared at him. "Okay," Berdue continued ten seconds later, "I was in jail, the main jail in San Diego. The Sheriff grabbed me on a bogus beef the day after Christmas. Some cowboy deputy said I'd sold him half an o-z of speed. Give me a fucking break. You think I'd sell half an o-z to somebody I didn't know? Please! Anyway, I didn't get out until January fifth."

"You made bail?"

"Katey got me out."

"She get the money from Travis?"

Berdue gave him an embarrassed smile. "Yeah, I guess she wheedled it out of him. She was always a good sister." Berdue looked down at his empty glass. Steve stared at him for a long moment, then started counting out his payment.

"Shit!" Bobby hissed and put his hand over the bills. "Don't show that kind of money in here unless you want to end up dead by the side of the road." Berdue crushed the pile in his fist and pulled it out of sight.

"You owe anybody any money, Bobby?"

"What's that to you?"

"I'm just wondering if you might be motivated to help me out some more, earn some more cash, easy money too."

"I guess I have a few bills."

"Anything big and pressing? Is there anybody about ten minutes away from putting you in the hospital, or worse? Do you need to disappear for a while in order to stay healthy?"

"I don't give people any shit and they leave me alone."

"What about that Prince Charming you were talking to a little while ago?"

"Business, just business," Bobby muttered, his voice tight and low.

"So, nobody's got you on the short list for a tune-up?"

"Man, you watch too much television." Bobby turned his back to the bar and quickly counted the money, then shoved the bills down into his shorts. "What else you need me to do?"

"Write down your cell number. I'm Steve Janson. You make sure you pick up when I call." Maybe it was the speed with which Berdue scribbled his number or the anxious smile he gave Steve when he handed back the card, but someplace in Janson's head an alarm was ringing. "You sure you're not in some deep shit with your buddies?"

"Crap! Who are you, my mother? What's my life to you, anyway?"

Steve leaned over the table until Bobby's face was only six inches away. "I was just thinking, Bobby, that if you maybe got yourself into a really big hole, a fatal kind of hole, that there was only one thing you could sell that might get you out."

"Yeah? What's that?"

"Tom Travis was crazy in love with Kaitlen, still is today, even after all the shit she's done to him. If you owed the wrong guys a lot of money they could either kill you, which gets them only a little satisfaction, or they could take the long view — get Marian Travis out of the way and wait for you and Kaitlen to climb on the gravy train — all aboard!"

"Great plan, Einstein, except that Travis is goin' to the slammer for the rest of his life and Katey and I got nothin'. If the wife was killed as part of this big plan for us to cash in, how'd we end up here?"

"Once you start with the idea of killing somebody," Steve said, his gaze slipping back into a vacant stare, "things can get fucked up real fast in ways you never, ever imagined." A kaleidoscope of memories raced through Steve's brain, all in smears of black and red. A moment later his eyes snapped back into focus. He glanced briefly at Berdue's confused face, tipped over his empty glass, and headed out into the night.

# Chapter Fourteen

It was now full dark and Steve picked his way through the forest of chrome and dented steel clogging the Pilgrim lot. In the shadows of a massive redwood tree he could just make out the dim glimmer of his Mercedes' door handles. As he ducked through the gap between a Silverado's front bumper and the corner of the building something came at him out of the dark. Steve sensed a flicker of movement and dropped straight down. A baseball bat whooshed through the space previously occupied by his skull. A fraction of a second before his attacker could chop down, Steve rolled into his assailant's legs. For an instant the guy teetered, then fell straight back, the bat extended up above his head. Steve scurried up the man's legs and slammed a short punch into his groin.

He was rewarded with a grunt and the hollow clunk as the bat hit the paving. Steve scrambled to his feet and saw the blur of a pale face rising off the ground. The bat was moving too, still clasped in the attacker's right hand. Steve kicked and caught the guy in the ear. This time the bat clattered free. Steve kicked the man a second time then grabbed the bat.

The thug was groaning now, half for show Steve figured, and rolling to his left, trying to get his arms under him so he could rise to a fighting crouch. Steve whacked him in the head with the bat, more a bloop-single swing rather than a home run. This time the cry of pain was real and the guy collapsed. Steve stood a foot behind his shoulders and pressed the top of the bat against the man's forehead, pinning his skull to the ground. The attacker's legs made little twisting motions while his hands cupped his groin. All the while little groans, Emmmmm, Emmmm, Emmmm, spilled from his lips.

"You stop moving around or I'm going to turn into Barry Bonds." Steve pressed down hard and after half a second the man held still. "Okay, now we have a basis for discussion. That okay with you? Do you want to talk or do you want me to practice my swing?"

"Talk," the man wheezed.

"Good. What's your name?"

"Fuck you."

"Fuck You. Interesting name." Steve leaned on the bat forcing pieces of gravel into the back of the guy's scalp. "How about I just give you a concussion, take your wallet, get your name from your ID, and then grab your keys and take your ride on my way out of town? That sound like a plan, Mr. Fuck You?" Steve leaned forward even harder.

"Son of a bitch! Terry Monroe. Fuck, all right!"

"Ding! Okay Terry, you've now advanced to the next level. What the hell is this crap all about?"

Terry wheezed and closed his eyes and if too injured to continue. "Shit! Now I'll just have to kill him," Steve muttered, pressing harder.

"You think you can come up here and do business without talking to me?" Terry demanded, his eyes flying open. "I own this town. Nobody moves a flake of product here without it going through me!" Monroe squirmed and tried to roll free. Steve lifted the bat an inch and brought it down on Monroe's nose, then moved it back to center of his forehead.

"Next time I'll break your head like a kid's piggy bank. Listen, asshole, I'm not into crank or any of the other shit you've got going."

"So what are you doin' here?" Monroe growled, spitting blood.

"None of your fucking business. What do you think you're gonna do, whack every guy who buys a beer in this place?"

"If he buys one for Bobby Berdue, yeah."

"That bartender your main squeeze or are you just stringing him along?"

"You're a dead man, you just don't know it yet."

"So, my telling you that I'm not interested in drugs isn't going to do any good?"

"Tell me the one about the three bears."

"Look, Berdue's sister's all over the news, you know that, right?"

"Yeah, so?"

Steve sighed at the persistence of stupidity. "So, she's news. Her story's worth money but she won't talk. I tracked down her brother, figured I'd get a story about Tom Travis and his sister out of him. I paid him five hundred bucks for the inside scoop on Travis."

"You ain't no reporter," Monroe said, his tone slipping into uncertainty.

"I used to be a cop. This pay is better." For a moment Steve considered asking Monroe if he'd ever sold prescription drugs to Travis, then changed his mind. He couldn't believe a word that came out of Monroe's mouth and just asking the question was likely to get Bobby Berdue killed. Easier to ask Travis himself. "So, how do you want to end this?"

"I see you in this town again, you're a dead man."

"And if you don't?"

"I don't have time to waste on you."

"Sounds like a plan. Roll over."

"What?"

"I'm the shy type. On your stomach."

Reluctantly, Monroe complied. Steve instantly swung a glancing blow off the back of his head. Terry groaned and his hands made little flapping motions. Steve went through his pockets and grabbed Monroe's driver's license and his keys. Thirty seconds later he was on the highway heading back to LA. Ten miles down the road the bat, wiped free of prints, disappeared in the brush along with Monroe's keys. Steve kept the driver's license with Monroe's address on it, just in case.

# Chapter Fifteen

Steve started making lists, organizing what he knew and didn't know and what he wanted to find out. He only did that when things were going down the dumper and he couldn't figure out what else to do. Lynn's shrink friend, Irwin Shapiro, had told him once that it was a manifestation of his need to feel as if he was in control of his environment instead of the other way around. Physician, heal thyself, Steve thought.

Steve got a fresh sheet of paper and drew an inverted "V" on it. At the bottom of one leg he drew a box and inside printed "Travis Did It" and then a second box with "Travis Innocent" inside. From this second choice he drew four lines, whose ends he labeled "Travis Real Target — Wife Killed By Mistake — Travis Framed"; "Wife Real Target — Travis Framed"; "Wife Killed Specifically To Frame Travis"; and "Random Killing." Steve considered the "Travis Framed" sections then put down the pencil. It was impossible that by pure coincidence the body was found two miles from where Travis had been driving his dune buggy.

Was there anybody other than Tom Travis who might have wanted Marian Travis dead? Steve made a note to review the police interviews with her family and friends to see if any of them had let slip some clue.

Did anyone hate Tom Travis enough to want him dead or framed for murder? The guy was a jerk but this was Hollywood. If having a bloated ego was a sufficient motive for murder the town would have more dead people than 1983 Cambodia. Could Terry Monroe or some other drug dealer have been after him? It didn't feel right. Those guys were about as subtle as a pair of brass knuckles. If they had wanted Travis hurt or dead he'd have been found floating face down in his pool with his balls cut off. Which didn't mean that Travis hadn't pissed off somebody badly enough for them to want to ruin his life.

Steve tapped his pencil on the "Random Killing" box, Tom Travis's favorite explanation next to a kidnap plot gone wrong. The idea of a serial killer happening to pick a movie star's house, getting past the alarm systems, doing the crime and then framing Travis for it was almost laughable. A kidnap plot gone wrong? Please! Where was the ransom note for Sarah? Even if she were dead, the location of her body would still be worth big money to the tabloids.

Assuming Travis was innocent that left only three meaningful possibilities: Someone wanted Marian dead; someone who wanted Travis dead was surprised by Marian and settled for killing her and framing Tom, or someone wanted Travis locked up for the rest of his life and decided that murdering a pregnant woman was a good way to get that done. Yeah, that must be it.

Could Marian Travis have been the target all along? What kind of person was she? Steve checked the file index and found an interview the cops' had done with Delfina Angelinez three days after Marian's disappearance. Katz and Furley had concentrated on strangers in the house, hang up phone calls, unknown cars in the neighborhood, and other suspicious behavior. At the end of the interview Delfina had slipped a bit off track and described a shopping trip she, Marian and Sarah had taken a few days before Christmas.

## * * *

"I'm getting too fat for this," Marian said, struggling to reach the pedals with the seat retracted far enough for her stomach to clear the wheel.

"I could drive for you, Missy Marian," Delfina volunteered from the back seat.

"If I let you drive and we had an accident, Tom would have a heart attack."

"I am a good driver."

"I know you are, Delfina, but Mr. Travis doesn't want anyone but me driving the car."

An empty space appeared but at the last instant a Boxster chirped its tires and dove in ahead of them.

"He take your space!" Delfina snapped and lowered her window. A thirtyish man in a black suit, open necked black shirt, gold Rolex knock-off and gold necklace unbent himself from the Boxster's cabin.

"You take our space!" Delfina shouted out the window. The man gave her a quick, bleached smile, hit the remote on his key fob and sauntered away.

"It's all right, Delfina. His karma will catch up with him." Marian pulled the Escalade into a spot three rows farther back.

"It is not right you should have to walk so far," Delfina complained as they headed into The Grove.

"Life's too short to worry about small things. I refuse to let myself get upset."

Barely a minute after they entered the complex Sarah pulled free from Delfina's hand and raced for a Jack Russell Terrier attired in a green and blue sweater.

"No, chica," Delfina called, hurrying after her. "Sarah, stop. Don't touch him. He might bite you."

The dog's owner gave Delfina a sour glare.

"Doggie!" Sarah called, running her hand over the terrier's rump. Stoically, the dog allowed himself to be petted until Delfina pulled the child away. "Doggie!"

"Sweetheart, you shouldn't pet someone else's dog without their permission," Marian told Sarah when she caught up. "It's not polite. . . Hello," Marian said to the owner, a jewelry-encrusted Caucasian woman in her late fifties. "Would it be all right if my daughter pet your dog?"

"He's rather uncomfortable with strange children," the woman answered stiffly.

"I understand. Thank you. . . come on, Sweetie, we have to buy Grandpa's present before I get too tired." Marian took Sarah's hand and gently pulled her in the direction of the Sony store.

"When are you due?" the lady asked before Marian could turn away.

"A little over three weeks. I can't wait."

"I remember when I was pregnant with my Gerald." A wistful expression briefly clouded the woman's face then fled. She turned to Sarah. "If you are very gentle, you can pet Regis. Will you be gentle?"

Sarah nodded yes.

"All right then, go ahead." Sarah gingerly approached the dog and, with infinite care ran her hand down his back. "Yes, that's very good. You're a smart little girl, aren't you dear? What's your name?"

Sarah looked her mother. "It's all right, Sweetie. . . We've taught her not to give her name to strangers," Marian explained.

"I'm Sarah," the child announced proudly.

"How old are you, dear?"

"I'm four and a half." Sarah held up four fingers.

"What a darling child," the lady told Marian. "Regis likes you, Sarah. You can pet him any time."

"What do you say to the nice lady, Sarah?"

"Thank you," the little girl squeaked.

"Come on, Sarah, we've got to buy grandpa's present before mommy gets too tired to walk back to the car." The lady gave Sarah a sad little smile and waved goodbye.

How long will it take her? Marian wondered. For the next thirty feet Sarah looked straight ahead, her jaw set in concentration. None of the store windows attracted her gaze. Oversized trains circling Santa's Village were ignored. Rocking Santa's and smiling Snow Men were impotent in the face of Sarah's single-minded contemplation of her dilemma. Marian and Delfina exchanged knowing glance. They made it all the way to the Sony store before Sarah could no longer restrain herself.

"Momma," she began, practicing her sweetest smile.

"Yes, Sarah?"

"If I promised to take care of him . . . " her lower lip held the slightest tremble as she studied her mother's placid face, "could we have a little doggie?" The end of the sentence came out all at once in a prayerful rush.

"Oh, wouldn't that be wonderful?" Marian agreed. "If only we could." She glanced at Delfina, a twinkle in her sea-blue eyes. "Isn't it sad, Delfina, that we can't have a cute little dog all of our very own?"

"Oh, yes, Missy Marian," Delfina agreed. "It would be so much fun. Sarah could feed him and take him for walks and brush his hair and clean up his poops."

"Yes, she could pick them up and put them in a little plastic bag three or four times a day. You would enjoy that wouldn't you, dear?"

Sarah frowned, sensing that this was a trick question.

"But," Marian sighed deeply, "it's not to be."

Confused, Sarah paused and glanced from her mother to Delfina and back again. "What's 'not to be' mean?" she asked.

"It means, Sweetie, that the fates are against us."

"What are 'fates'?"

"Alas, the stars have failed to align."

Sarah peered at the sky. "I don't see any stars."

"It means, Miss Sarah, that you cannot have a dog," Delfina explained.

"Why?"

"Because it's not meant to be," Marian said, reaching for the door.

"Why?"

Delfina rushed forward and opened the door.

"That's a mystery which you must solve, Sweetheart."

"Why?"

"How else will you learn why we can't have a beautiful little doggie?"

"I don't understand," Sarah said, standing her ground.

"No one does, sweetheart. Now, come inside so we can buy grandpa his Christmas present." Her face both serious and confused, Sarah allowed herself to be pulled through the doorway.

## * * *

"Mi hija! My sweet baby!" Delfina sobbed. Katz patted his pockets and extended a tissue. "Where is she? What have they done with my baby?" Delfina buried her face in her hands and wept, ignoring the detectives as if they did not exist.

## * * *

Steve closed the folder with a noisy slap. If someone wanted Marian Travis dead, he doubted it was because of any personal animosity. If she was really the target and not killed as collateral damage, it was likely because she was standing in someone's way. And right now the only person who fit that description was locked in the depths of the L.A. County jail, and he was still dreaming about Kaitlen Berdue.

# Chapter Sixteen

It was six o'clock and Steve hadn't a clue what to do next. Since Lynn had died it seemed as if his life had been shuffling along on autopilot, each day blending seamlessly into the next. Once or twice he thought about calling his old friends or joining a singles' club but then he visualized the moment when someone asked what he did for a living and he told them that he was a semi-disbarred attorney whose license had been suspended because people thought he had murdered someone. In his mind's eye he watched their smiles harden as they searched for an excuse to escape. He glanced at the kitchen clock which ticked loudly and snapped forward to 6:01. He had to do something, anything, to get out this apartment. Grabbing a light windbreaker he headed for the door.

Entering O'Malley's Pub was like pushing through a curtain of sound — shouts, the clink of glasses, laughs and groans. TV's were tuned to ESPN and ESPN2. In spite of the no smoking law a layer of blue haze floated above his head. Who were these kids? Steve wondered, feeling older than his years. He grabbed a small table in the corner and waved at one of the waitresses who worked her way through the crush.

"Do you still make the lamb stew?" Steve asked, shouting over a sudden roar in response to a three pointer that was all net.

"Irish lamb stew with dumplings? Sure."

"Bring me that and a Gordon Biersch."

The girl nodded, scratched something in her pad, and disappeared into the crowd already two deep at the bar.

Whatever happened to Artie McKay? Steve wondered. They used to come down here after work almost every Friday, before Artie met that girl, what was her name, Olivia? He's probably put on twenty pounds and fathered a couple of kids, Steve decided. Probably living out in Silver Lake and trying to decide whether to buy the Voyager or the Grand Voyager. Shit. Life goes on. And where's yours going? the little voice inside him taunted.

Steve shifted his chair and tried to track the game but the players dissolved into blurs of color bouncing around in random motion like the ping pong balls in the lottery bin. The waitress, Jennifer according to her nametag, returned with his beer, a coaster, a napkin and a bowl of pretzel sticks. Steve found himself staring at her sidelong. She was maybe twenty-two or three, rounded in the right places, pretty in a wholesome sort of way, cute, the way a puppy is cute, and no more romantically attractive to him than one. Steve remembered a time, a few years before he met Lynn, when he would have already been halfway to getting Jennifer's phone number. Now he couldn't care less.

"I'll bring your stew in a minute. Is there anything else I can get you?" she asked giving him a big smile.

"That'll be great, thanks." Her smile slipped the tiniest bit and she turned away. For the next ten minutes Steve tried to immerse himself in the aura of the place, the shouts, the laughs, the cheers when a dunk was made, the groans when a shot was blocked, but found it impossible, as if he were psychically insulated from the people around him. He felt like an invisible observer, a member of the audience watching a play.

Stolidly, he ate his stew and let his eyes wander over the crowd, now and then trying to guess someone's occupation or some detail about their lives. He made it into a game. That guy, a secret agent enjoying a drink before his next mission? That girl, the heiress to a paper products empire? And what about himself? What would one of them imagine about Steve Janson? Cold-blooded murderer and semi-disbarred attorney? He almost wished he had a mirror handy so that he might peer into it and answer his own question.

When was the last time he had been here? BLD or ALD — Before Lynn Died or After Lynn Died? His eyes unfocused as he forced his memory to reel back over the years. Finally it hit him. The last time he had been here was the last time he had seen Irwin Shapiro. It was July, not long after the cops had identified Alan Lee Fry as Lynn's murderer, only a few days after his boss, Arnold Finestein, had told him that Fry had fled the country.

## * * *

"We'll get him back," Finestein said weakly, "but it may take a while."

"He's disappeared?"

"Oh, no. We know where he is." Finestein glanced down. "Havana."

"Then what's the problem?"

Finestein had the decency to look embarrassed. "According to the Feds Fry's father was a British Communist who emigrated to Cuba in the sixties. His political ties and family money convinced them to grant him Cuban citizenship. He married a local girl but apparently his wife didn't share his love for the Communist way of life because she escaped to Miami in '73 when she was pregnant with little Alan. Because he was born in the U.S. Fry's got dual American and Cuban citizenship. Now he's back home and the Cuban government won't extradite a Cuban citizen to the United States."

"But he's a serial killer!"

Finestein ineffectually raised his hands. "Maybe when Castro's gone a new regime may be more cooperative but given our current relations with Cuba extradition is out of the question. We're exploring other options. The State Department has promised to look into it."

Washington bureaucrats were going to solve this problem? The "Would you like another cup of tea?" pencil necks were going to bring Fry to justice? Steve wanted to hit someone.

## * * *

That conversation with Finestein had torn at him all week and by Friday night he was ready to twist off somebody's head. A pitcher of Sam Adams had done nothing to calm him down. Then Irwin Shapiro wandered through O'Malley's door. Shapiro always looked like someone haphazardly assembled, arms and legs too long, torso too short, big hands, a long face and small ears. Irwin paused just inside and glanced around as if plotting each patron's position on an invisible map. Shapiro was really Lynn's friend and Steve knew him only by association. He had been her father's roommate at Yale and they had stayed close, Shapiro becoming Lynn's Godfather, Uncle Irwin, Lynn called him. But he was a shrink and cops and shrinks were natural enemies even more so than cops and lawyers. Steve put up with him for Lynn's sake. She had loved the old guy.

Shapiro spotted Steve alone with his almost empty pitcher of beer and shambled over as if his arms and legs were connected by elastic strings.

"Can I join you?"

Steve looked up, red-eyed and a little wobbly, and waved at an empty stool. "Funny, you don't look Irish." Steve gave Shapiro a twisted smile.

"Actually, I came to see you. I tried calling you a couple of times to see how you were doing."

"Yeah, well, you know how it is."

"Because," Irwin said as if Steve had not spoken, "as a friend I wanted to offer any help I could."

"Now, now, none of that shrink stuff for me, Irwin. I'm okay."

Shapiro caught the truculence hiding beneath Steve's placid expression and gave a little shrug. "Can I join you for a beer?"

"Good idea." Steve waved at the waitress and held up his empty pitcher, then pointed to Irwin. A moment later she arrived with a new pitcher and a second glass. "L'chaim," Steve toasted, clinking mugs.

"Is there any word on the man who . . . on the suspect?" Irwin asked a moment later.

"Oh, there's word. There's word all right." Shapiro stared, waiting. "The word is," Steve took a long swallow, "that they're working on it."

"Working on it?"

"That's exactly what I said! You see, he's escaped to Cuba, the land of his ancestors. So the D.A. and Interpol and the State Department are all working on it." Steve banged his mug on the table.

"They're going to bring him back for trial?"

"No. No they're not."

"But . . . "

"In light of the state of U.S.-Cuban relations, Cuba will not extradite a Cuban citizen to the U.S. so he's untouchable." Steve took another gulp.

"But there must be some way. . . ."

"The State Department has asked the Cubans pretty please to send him back and they've said, very politely, 'No.' But, we have a plan. Our plan is to wait for a year or two or three or ten until Fry gets tired of Cuba. They figure that eventually he'll try to sneak back into the United States under a forged passport and then we can grab him, if we can find him. Isn't that a great plan?"

"And there's nothing anyone can do?"

"Oh, there's something somebody can do," Steve said with a vicious grin.

"What do you mean?"

Steve poured himself another glass. "Somebody could get justice for Lynn. Somebody could do the right thing. Somebody," Steve said, banging the half-empty mug on the scarred table, "who cared about Lynn could go down there and see to it that the son of a bitch pays for what he did!" A couple of people at nearby tables glanced over uneasily and Steve lowered voice. "How about you, Irwin? Do you want to do something about this unfortunate situation?"

"Steve, you've been badly hurt. We all have."

"Oh? Did you find your wife's murdered body on your bedroom floor?"

"I was there the day she was born, Steve. I was there for every birthday, every soccer game, every school recital. I loved her like my own child. Don't tell me I'm not in pain."

Steve gave Irwin a long stare then a little nod of surrender. "Yeah, sorry, I know, I know you loved her. We all loved her and that . . . bastard . . . " Scowling, Steve turned away.

"I understand you may not be comfortable taking counseling from me, but I could give you the names of some very good people." Steve stared at the TV. "They could help you, Steve."

"Do you know what's going to help me? Seeing him dead. That's going to help me."

"What are you saying?"

"He's a monster and he needs to die," Steve said, staring evenly into Irwin's eyes.

"He'll be punished. At the right time, in the right way."

"You're right. He will be punished. Every day that animal lives is like a knife in my heart. I swear to God, all I want to do is put a gun to his head and pull the trigger."

"If you keep thinking that way you'll destroy yourself. Hate is a poison."

"Oh, I'll stop hating him all right, as soon as he's dead. Once I blow his brains out, there'll be nothing left to hate. Problem solved."

Over the years Shapiro had learned to distinguish an idle boast from a serious threat and what he saw in Janson's eyes frightened him.

"Killing him would destroy your life." Janson looked down at his glass. "Steve, if you were to kill him you'd still hate him, both for what he did to Lynn and for what killing him will do to you. People who aren't psychopaths can't just kill someone face-to-face in cold blood and then forget about it. That's something that affects you as long as you live and not in a good way."

"If that's what it takes," Steve said as if resigned to a terrible fate. "He has to pay."

Shapiro cocked his head to one side and studied Janson.

"What happened between you and Lynn?"

"What?"

"This self-destructive obsession to punish Fry, it's more than just wanting revenge. Did something happen between you and Lynn? Was there some problem—"

"Shut up! You shut up about her!" Steve shouted, half rising from his chair.

Shapiro reached over and patted Steve's hand. "I loved Lynn and she loved you. I care about you too, Steve. Let me help you. Please, before you do something you can't undo."

"Will you help me kill Alan Fry?" Steve asked, deadly serious.

"No."

"Then there's nothing you can do for me."

"I can help you. If you would just come in—"

"I don't need my head shrunk. I need justice."

"You won't find justice in the barrel of a gun."

"That's where you're wrong, Irwin. That's where we always find justice if we're strong enough to look for it." Steve gave Shapiro a rueful smile. "You know the old saying, 'Heroes find splendor where cowards fear to tread.'"

Irwin's long face twisted in pain. "Please don't do this."

"I'm doing it for Lynn."

"No, you're not. You're doing it for some other reason, something you don't want to talk about, something you don't want to face up to—"

"Shut up! No more shrink crap!"

"Steve, please—"

"You need to leave now, Irwin," Steve said softly, his hands knotting into fists.

"Don't—"

"Now, Irwin."

Slowly, Shapiro stood, then dropped his card on the table. "Please call me, any time. . . I loved Lynn too."

"Goodbye, Irwin."

Shapiro tried to speak then turned and shambled out the door. Steve carefully tore Irwin's card into a dozen tiny pieces then began to form his plan to track down and kill Alan Lee Fry.

## * * *

Steve looked up at the TV. The uniforms had changed colors. Apparently the old game had ended and a new one had begun. Well, Fry was dead. He had gotten justice for Lynn. Why wouldn't it all go away? Could Irwin have been right? Steve had no answers. He finished his beer and went home.

# Chapter Seventeen

According to the file, Marian's father, Gerard Fontaine, lived in La Jolla, a wealthy community just north of San Diego. During college Steve spent his summers working as a deck-hand on the San Diego-based tourist boats and he knew from the address that the old man lived in an elite neighborhood the locals called "Bird Rock," a slice of sea and cliffs where, on a good day, you might be able to buy a one bedroom shack for a million five.

If the trial had been in session Gerard Fontaine would have been in L.A., a gaunt, long armed figure sitting zen-like in the third row behind the prosecutor. Steve had debated between calling ahead for an appointment or just showing up at Fontaine's door. Proceeding on the principle that it was always easier to begin acting politely and devolve to rude and confrontational behavior than do things the other way around, Steve called Fontaine on his private line.

"You're working for Tom Travis?" Fontaine asked in a deep, dead voice.

"Yes, Mr. Fontaine, I am. I know you think Tom Travis is guilty—"

"Have we ever talked before, Mr. Janson?"

"No, sir."

"Then you don't know what I think, do you?"

"No, Mr. Fontaine, I don't. I'm sorry."

There was a pause for half a second and Steve braced himself for the CLICK of a disconnected line. "People assume things, a bad habit making assumptions," Fontaine continued in a weary voice.

"Would you be willing to meet with me so that I don't make any more potentially inaccurate assumptions?"

"When?"

"Tomorrow morning?"

"I've got an early appointment. How about ten-thirty?"

"That would be fine."

"Do you have a pencil?"

The next morning Steve was heading down the 5, one eye on the speedo and the other watching for the La Jolla exit. The address Fontaine had given him was a stucco-sided cube three blocks back from the ocean, nestled behind one of the dozen or so real estate offices that populated La Jolla the way other towns had Starbucks. Gold script on the door facing the parking lot identified the business as La Belle Culinary. Culinary what? Academy? Catering? Behind the door was a small office that looked like a failing veterinarian's waiting room, vinyl chairs, a scarred, unoccupied desk, and two doors, one on the back wall and one to the right. Steve took the one on the right and found himself in a short corridor. Kitchen sounds rang from the far end where the hallway opened into a huge room that occupied most of the building.

The thirty foot high ceiling was dotted with three parallel "V"-shaped skylights like fins on an I.M. Pei designed shark. Six gas stoves dotted the gray vinyl floor, alternating with butcher-block tables, rings of hanging pots and pans, and racks of knives. Nine earnest white people and one Asian woman peered intently at a mirror slung at a forty-five degree angle above a table at the front of the room. With the precision of a metronome beating at 16/16 time, a portly woman of indeterminate age effortlessly shaved half an apple into twenty identical slices.

"So," she said, looking up from the cutting board, "once we've sliced the apple, we place it in acidified water to keep it from . . . what?"

"Discoloring," a young man in the front answered briskly.

"Yes, discoloring. And, if you don't have any lemon juice. . . ?" a chuckle rippled through the audience. Not have any lemon juice? Hah, hah, as if that could happen to any real cook, ". . . then here's a trick for you. Use your meat pounder to crush a vitamin C tablet inside a Ziplock bag and dissolve it in water. The ascorbic acid will keep your apples from turning brown." Everyone smiled appreciatively.

Janson scanned the class and picked out Gerard Fontaine from the news clips showing him stoically marching through the rabid-dog reporters on the way to his car. He was hard to miss — about six feet four, a skull with receding gray-black stubble shaved almost into invisibility, long basset hound face, gaunt cheeks, droopy eyes, dressed in a gray and brown flannel shirt over baggy chocolate colored pants that looked like they had been new sometime around Nixon's second inauguration.

"Now," the instructor continued, unconsciously brushing back a lock of butter colored hair, "make sure that you keep your three kinds of apples in three separate bowls so you can alternate them when you make your galette. Margaret, what are the types of apples we're using?"

A thin, bright-eyed woman in the second row lifted her chin. "Pippin or Granny Smith for tartness, Fuji or Gala for sweetness, and Macintosh to add complexity and flavor layering," she said, giving her classmates a nervous smile.

"Excellent." For an instant she paused and glanced at the clock on the back wall. "All right class, that's the end of this session. For those of you who are staying for the second half, we'll resume in. . ." she studied an oversize steel watch on her left wrist, "half an hour." Fontaine turned, pinned Steve with a weary glance, and joined him at the edge of the room.

"Would you like to get a cup of coffee or something?" Steve asked after they had shaken hands.

"Let's just take a seat over there." Fontaine pointed to a butcher-block island in the corner then snagged a couple of tall stools. "People like to gossip," Fontaine said with a resigned tone, "not to mention the reporters sneaking around this town. Coffee?" Steve nodded and Fontaine filled two pale blue glass cups from a French Press. The brew was deep and sweet with an undertone of chocolate and hint of spice. Steve raised his eyebrows in appreciation.

"If you can't get good coffee in a cooking school. . . ." Fontaine began, then shrugged letting Steve fill in the rest for himself.

Steve glanced at the Garland stove. "Apple galette?"

"Three kinds of sliced apples, brown sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, salt, and tapioca flour piled in the center of a pie crust with the sides folded up like an Indian teepee. You brush the outside of the dough with warn apricot jam and bake it on a cookie sheet for about forty minutes."

"Sounds good."

Fontaine shrugged. "It's easier than making a pie." His voice sounded tired and defeated, like that of a boxer who's barely survived his bout only to discover that the Ref has absconded with the purse. "So, you're been hired to help Tom Travis."

"You know the fable about the blind men and the elephant?"

A wary smile creased Fontaine's lips. "The point being that how a man perceives a situation depends upon his point of view."

"If Tom Travis did it, then whatever I do won't make any difference. I'm just spending his money, which I don't mind doing." Steve took a sip of coffee and stared into Fontaine's eyes. "And if he didn't do it, then maybe I'll find out who did. That's worth doing, don't you think?"

"Unless you just kick up enough dust to confuse the jury and get Travis off."

"You've been in court every day. Do you think there's any way in the world that jury is going to give Tom Travis the benefit of the doubt?"

Fontaine's face remained absolutely blank for a long heartbeat, then twitched left and right. "He's finished," Fontaine said. "He was finished before the first witness was called."

"Do you think he did it?"

"The evidence says he did."

"But do you think he did it?"

"Can I trust you? Are you an honest man?"

A dozen thoughts raced through Steve's brain, not the least of which was, If I weren't, would I admit it? Finally, he gave a mental shrug. "Yes, I'm an honest man."

"You won't repeat my answer to anyone?"

"I won't."

Fontaine stared intently into his cup as if peering into a crystal ball. "I don't think he has the heart for it, for murder," he said softly, not looking up. Fontaine took a swallow and turned back at Steve. "The first time I met him I figured out the kind of man he was." Fontaine stared intently into Steve's eyes and smiled. "You think I'm some crazy old coot but there's no point in denying who you are or what your talents are. I understand people. Always have. That's how I got so God-damned rich. I'm no genius, I can barely read a balance sheet. Sending an email is a struggle for me. How the hell else do you think a guy like me could have made forty million dollars?" Fontaine tapped the side of his head. "I understand people, like they were made of glass and I could see into their souls and read everything that's written there. Believe me or not, I don't care." Fontaine sighed and looked away.

"Sometimes I think that maybe I made a mistake. Maybe I should have become a psychiatrist or something, helped people with their problems instead of just buying and selling stuff." Fontaine made a little grunt and took a sip of coffee. "But I never liked school. I guess I just took the easy way out. Got rich. Lived a good life. Had the most beautiful daughter the world has ever seen . . . " Fontaine's voice thickened and he bowed his head and Steve looked away. "Anyway," Fontaine continued a few moments later, his eyes glistening, "I've had a good life. Marian married Teddy Caldwell, a sweet, sweet man, then he died so horribly — burned up in a car crash on the 101 — hell of away to go, but at least Marian and Sarah were spared. Then she met Tom Travis."

"You didn't like Travis," Steve said, a statement not a question.

"What's the poem about the Hollow Men?" Fontaine sadly shook his head. "He's not a bad person at heart, just, well, weak, or maybe he has some strength someplace deep down but he just doesn't know what's worth fighting for and what isn't."

"Did you tell Marian not to marry him?"

"Mr. Janson, you don't tell your children who not to marry, not in this country. I didn't fight it. If I had thought Tom Travis was a bad person, mean, evil, maybe things would have been different. But I didn't, so I let her do whatever she was going to do."

"And now?"

"Now? People can do strange things. People can surprise you, but," Fontaine frowned and shook his head, "I don't think he has it in him to do . . . that to Marian, not even if she were the worst woman on earth instead of the best."

"Could he have hired somebody else to do it?"

Fontaine looked down and shook his head then lifted his chin. "The first time I met Tom Travis, he drove up in this brand new silver Humvee. I guess he figured he'd impress me." Fontaine gave a little snort. "Then he got a look at the Rolls in my garage. Marian never told him what I was worth, you see, so he didn't know I had more money than he did."

"Was she worried about fortune hunters?"

Fontaine barked a quick laugh. "No. Money was never important to her, one way or the other. She never understood why rich people cared about it so much. Greed was as far beyond her understanding as nuclear physics."

"So Tom didn't get very far comparing bank balances with you?'

"He was smart enough not to try. No, he spent the first hour trying to impress me with how manly he was, how he worked his way up from stunt man to leading man. The cars he had wrecked, the horses he had fallen off of, like some kid who'd spent the war in the motor pool and comes home telling his buddies how many battles he'd been in and how many Nazi's he's killed. It was a little sad, really." For a moment Fontaine got a faraway look in his eyes then he slipped back into the present. "Finally, around the end of the evening, he just sort of gave up. That's when he got interesting and I actually started to like him."

"Interesting? How?"

"Once he stopped trying to impress me, he turned into a kind of a normal guy. We talked about painting."

"Monet, Rembrandt, that kind of painting?"

Fontaine smiled. "His own paintings. He thought he wasn't very good, but he didn't care. That's what I liked. He admitted he wasn't any good but he didn't care. He enjoyed painting for its own sake. It meant something to him, personally. In a strange way I think it nourished his soul. That's when I knew that there was a real person buried someplace inside all of that Hollywood crap. That's why I decided not try to stop the marriage. I figured there was a decent person buried in there someplace and that maybe Marian, knowing Marian's heart, would bring it out." Fontaine shoved his cup away. "Maybe I was wrong. Maybe he snapped and . . . A man in his business, a man with a fragile ego . . . " Fontaine shrugged.

"What would have made him snap?"

Fontaine looked away. "Who knows what happens between a husband and a wife?" He said in an offhand tone, and in that instant Steve knew he was lying.

"But there was something going on, some problem. They were fighting about something. Travis claimed it was just her hormones from the pregnancy, but maybe there was something else."

"You'd have to ask your client. He was there. I wasn't." Fontaine's face went blank as if a gate had slammed shut behind his eyes.

"You've been very kind to talk with me, Mr. Fontaine," Steve said, backing off. "I appreciate how difficult this must be for you."

"Yes," Gerard said, clearly anxious to escape.

Steve switched topics. "You have a son? Riley, I believe? That's an unusual name."

"My mother's maiden name, Kathleen Riley. I named him in honor of her."

Janson decided to take one more stab at getting some useful information. "Can you think of anyone, anyone at all, who might have had the slightest motive to want to hurt Marian?" Fontaine shook his head. "I'm not suggesting that she did anything that justified someone having a grudge against her. It could be something very simple that wasn't her fault at all. Maybe she found out some secret about someone. She was active in charities, I believe. Could someone have had their hand in the till and she found out? That would be a motive. If she was on the board of some foundation or a major stockholder in some company, those might be motives for the wrong person to want her out of the way."

"I'm sure there was nothing like that going on. She would have discussed any business problems with me."

"Maybe she inadvertently learned something embarrassing about a friend or acquaintance — that the husband of one of her friends cheated on his bar exam or faked his college degree or was in the closet." Fontaine shook his head. "What if one of her friends was cheating on his wife and Marian found out? With pre-nups all the rage these days, a cheating spouse would have a lot to lose —"

"Mr. Janson, I'm going to have to ask you to leave now," Fontaine said sadly. "I don't have any information that will help you and this is just . . . just too painful."

"I understand." Steve slipped off the stool. This was a man who could not be pushed and trying would only make things worse. "If you think of anything, anything at all, please call me. As painful as that might be, Sarah may still be alive and we'll never find her, never, if we don't discover who really murdered your daughter. I'm begging you, Mr. Fontaine, not for Tom Travis, but for Sarah's sake, please call me if you think of anything at all that might give me a lead to someone with a motive for Marian's murder. Will you promise me you'll do that?"

Fontaine stared at Steve, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. For an instant he seemed ready to speak, then the moment passed and the gates closed again. Steve extended a slip of paper and a pen. "If you would give me Riley's address. I'd like to talk to him too."

Gerard paused then block printed three or four lines. Steve exchanged the paper for one of his cards.

"I want you to know that I'll keep my promise," Steve said pocketing the note.

"My opinion's not proof of anything—"

"But you don't want Greg Markham putting you on the stand and asking you if you think Tom Travis is innocent."

"Maybe he's not. Maybe my gift has left me. Maybe I'm too close to this to see things the way they really are. But—"

"You still don't think Tom did it."

"He doesn't have it in his heart to kill a man," Fontaine said, glaring into Steve's eyes with sudden intensity, "not like you. You could kill a man, Mr. Janson. I can see that written in your soul, clear as day."

"All right, class, our dough has rested," the chef called from the front of the room. "It's now time to make our galette."

Fontaine gave Steve an unreadable stare and walked away.

# Chapter Eighteen

Steve punched Riley Fontaine's address into the navigation system and headed north on the 5, replaying his meeting with Fontaine as he went. Gerard Fontaine had surprised him. More decent and fair-minded than Steve would have been if it had been his daughter who had been murdered. Then again maybe Gerard Fontaine had other reasons, secret reasons, for believing that Tom Travis hadn't done it. But if he did, why had he done nothing to identify the real killer? Why would he let the monster who killed his daughter get away with it?

Fontaine said he thought Travis was innocent because he had a psychic gift. Oooohhh. Ninety five percent of that stuff was the ability to read facial clues. The FBI routinely trained its agents how to translate the blink of an eye, the tilt of a head into indications of deception or truthfulness. And as far as Fontaine's peering into Steve's own murderous soul, the stories about him were common knowledge. Three mouse clicks on the Internet and it was all right there for anyone to see. The bottom line was that when confronted with the man who had probably killed his daughter, the only thing most fathers wanted to do was slit the guy's throat.

No, Steve didn't expect fathers to let the men responsible for their daughter's deaths get away with it. So why was Gerard Fontaine being so forgiving? Steve pulled off the freeway at Riley Fontaine's exit.

He found Riley Fontaine in a deserted store on Olympic, as trapped and hopeless as an insect stuck in amber. The sign out front said 'BLACK GOLD - Vintage Music' but was contrarily painted in faded ivory letters against a deep blue field. Steve paused on the sidewalk but the display windows were so smeared with smog and snot and human grease that a determined gaze revealed only hints of aisles bisecting rows of blurred merchandise.

When he pushed through the front door Janson was rewarded with a screech as if a nervous parrot had been tasked to stand guard. Three long aisles ran the length of the shop terminating at the back in a wide counter half obscured in the afternoon gloom. At the counter's center was a scarred cash register attended by a young man as different from his sister as nature might allow two siblings to be. Where Marian Fontaine Travis was blond, Riley was dark. Where she was clean featured and athletically slim, he was puffy with rough skin and muddy eyes. Dressed in a long sleeved black shirt and black jeans, Riley's only hint of color was a silver teardrop bolted into his lower lip.

Janson ambled down the right hand aisle, stopping here and there to flip through the tubs of vinyl LP's, now almost as much artifacts of a bygone era as 78's and Edison gramophone cylinders. One section labeled "Folk Music — L" sported a smiling Glen Yarborough under the title: The Limelighters At The Hungry I. The price tag said $38.50. Steve shook his head and moved on. Behind him the rich afternoon light penetrated the smeared glass as if through a Vaseline-coated lens and filled the little shop with the saturated colors of an antique diorama. Riley Fontaine bent over a sheaf of printed forms, his pencil making little jots and scratches. Steve glanced at the front door forty feet away then back to Riley Fontaine who ignored him with the passionate indifference of a Parisian cab driver.

"Excuse me," Steve began. Fontaine briefly held up his left hand and continued scribbling. Thirty seconds passed. Steve looked around. The store was empty, as energized as an imminent bankruptcy. "Hello?" Fontaine's head did not move, the only sound was the scratch, scratch, scratch of lead on paper. Thirty seconds more slipped by and after a quick glance at his watch, Steve reached over and pulled the pencil from Riley's hand.

"Hey! You don't have to—"

"Apparently I do. Are you Riley Fontaine?" The kid gave Steve a go-to-hell glare and reached for the pencil. Steve snapped it cleanly with a flick of his thumb. "You do a great business here," Steve said, looking at the empty store. "You must sell, what . . . two, three records a day? Hell, at that pace I guess you barely have time to ring up the orders."

"I don't know who you think you are but—"

"That's part of your problem, Riley. You didn't take the time to find out who I was and what I wanted before you went into your asshole routine." Fontaine pouted like a kid who's just been told he's no longer allowed to poke the family dog with a stick. "Let's start over." Steve gave Riley a quick smile and extended his hand.

"Hi, Mr. Fontaine. My name's Steve Janson. I just met with your father and he gave me your address. I'm filling in some holes in your interview with Detectives Katz and Furley." Steve dropped a copy of Riley's police interview on the counter. "Now, do you want to give me a few minutes of your time to nail the bastard who murdered your sister or do I need to haul your ass down to some little room with plastic chairs and a court reporter for three or four hours? Your choice." Steve dropped the broken pencil on the counter and gave Riley his best tough-guy look. The kid broke eye contact and tossed the pieces into the trash. The pout still painted his face but now it was joined by a hint of uncertainty creeping in behind his eyes.

"When was the last time you spoke with your sister?" Steve asked, not waiting for Fontaine's agreement.

"I told the other cops—"

"I've read your statement," Steve snapped, ignoring the 'other cops' reference. If the kid, and that was the only way Steve could think of him no matter what his chronological age might be, wanted to assume that Steve was a police detective, that was his problem. "This will go a lot faster if you just answer my questions instead of arguing about everything. So, the last time you talked with your sister was. . . ?"

"Uhhh, sometime before Christmas," Riley finally mumbled.

"Sometime before Christmas isn't good enough. When, exactly?"

The kid gave Steve a surly expression, then lowered his head and muttered, "Two days before Christmas."

"What did you talk about?"

Fontaine took a breath as if about to complain that he had already told that to the other detectives, then he caught Steve's gaze and changed his mind. "Holiday stuff, what I was getting dad, if I was going to be home for Christmas dinner, what I was doing for New Years."

"What were you doing on New Years?"

"Hanging loose."

"'Hanging loose' doesn't cut in my report. Account for your day from eight a.m. December 31st through ten that night."

"You're telling me I'm a suspect?"

"I'm asking you to account for your time so nobody else can claim you're a suspect." Steve poised his pen above his spiral pad.

Fontaine gave him a sour look then began. "Okay, I got up around nine-thirty. The store was closed for the holidays. I had breakfast. I listened to some music, watched TV, stuff like that until about noon. I got lunch at Fatburger and then went down to Funland. I drove the carts, go-carts, and hit the arcade. I did some shopping, had dinner with a friend—"

"Who?"

"Larry Spartezian. You want his number?" Steve held out the pad and pen.

"Go on."

"Well, okay, we had dinner at Jacko's on the pier, went to a movie, Dive Bomber, then hit a couple of clubs. So, does that get me off the suspect list?" Riley sneered.

"Sounds good to me. I'll give your pal Larry a call. Tell me about your sister."

"What about her?"

Steve sighed. Dealing with this kid was like herding a cat. "She's, what, five years older than you?"

"Seven."

"Okay, what kind of a person was she?"

"Very nice." The pout was back.

"I'm sure she was very nice, but I need to understand her better."

"What's that matter now? She's dead."

"Yeah, I know she's dead. That's the point, isn't it? Tom Travis is saying he had no motive to kill her. If we understood better what might have set him off. . . ." Steve tilted his head to the side. "She wasn't an angel, was she? She was human, right. It's possible that she might do something to piss a guy off, right?"

Riley's lips tightened and he gave Steve a sudden nod. "Yeah, she could piss people off," he agreed in a soft tone.

"Okay, tell me about it." Steve picked up his pen.

Riley glanced around the empty store, then leaned forward, his voice just above a whisper. "She had this way of saying she was helping you but really she was screwing you, like when your mother tells you that you can't go to a party but it's for your own good. You know what I mean?"

"Hey, I had a mother. She used to drive me crazy with that stuff. So, Marian was like that? How?"

"My mom died when I was ten and Marian sort of stepped in and took over. It was like my sister disappeared. I mean, she was only seventeen, still in high school and all of a sudden she's telling me I can't do this and I can't do that, do this and do that."

"That must have been a pain."

"I didn't mind the rules so much but it was the way she did it. She always treated me like I was a jerk who couldn't tie his own shoes. I figured that when I got older things would change."

"But they didn't."

"They got worse," Riley snapped. "Everything I did was wrong. And she'd get this look on her face. . . ." Riley's lips curled down.

"What kind of look?"

"Like I had fucked up again, just like she expected me to do. Like, 'Poor Riley, I really hoped you could handle this but I should have known that you'd mess it up. You're just a big loser and you always will be.' It was like she blamed herself for being stupid enough to believe that I could do anything right. One look at her face and I could hear her speaking inside her own head, like she was saying to herself, 'Well, next time I'll know better than to trust Riley not to fuck everything up.'"

"That must have been rough. What about your dad? How'd he handle it?"

"Dad? Marian was his little angel. She was perfect. She could do no wrong."

"Well, fathers and their daughters—"

"I didn't mind that, him liking her better than me," Riley complained, "but, it wasn't fair, her turning him against me. 'You know we can't trust Riley, dad. It's not his fault that he's a fuck-up. He just is, poor kid.' I could see it, I could see what she was doing, poisoning his mind against me, but no matter how hard I tried, it didn't make any difference. She convinced him that I was worthless, nothing." Riley slapped his palm on the counter like the shot from a gun. "One time, for his birthday, I planned this really great party. I saved my allowance for weeks. I made dinner reservations at his favorite restaurant, everything. I worked so hard. Is it my fault the damn car got a flat tire? What was I supposed to do about that?" The kid looked like he was about to cry.

"What happened?"

"What happened? The same thing that always happened. It all turned to shit! . . . I got out the spare and started to fix the tire and then Marian started in on me. 'Riley, you don't know what you're doing. Wait for the Auto Club.' I couldn't wait for the fucking Auto Club! We had reservations for seven o'clock. I had booked that restaurant two months in advance. By the time the damn Auto Club got there it would have been too late. But she wouldn't shut up. She just wouldn't shut up!" Riley pounded his fist on the counter. "She'd keep at you in that sweet, fake-friendly voice of hers, 'Riley, leave the spare alone. Riley, you'll get your pants dirty. Riley, I don't think the jack goes there. Riley, you're a jerk and you're going to screw up again, like always.' It was all her fault. She got me so upset I couldn't think straight. If she had just left me alone, I would have fixed the flat, no problem. But no, she just couldn't shut the fuck up!" Riley pounded his fist into the wall and turned away.

"The car slipped off the jack?" Steve asked gently.

"Bent the rotor. They had to tow it to the dealer. It cost dad a thousand bucks. A cab took us home. Marian cooked dad his favorite dinner and gave him her present, which he loved. And I'm sitting there, with nothing, looking like a fool. What have I got to give him? Nothing! So, she ends up the hero and I'm the fool, just like always."

"Was your dad pissed?"

Riley gave Steve a heartbroken smile. "No, I was the idiot son who couldn't do anything right no matter how hard he tried, like the dog who just can't help peeing on the floor. 'It was a great birthday, thanks kids,' that's what dad said, but he was looking at Marian. Then he looked at me like, I'll never forget that look, like he was sorry for me. It would have been better if he had just yelled at me for screwing up the car. At least then I could have told him that it was Marian's fault for keeping at me, nagging, nagging, nagging, driving me nuts until I was so shook up I couldn't think straight but it was that look of pity, that . . . If she had just shut the fuck up and let me do it on my own." Riley's face was twisted into a painful mask.

"Do you think that's how she treated Tom Travis, nagged him until he couldn't take it anymore?"

"She could have. She was so beautiful and so nice and everybody liked her and everybody wanted her to like them and when she gave up on you, when she let you know that you just weren't good enough, it was like, you know, a knife in your heart, because you knew that no matter what you did, that she was done with you forever, that she would never, ever change her mind about you, that you had failed her and you could never fix things again. Maybe if she did that to Travis, I mean when your wife tells you you're nothing, that it's over, well, wouldn't that make you mad enough to want to kill her?"

Inside Steve's head an alarm began to ring. Had it been all over between Marian and Travis? Had she been going to dump him instead of the other way around?

Riley blushed like a kid who's mentioned a party that the rest of the people at the table hadn't been invited to. "I don't know," he mumbled, "I'm just guessing about what could have happened to make Tom mad enough to, you know."

"But there were problems in the marriage? She was thinking of leaving him?"

"Hey, I told you, I don't know! We never talked about personal stuff like that. We never talked about much of anything except her plans and how I fit into them, or not."

"You weren't close then?"

"You're asking me?" Steve just stared at him. "I mean, if you asked Marian, she'd say, 'Sure, Riley and I are like two peas in a pod' but if you're asking me, no, it was all about her daughter, her stuff, her charities, her life. Never about me. Look at this place." Riley gestured at the empty shop. "This was Marian's and dad's idea of how to get me out of the way. 'Riley's too stupid to do anything on his own. He's too stupid to run a real business. Stick him in some little shop where he can't do any damage and can't lose too much money. Something that will keep him busy and out of the way.'

"Dad pays the rent and I can keep whatever's left over. I can sit here until I'm old and hobbling around on a cane for all he cares. This was her idea to get me out of the way, so here I am. You think Marian was such a wonderful person, so perfect, well think again. She could hurt people, she could make someone want to. . . ." Riley lowered his eyes. "She could make enemies, just like anybody else. Could she have gotten Tom Travis so pissed off that he'd want to see her dead? Oh yeah, for sure." Riley lifted his gaze, his eyes burning.

Steve stared at him for a long heartbeat, then closed his pad and held out his hand. "Thanks for your time, Mr. Fontaine. I appreciate your help. If you could make a list for me of your sister's friends, especially her girlfriends, I'd appreciate it. I'd like to talk with them to see if she mentioned any specific problems with Tom Travis. Who knows, maybe she told them about some threat he may have made. You can do that for me, can't you?"

"I suppose," Riley said with no great enthusiasm.

"Terrific. Fax it to me at this number, would you, save me another trip."

Riley examined the scrap of paper, then gave Steve a reluctant nod.

A moment after Janson turned away the kid was back scribbling on his wrinkled forms. Steve looked at the empty store, the cash register at the back instead of near the door where any merchant with half a brain would put it, the sign that should have been black on gold to match the business's name, the stocky dark-haired kid with muddy eyes and pock-marked skin so unlike his fair-haired sister, and wondered, as Gerard Fontaine must have wondered every day of his life, if some dark night nine months before his birth Riley's mother hadn't jumped over the back fence. And if she had, mightn't her pregnant daughter, Marian Fontaine, have done the same? Something like that could be a motive for murder.

# Chapter Nineteen

The killer saw Marian Fontaine Travis in flickers, skipping moments between consciousness and sleep, when her face, just before he hit her, would slide across his vision like a fleeting reflection in a shop window. Then he would play it out all over again looking for his mistake, but each event was born in perfect logic from the one that preceded it. Sometimes shit just happens.

It always started the same way, with Marian yelling at him. If she just hadn't bitched at him with that condescending tone, hadn't given him that outraged look, like he was some no-account mutt she had caught fucking her prize poodle, he might have backed up, turned around and left. But she was so fucking superior, beautiful, rich, smart, and when she stood there and looked down her nose at him, like El Jefe chewing out some wetback gardener, well, he knew he couldn't let her get away with that.

So he punched her, BAM, felt her nose crunch under his fist, saw the astonished look on her face, like she couldn't believe anyone would dare do that to her. The second punch felt even better, a left hook that knocked her clear off her feet, and, as she fell, he finally saw fear in her eyes, the beginnings of the respect she should have given him in the first place. If she had only treated him with respect from the beginning maybe things would have been different but now it was too late for that.

As soon as she hit the floor, he knew it was too late. He'd gone too far. What was done could not be undone. If he left now the cops wouldn't be far behind and with her being pregnant, fuck, they'd crucify him. She didn't leave him any choice, really. He could finish her with a knife from the kitchen but knives were messy. With all that blood some was bound to get on him.

Sure, there was already a little on his hand but his shirt and pants seemed perfectly clean. She made a moaning noise and in a minute or two she would try to get up, and then things would get messy again. He'd have to strangle her. There was no other way. He looked at his hands. Most people didn't realize how much strength it took to strangle someone to death. And they struggled and scratched for a long time before they went. He didn't want any scratches nor any of his flesh under her nails.

His eyes lingered on the table lamp. A quick yank and the cord pulled free. Across the room she moaned again. Shit, she was coming to. Hurry, hurry! He rolled her over onto her bloated stomach and straddled her back, looping the cord twice around her neck. Then he wrapped the ends around each palm and pulled. Her head and shoulders rose a few inches off the floor and he relaxed the pressure, shifting his position until his right knee was planted between her shoulder blades. Then he pulled again. He had good leverage now.

She made little choking, coughing noises at first but they decreased and soon stopped. After thirty seconds all he heard was a soft 'aak. . . aaak. . . aak' noise. He ignored it. Then she stopped making any sounds at all. He wasn't fooled. He knew it took a person several minutes to suffocate. How many times had he seen divers brought back to life after two or even three minutes under water? So he kept pulling, almost four minutes by his watch, just to make sure. Then he grabbed a towel from the kitchen and wiped his prints from the wire. Her head was in profile, one blind blue eye looking up at him. Soon it would cloud over with a gray haze. Inside her the baby kicked and soundlessly slipped away. Marian's tongue protruded limply from her open mouth. She wouldn't nag anybody with that tongue ever again.

He had to stop and think now, be smart. He had to get her out of there. Everybody knew about CSI. He'd put her where they'd never find her and if they did, by the time they did, they wouldn't find any evidence of him on her. Should he take her car? No, if anything happened, a flat tire, a speeding ticket, they might tie him to it. No, he'd use his own wheels. He parked it next to the back door. He put her inside and covered her with an old plastic tarp. He'd dump that later too. There was a little blood on the hardwood floor next to the patio door where her body had fallen. He cleaned it up with Pine Sol then splashed it with Clorox for good measure. Everyone knew that bleach made it impossible to get DNA from blood. What else?

The lamp! Somebody might notice the missing cord. He'd get rid of that too. He looked around. Was there anything else? He took a deep breath but couldn't think of anything. He needed a plan. Dump her someplace, then get rid of the tarp and the lamp. It didn't seem like enough. There had to be something else, something clever that would lead the cops in the wrong direction, something that would make them think she had been mugged or car-jacked or something.

"Mommy?" What the hell? "Mommy?" A little girl in a purple t-shirt, kid's jeans and pink sneakers appeared in the doorway. He saw it all in one shocked glance. "Where's mommy?"

"She's at the store." It was the first thing that came into his head.

"The nice stores?"

That had to be the Beverly Center. "Yes, the nice stores. I'm going to go pick her up."

"Why?"

"Because her car broke down. You go back to your room. Mommy will be home soon."

The kid stared at him for about three seconds, then turned and walked away.

Another God damn loose end! Everything was happening too fast. It was all getting out of control. He had to think. What if they found her car at the mall? Maybe with a flat tire or something. The cops would figure she'd been grabbed there. But how the hell could he set it up? He looked at his watch. Could he leave the kid here alone? No way. There had to be some tape in the kitchen. Five minutes later, screaming and crying, Sarah was trussed and gagged with duct tape and wrapped up in the blue blanket from her bed.

The dirt bike made the short trip from the garage to the back of Marian's Escalade. Decked out in a baseball cap, oversized sunglasses and a turned-up collar, he parked the SUV in a remote corner of the mall, slipped the front gate's remote control into his pocket, and waited. When the coast was clear he unloaded the bike and rode away. He was equally careful when he returned to the house, waiting until the block was empty then hitting the remote and slipping through the gate unnoticed. It was the work of a few minutes to wipe down the bike and return it to the garage.

What about the kid? She knew too much. But, shit, a four year old kid? Deciding to decide later he dumped her in the back with Marian's body. He had to get rid of them both. He just needed a little time to figure it all out. And he had figured it all out. He had done what he had to do.

Now he still thought of her, from time to time, usually just before he fell asleep. If she hadn't been such an arrogant, pissy bitch none of it would have happened. But once he hit her, there was no going back. She had nobody to blame but herself.

# Chapter Twenty

Steve could feel time pressing on him like a slow-moving avalanche closing in behind him. He'd only read a fraction of the prosecutor's files, had interviewed only a few potential witnesses, and he had discovered nothing. Maybe with Riley Fontaine's list of Marian's girlfriends he might learn something new, some motive for murder the cops hadn't wanted cluttering up their case. He shot a glance at his silent fax machine. There was something missing, something that Tom Travis knew but wasn't telling him. He had sensed it when he interviewed Gerard Fontaine. Fontaine knew more than he was saying about what had been going on between Travis and Marian. Riley was holding something back too. The fax remained mute.

Steve pulled out the log of police interviews. The cops had had one final session with Tom Travis before he shut up and got a lawyer. It took place two days after they had discovered Marian's body.

## * * *

"Tom, thanks for stopping by," Jack Furley said, extending his hand. "Simon and I are both sorry for your loss."

"Terrible, the way the press is handling this," Katz added. "Believe me, we kept them as far away from the scene as we could, but with a big star like you. . . ." Simon shrugged and threw up his hands.

"Get you a coffee, a soft drink?" Furley asked. Travis shook his head and they took that as a signal to sit. The cops had borrowed a conference room on the third floor with a large window and soft chairs. For this meeting they wanted Travis relaxed. Katz clicked the record button on a mini-cassette and gently laid it flat in the center of the table.

"Tom, thanks again for your continued cooperation with our investigation. We'll be recording this meeting to make sure we don't miss any important details. Before we get started, is there anything you'd like?"

"No, I'm good," Travis said in a subdued tone.

Furley gave him a thin smile. "Well, if want to take a break, get something to eat, make a call, whatever, just say so." He paused for half a second, took a deep breath, then continued. "Tom, as you know from the press reports, two days ago we found a body in the Double Peaks Recreational Preserve. We didn't want to call you in until we had forensic confirmation of the identity, which we got this morning. I'm very sorry to have to tell you that we've confirmed that it was Marian's body."

Travis's face became even more somber and his head tipped forward. The room grew quieter until the only sound was a faint hum from the AC.

"How'd she . . . what happened to her?" Travis asked without looking up.

"She was strangled."

"Strangled? And the baby?"

Furley glanced at Katz. "The doc says she didn't feel a thing."

"So, it was a girl?"

"You didn't know?"

Travis's shoulders shuddered, or maybe it was just a shrug.

"Do you have any clues who did it? . . . That God-damned movie!"

"Movie?"

"Against The Grain. That has to be where they got the idea of grabbing her from the mall. It couldn't be a coincidence." Furley and Katz exchanged a glance. "What I don't understand is why they didn't ask for a ransom. Why kidnap her and then just . . . without even asking for any money? Do you think it was me?"

"Excuse me?" Had Travis finally realized he was the prime suspect? Katz wondered.

"Do you think that someone did this to get even with me, payback or a loony stalker or something?"

Again, the detectives exchanged a brief, surprised glance. "Well, ahh, we're exploring all possibilities, Tom," Furley replied. "What we'd like to know is—"

"Oh, Jeez!"

"What?"

"What about Sarah?" Travis's voice trailed off and he looked expectantly from Furley to Katz.

"Uhhh, no, Mr. Travis. We didn't find any sign of Sarah."

"Thank God! That means she's probably alive, right?"

"Well, we—"

"I mean, if they were going to, you know, Sarah, they'd have left her with Marian, right? I mean, if she was . . . dead," Travis's lips froze and he bent his head. The room was still for ten seconds. "Anyway," he finally continued, head still down, "her not being there probably means she's still alive, doesn't it?" Suddenly Travis's chin lifted and he stared pleadingly into Furley's eyes.

"It's, aah, it's a good sign, for sure, Tom" Furley agreed, giving Travis a little nod.

"So, you're still looking for her?"

"Absolutely."

"Good, that's good, because, well, she's innocent, isn't she."

Innocent? Katz gave Furley a puzzled glance. And your wife wasn't? Katz turned back to Travis.

"Do you think Marian did something to cause this, that she wasn't innocent?" Katz asked softly, scenting blood in the water.

"No, of course not, who deserves to be kidnapped and murdered, except maybe somebody like Osama Bin Laden? I just meant that we're adults, you know, we've all done things in our lives, good and bad, but a little kid like that, who could she have ever hurt or betrayed? I know I'm not perfect. I've made mistakes. You know my record with women. There are probably lots of people out there who'd want me hurt or dead, but who the hell would have any right to blame a four year old little girl for anything? Maybe that's why she's still alive," Travis suggested, his face suddenly brightening. "Maybe the guy realizes that she's just an innocent bystander and he's going to let her go."

Furley stared at Travis as astonished as if he had just broken into song. What planet was this guy from?

"We'll do everything humanly possible to find her, Tom," Furley assured him.

"When you do, and I'm going to keep a positive outlook here, I'm going to adopt her."

"Excuse me?"

"Well, her dad's dead. Her mom's dead. Grandpa's too old. Uncle Riley's a loser with a capital L. Who else does the little kid have? Hell, I can afford it. She'll never want for anything. I'll get her the best schools. I'll send her to Harvard, Stanford, put her through medical school if she wants. Anything, anything she wants, I'll make sure she gets it. I'll take care of her like she was my own blood." Travis looked expectantly at the detectives.

"That's very decent of you, Tom, a really decent thing to do," Katz said, giving Travis a nod.

"But you know, Tom," Furley added, "right now we've got to find out who did this to Marian. If we want to find Sarah, then first we have to find Marian's killer."

"Right, yeah, I guess I got a little ahead of myself. This is all . . . look, I'm no pansy but this is hard. I'm not thinking too straight right now."

"Perfectly normal, Tom. It would shake anybody up. But getting back to Marian, we're still not sure of the order of events. She might have been kidnapped from the mall, but maybe not. We have to eliminate the possibility that she was taken from the house so we can focus our resources in the right places."

"You think maybe she let the guy in, like a cable guy or something, that he killed her in my house, and then he dumped her car at the Beverly Center to divert suspicion?"

"It's a possibility."

"But if he put her in the Escalade, then what would he have done with the body once he got it there?" Travis asked, puzzled, then his face seemed to light up. "Do you think he had an accomplice? Somebody who met him at the mall and they transferred the body to another car?"

"Could be," Furley agreed after a long pause.

"Then they took her to the desert because that's where the press reported I'd been, to divert suspicion onto me?"

"Makes sense. You know, Tom," Furley said in a confidential tone, "we should also check on who knew you were going out there that day."

"In case they planned this in advance, you mean?"

"Sure."

"Gee, I don't know. It was sort of a spur of the moment thing."

"So, you got up that morning and decided to try out your new dune buggy?"

"Well, not exactly." Furley gave Travis an interested stare. "I had been thinking about taking it out since Christmas. At first I was thinking New Year's Day then I changed my mind, then, changed it back again." Travis held up his hands. "It was all sort of . . . open ended. I think I might have said something to some of the guys from the movie—"

"That was . . . " Furley flipped through his notes, "The Bone Yard?"

"Yeah, we were in pre-production then, scouting locations and stuff like that. Glenn Malvo, the producer, wanted to go over some stuff with me and when we got done I checked out the stage we were going to use for the interiors, just to look around."

"Look around?"

"Check out the sets, schmooze with the crew. I always get along great with the crew, that's probably because I started out as a stunt man instead of an actor."

"And this was . . . ?"

"I don't know, sometime between Christmas and New Years. I remember because I was thinking 'Doesn't this guy', Malvo I mean, 'Doesn't this guy have a real life? He's down here the day after Christmas trying to figure out if it's cheaper to film in Mexico or Palmdale.' Anyway, I wandered over to the set and said 'Hi' to some of the guys pounding nails, shot the shit for, oh, what, fifteen, twenty minutes. Did the AD, that's Assistant Director, know his stuff, were they getting good quality on the props or cut rate shit, that kind of stuff." Travis gave Furley a quick shrug.

"And?"

"And? Oh, yeah, the dune buggy. Well, I remember talking to the guys about Christmas presents and I guess I mentioned buying the dune buggy but that I hadn't driven it yet. They asked when I was taking her out and I said something like, 'in a couple of days' or 'if nothing else comes up, maybe New Year's day,' or 'Friday or Saturday' something like that. But none of those guys would have killed Marian. They all love me. Besides, they're in the union."

Furley tried to hide his confusion over what the union had to do with anything, and instead asked, "Can you give us any names? We need our reports to be complete."

"Names? Hmmmmm." Travis furrowed his brow. "Hell, ahhh, one of the guys was Lance something. I remember because he didn't look gay, and I wondered how you survived in this town as a straight guy named Lance. There was an old guy, I always called him Freddy." Furley wrote down the name. "But, I don't think that was really his name. I just called him Freddy because he reminded me of Fred Mertz, you know, on the old Lucy show." Furley scratched out the name. "That's all I've got." Travis looked at Katz who had been concentrating on a spot on the wall above Travis's right shoulder. "So, can you tell me when she was buried?"

"What?"

"I was thinking that they must have held her for a while, until the press carried the story about me being at the RV Park, then they buried her to put suspicion on me. So, I was wondering if you can tell how long she was dead before they buried her."

Katz looked at his pad, trying to hide his disgust.

"I don't think there's any way to test for that."

"But you do think that's what happened."

"Until we get some evidence, it's all speculation. What we really need to do now is nail some things down."

"How can I help?"

"Well, Mr. Travis," Katz leaned forward, "did you ever video tape the contents of your house for insurance purposes, in case there was a fire, so you'd have a record of what was lost?"

"Gee, my business manager would take care of something like that. I don't understand. What good that would do?"

"It might eliminate the house as the original crime scene. If the recordings we took after Marian disappeared match your original tape, then that might indicate that nothing happened there. On the other hand, if the killer broke something or moved something during the attack. . . ." Katz let the sentence drift.

"But it's been months," Travis said, shaking his head. "You looked the place over right after Marian went missing and you didn't find anything."

"That's true but we video taped where all the furniture and vases and things were at that time. We're hoping that comparing that video with your old insurance video might reveal if something had changed or was missing."

"Or not," Furley broke in. "Either way, it helps us narrow our investigation, points us one way or the other."

"It sounds like you know something you're not telling me."

"There are always—"

"No, it's okay. I know you have to keep some details back so you can be sure you've got the real killer. You mentioned a vase. Was Marian hit with vase or something like that?"

"I'm sorry, but we can't comment on the details, Tom."

"Yeah, sure, I understand."

The detectives stared at Travis for another five seconds before Furley broke the silence. "So, Tom, you gonna help us with that insurance tape?"

"Huh? Oh, sure. I'll call my business manager as soon as. . . ."

Furley slid his cell across the table. "Time is really crucial at this stage, Tom. You understand." Hesitantly, Travis picked up the phone. "If he could bring it over right away, we'll copy it and give it right back." Travis stared at the cell as if it were the trigger for a bomb, then, reluctantly it seemed to Katz, began pressing buttons.

Forty-five minutes later Sheldon Morris arrived with a digital mini-cassette. Furley asked him to hand it to Travis who in turn gave it to Katz.

"I think that's all we've got, Tom," Furley said with a thin, forced smile. "We appreciate your help."

"You'll call me about Sarah?"

"You bet. You'll be the first call we make." Everyone shook hands and a confused Sheldon Morris walked Travis out the door.

"What did you tell those guys?" Morris demanded once they reached the sidewalk.

"We just discussed the case, my theories on who might have killed Marian."

"Jesus!" Morris said, appalled.

"What?"

"Fuck, Tom, you're suspect number one. Those guys are going to take everything you say and twist it into a rope to hang you with."

"But I didn't do it."

"That's what OJ said."

"Yeah, but he did do it."

Morris grabbed Tom's shoulder and spun him around. "Tom, right this minute those guys are measuring you for an orange jumpsuit. What did you tell them?"

"Nothing."

"Why did they want that insurance tape?"

"They want to compare it to the tape they shot after Marian went missing to see if maybe she was grabbed from the house."

"Dear God!"

"What?"

"They want to see if anything's changed or missing so that they can say that you killed Marian at the house and then took her body to the RV Park in your dune buggy." Morris enunciated each word as if he were talking to a kid in the slow class.

"That's crazy. A body wouldn't fit in the buggy."

Morris took a deep breath and tried again. "You could have put the body in the Hummer, then, once you got to the park, stuck it in the back of the buggy when no one was looking and driven out in the middle of nowhere, buried it, then come back without it." He stared hard at Travis to see if he was getting through. "Did they ask you for permission to examine the Hummer and the buggy?"

"Just now? No." Morris started to relax when Travis continued, "They checked them out the day after Marian disappeared." Morris's face fell. "What? I didn't do it. I've got nothing to hide."

"Oh, shit! Have you at least talked to a lawyer?"

"Sure, I called Waxman, first thing."

"Sam Waxman is a contracts attorney. He doesn't know shit about criminal law. What did he tell you?"

"He said to get a criminal lawyer and not to talk to the cops."

"So, of course, you went out and talked to the cops."

"What am I speaking Esperanto or something? My wife and stepdaughter were missing. I didn't do it. Of course I talked to the cops. If I had refused to talk with the cops, I'd have looked guilty. The tabloids would have had a field day with that. Remember the Ramseys?"

"Yes, and I remember that the Ramseys were never arrested or charged with anything."

"But everybody thought they did it! A guy in my position, I'd be finished in this town if people thought I had killed my pregnant wife. Have you seen any movies with OJ in them lately?"

"Who did Waxman say to get?"

"What?"

"What was the name of the lawyer Waxman told you to hire?"

"Ahh, Marks, Marker, Markham! Gary Markham, I think."

Morris pulled out his cell. "Information, I'd like the number of an attorney by the name of Gary or G. Markham . . . Gregory Markham, criminal law? Yes, that's it. Yes, please dial it for me." Morris gave Travis a frustrated glance and looked away.

## * * *

"I've got one . . . two . . . three . . . four lamps in the family room," Furley said, peering at the grainy image.

"I've got one . . . two . . . three." Katz tapped his finger against the screen as he counted.

"Far left coffee table?" Furley called out.

"Check."

"Far right table between the blue chair and the patio doors?"

"No, a flower vase on the table."

"I've got a red and gold vase in the center of the mantle."

"Nope, some kind of glass sculpture. I'll get the techs to print an 11 by 14 of each of these frames." Katz walked over to Furley's TV and tapped the image of the missing lamp on the screen. "There's our murder weapon," he said with a wolfish grin.

# Chapter Twenty-One

Steve checked the indexes but could find no record of any contacts between the police and any of the crew on Travis's screamer movie. From the transcript of Travis's last interview, Steve had to admit that it didn't seem like much of a lead, but maybe Travis had said more about his dune buggy trip than he remembered. Maybe there was some link between one of the carpenters or grips and Bobby Berdue or Riley Fontaine or someone else who might have had a motive to get rid of Marian. Who am I kidding? Steve asked himself, wishing he had something to punch or break. He was grasping at straws, but his eyes were going blurry from reading reports that the cops and Markham's clerks and Ben McGarrey had all read before him, and in which all of them had found nothing. If he didn't start turning over some new rocks soon Travis was cooked. Wearily, he picked up the phone.

The producer, Glenn Malvo, was in Romania scouting locations for some kind of Nazi movie. His assistant/receptionist/bootlick assured Steve that Romania was the new Canada, especially when you needed a thousand extras in German uniforms. The Bone Yard's director, Alan Page, was in town but would be in meetings for "several days." Steve figured he'd have to tackle the guy outside whatever restaurant was hot this week, maybe dress up like the valet and kidnap him when he came to pick up his Ferrari. The movie's writer, Jack Statler, was not only in town but agreed to meet Steve at eight the following morning at the north end of the Promenade that ran for miles between the PCH and the sea.

Statler was about five ten and thin, all angles, with receding brown Brillo-Pad hair. "Just find the guy who looks like a younger, less handsome Art Garfunkle," Statler told Steve on the phone and barked a laugh. This morning Statler was dressed in Nike sneakers with lights in the back that blinked with every step and an electric blue running suit sporting white stripes down the shirt and pants. He took one look at Janson's ragged Reeboks, jeans and black tee and burst out laughing.

"You've got to be kidding," he said. "You actually run in public in that?" Steve didn't know how to reply so he just shrugged. "Man, you're really not in the business, are you?"

"I used to be a cop."

"Okay, that explains the blue collar chic."

"Why blue collar? Maybe I was a rich cop. Maybe my father was the president of Union Oil and I became a cop because I wanted to help people."

"And maybe my dad ran a pig ranch." Jack's face split in a sarcastic grin. "You can't get any more blue collar than cops. It's the last major profession that has no graduate school, no special degree, no licensing, no supervised training. Get out of high school, join the army, join the cops, or get a job in construction, the blue collar trilogy." Statler smirked. "Now, my people," he said, grinning, "figure that if you're not a doctor, dentist, or lawyer, maybe you won't disgrace your family too much if you become a writer or a teacher, but college only. If it's high school they stick you at the kids table at Thanksgiving and tell all the relatives that when you were in grade school some anti-Semite hit you in the head with a rock and you've never been the same since." Ho, Ho. Statler thought he was hilarious.

"So—"

"I get it. The name fooled you. Statler. Used to be Steinman but in this town it helps if a writer isn't too much of a Jew, just sort of . . . Jew-ish." Statler laughed again, a miscast Jay Leno.

"Look, I—"

"See, if you're a lawyer or a doctor and the sign on the door says 'Jacob Steinman' you're in. But as a writer, that's a little too much. All those decent people in the Red States see Jacob Steinman on the movie credits and it makes them nervous. They start worrying about what leftist, Zionist, commie bullshit that Jew-writer has slipped into their oh-so-moral, family-values movie. But, Jack Statler, now that's a normal American name that doesn't upset them at all. Of course, you've got to let people in the community know. If Jacob Steinman starts walking around town as Jack Statler, buying Christmas presents, ordering ham on rye and pretending that 'Baruch atah adonai' is Klingonese," Statler shrugged, "the closest he'll get to the movies is the bargain matinee. So," Statler said, giving Steve a friendly wave, "you want to get some exercise?" Without waiting, he jogged off at a mild trot. A few seconds later Steve caught up and, side by side, they headed down the asphalt path.

"You want to talk to me about Tom Travis?" Statler asked, looking straight ahead.

"How well do you know him?"

"Well enough to dislike him and feel sorry for him both at the same time."

"Why's that?" Steve asked though he more or less knew the answer already.

"At first, you think that if he weren't in this business with sycophants kissing his ass twelve times a day that he would be an okay guy. But he wouldn't." Steve didn't reply, just dodged around a woman pushing a stroller and kept on going. "The thing is, Tom Travis is basically an insecure narcissist who wants everybody to like him and who secretly believes that he's not good enough to deserve their approval. If he were a ditch digger, it wouldn't change anything. He'd still be the jerk at the corner bar telling everybody about the guys he's punched out, the women he's screwed, stuff that if it was true would be bragging and if it was a lie would be pitiful, except then he'd have a shittier wardrobe. A guy like that just can't win, unless he's a celebrity, in which case everybody kisses his ass, and in this town he fits right in."

"Maybe your mother was right. You should have been a shrink."

"I'm a better writer pretending to be a shrink than I would be a shrink pretending to be a writer." Steve spent a second or two trying to figure that out, then gave up.

"Was Travis buddies with anybody on the movie? Grips, stuntmen, carpenters. . . ?"

"He wanted to be." Statler led Steve off the path to let two muscular guys in wheelchairs go by. "Let me re-phrase that, a writer's prerogative. He wanted people to think he was buddies with them, the 'common touch' and all that. He wanted the reputation of being a regular Joe who preferred having a few cold ones with the guys, playing poker and swapping stories about monster trucks and monster jugs, but that wasn't really him."

"What was?" Steve asked but Jack had already taken off. Steve caught up and repeated the question.

"The paintings he doesn't sell, the ones he keeps, they're the giveaway. Ever seen any of them?"

"No."

"The stuff in the galleries, battleships, tanks, dive bombers, football games, all the macho, action shit, that's just cover, like a queer with a centerfold on his arm. But the ones he keeps for himself, one look and they'll tell you all you need to know."

"Such as?"

"The guy's got a soul, like Spike."

Steve couldn't keep up with Statler's mental bobs and weaves.

"Not a Buffy fan, huh? Okay, Spike is this mean, heartless, vicious vampire who inadvertently has his soul returned to him. He doesn't want it, doesn't want a conscience, doesn't want his humanity, but he's stuck with it anyway. In a lot of ways Tom Travis would be a lot happier as a conscienceless, thoroughgoing prick, but he's stuck with this damn inconvenient soul." Jack glanced at Janson and saw only confusion.

"Look," he said pulling to a halt next to the wooden railing that separated the trail from the cliff and the boiling sea below, "his art goes directly from his soul to his fingers, bypassing his puny, insecure little brain, the express run, no stops. When he turns it loose, not the macho shit he draws with tanks and machine guns, but the stuff that just comes out on its own, it has energy and emotion and heart. He did an oil of a day laborer and his hotel-maid wife at some ratty car lot in San Pedro, shoulders hunched, trying to scrape up enough bucks to buy some shitty ride that would get them to their next shitty job just this side of bankruptcy. Man it was terrific! I mean great! I begged him to sell it to me."

"But he wouldn't."

Statler laughed. "No fucking way. He didn't want anyone to know that he could paint something like that. Bad for his macho self image. But that painting, man, that was done by a guy with real talent and real heart, a guy with a soul. It was Spike all over." Statler retied his shoe and nodded and both men took off.

Steve tried again to get back on track. "Back to Tom's friends, there was nobody on the crew he was really buddies with?"

Five seconds passed and Steve wondered if Jack had heard him. "Maybe a stuntman? I think somebody mentioned that Travis used to be buddies with a stuntman, but I got the feeling that was two or three years ago. It was one of those comments that if you know the back story makes sense and if you don't, nobody's going to take the trouble to explain it you."

"And you didn't?"

Statler shook his head. "It was just a couple of words, the look on Glenn's face, the tone of his voice. You got the idea that whatever Tom and this guy had been, bosom friends, drinking buddies, whatever, it was all over now."

"You don't know the stunt man's name?" Statler gave his head a quick shake. "Do you remember the names of any of the guys on the crew who Tom might have talked with?"

"Sorry." Another head shake. "Glen's office would have all the names and addresses, Impact Productions."

"Glenn Malvo's in Romania."

"Oh, yeah, No Man's Land. I heard that was his next project. Couldn't you subpoena them or something?"

"I guess we'll have to," Steve held up his hand and reluctantly, Statler slowed then stopped. Steve pressed the button on a stone-wrapped fountain while Statler took a couple of mouthfuls from a Calistoga bottle Velcroed to his waist. "Is there anybody you can think of who might have had a motive to hurt Tom Travis or his wife?"

"Specific names? No."

"How about stories you heard about Travis that might give somebody a motive?"

Statler considered the question as if he had been asked to define the meaning of life. "You hear a lot of stores, most of them bullshit."

"Let me figure out which is which."

"You ever hear of Santana Sinn?"

"Sounds like a porn star."

"Bingo!" Jack said, pointing at Steve's chest. "Porn star at eighteen, wannabe legit actress at twenty. She made the rounds a few years ago, around the same time Travis married what's-her-name—"

"Marian."

"Sorry. Marian. Breathtaking, heartbreaking, Santana I mean, until you got a look in her eyes. Soulless black holes. A vacuum. A vast wasteland of need and want."

"Turned you down, huh?"

"Like a leper trying to crash Trump's wedding. No matter what my parents think, writers are the bottom of the ladder in this town. They'll give the keys to the city to some has-been relic comic off a thirteen week canceled sitcom before they'll give a free bus pass to Pulitzer-winning writer."

"Like you."

"Hope springs eternal."

"But Travis. . . "

"Is a star, maybe on the down side of the B List these days, but a star nevertheless. To hear him tell it, he banged Santana left, right, up, down and diagonally. Claimed she was the greatest fuck since Eve's little sister. The thing is," Statler gave Jack a sideways glance, "I heard a few months ago that she was trying to get the Guild to cover her medical bills. AIDS. It's only a rumor, but, hey, rumors in this town are like blood to a vampire."

"So, if she has AIDS . . . "

"Did she have it then? Did Tom give it to her? Did she give it to him? And if he's got it, did he give it to his wife? A man like Tom Travis tomcats around with a porn star, gives his wife, and maybe their unborn baby, AIDS, that sounds like a motive to get rid of both of them before some lab tech sells their blood tests to the tabloids."

"You're suggesting that Tom Travis killed his wife and unborn child to avoid some bad publicity? You think he's that big a monster?"

"People have been killed for less. But, hey, I'm just 'supposing.' I'm a writer. Conspiracy and betrayal, suspicion and violence, that's the stuff that puts food on my table. I see evil everywhere. But, it's just a rumor, after all. Maybe Santana doesn't have AIDS. And if she does, maybe Travis didn't get it. And if he did, that doesn't mean he gave it to Marian, or if he did, it doesn't necessarily mean that he would do something that . . . extreme. Come on," Jack, smiled again, "we gonna run or what?"

"Do you know anything else that might give somebody a motive to hurt Tom or Marian?"

"Sorry, that was the only film I worked with him on. For anything more, you're going to need to talk to Glenn Malvo. From what I hear, he and Travis go way back." Statler gave Steve a small laugh. "Hell, maybe you can get him to tell you the story about the stuntman Travis used to be buddies with." Statler looked down the winding asphalt path alive now with dots of color, women in red Spandex, speed walkers in lime and sapphire and lemon-gold, kids on rollerblades, old people tottering on polished aluminum canes. "Last chance."

Steve shook his head. "Thanks for the info."

"Sure, call me when this is all over. Who knows, there may be movie in it."

"Oh, there's a movie in it, all right" Steve agreed. "I'm just worried right now about how it's going to end."

# Chapter Twenty-Two

Steve checked again with Glenn Malvo's office. "Maybe he'll be back by the end of the week" was the best they could do. The in-tray on his fax machine was still empty. Apparently he was going to have to bounce Riley Fontaine's head off his cash register to get that list of Marian's girlfriends. He thought about trying to shake some answers out of Tom Travis, starting with "Who's your old friend, the stuntman, and where can I find him?" and ending with "Did Santana Sinn give you AIDS?" Sure, that would work. Steve was convinced that Travis was incapable of giving anyone a straight answer that might make him look bad. Who else had been close to Tom Travis who might be able to suggest a motive or a suspect? Steve could think of one person, Kaitlen Berdue. According to the police report, Kaitlen worked at the All About You Spa & Wellness Center in Westwood.

Steve knew he was in trouble the instant he walked in the door.

"Help you?" the clerk, a hunky Black kid, asked in a disinterested tone. Steve glanced in the mirror behind the counter and did a quick mental check: gray flannel pants, fly zipped, black Burberry sport coat, white shirt, black wing tips, black socks, yes, he had shaved and combed his hair.

Steve pulled out a card, one of the new ones that said "Law Offices Of Gregory Markham, Steven Janson, Senior Associate" and slid it across the counter. The kid glanced at it for a millisecond and flicked it back with the snap of a perfectly trimmed nail.

"I wonder if I could talk with Kaitlen Berdue."

"We don't allow visitors during working hours," the kid, Marcus, according to his name tag, said with a frown.

"I'll only need—"

"I guess you didn't hear me." Marcus straightened his shoulders and puffed out his chest like some movie version of a mobster's bodyguard. "She doesn't see anyone but customers during working hours."

"Fine, I'm a customer. Sign me up."

Marcus's lips twisted in an evil grin. "Sure, that'll be one-twenty-five for an introductory membership. That entitles you to up to four hours of yoga training per week for the first month."

What a rip! But, Steve consoled himself with the fact that it was Tom Travis's money.

"We take VISA," Marcus prompted, holding out his hand.

"So, I can get a lesson with Kaitlen as soon as I sign up?"

"All our lessons are conducted by licensed Yoga instructors."

"I want to see Kaitlen Berdue."

"You can have any instructor who's on duty and who has room in her class. Card please."

"Is Kaitlen on duty now and does she have room in her class now?"

"We don't work that way," the kid said in a flat voice. Steve put his wallet back into his pocket. "Sir, this is private property. If you're not a member, I'll have to ask you to leave."

"And if I don't? You want the cops in here dragging me away in time to make the six o'clock news?"

"Sir," Marcus said, smiling and flexing his muscles, no doubt envisioning himself as a younger, blacker, Arnold, "I don't need any help from the police."

Steve just looked at him, struggling not to laugh. "Marcus," he said in a lighthearted tone, "you've been watching way too many movies. Why don't you. . . ." from the corner of his eye Steve caught a glimpse of lustrous black hair, red pouty lips, prominent breasts, all stuffed into a pink leotard, and he immediately headed across the room.

"Excuse me, Miss Berdue," he began before Marcus could get out from behind the counter. "I work for Tom Travis's attorney. I'm helping with Mr. Travis's defense. I was hoping that I could talk with you for a few minutes." Steve held out another of his cards.

For a moment, Kaitlen gave him a confused look, then, tentatively, accepted the card.

"I'm sorry, Kaitlen," Marcus said, grabbing Steve's shoulder. "I'll get rid of this guy."

"Please take your hand off my shoulder," Steve asked with exquisite politeness. Marcus grabbed tighter and began to pull him toward the door. Steve gave a little mental shrug, turned, grabbed Marcus's wrist, twisted, and swept the kid's foot out from under him. In about a quarter of a second Marcus was face down on the sweat stained carpet, his right hand locked against the base of his skull.

"Look, kid, I was on the LAPD for nine years and in that job I had to deal with real bad guys. I don't want to hurt you, so I'm going to let you up and you're going to go behind that counter and we're going to pretend this didn't happen. Okay?" Steve released the kid's wrist and stepped back. Marcus slowly got to his feet and, scowling, stomped back to the cash register. "Now he's going to call the cops and make an even bigger fool of himself," Steve told Kaitlen in a stage whisper. Marcus scowled some more, apparently his favorite expression next to his macho man act, and angrily punched the buttons on the phone.

"Marcus," Kaitlen called, and when she had his attention, shook her head.

"This guy can't—"

"Marcus, it's fine, really. Please don't call the police. It will only get in the papers and make things worse for me."

Marcus paused for a second. "Fine!" he snapped and slammed down the phone. "I'm going on break," he announced to no one in particular.

"My friends get a little protective," she told Steve, giving him a little girl smile that almost melted his heart.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to cause any trouble. I just need a couple minutes of your time and I'll be out of your hair."

"My lawyer told me not to talk with anyone. She said it might compromise my testimony."

"I understand, but I'm not here to interview you for the tabloids or get a product endorsement. I can guess how you feel about Tom Travis but whatever he's done, he didn't kill his wife. I don't blame you if you hate him—"

"I don't hate him. He hurt me, that's all. It's not the first time but . . . this one was really bad. All those terrible stories in the paper and the things the reporters shout at me. . . " Her eyes glistened with the first hint of tears.

"I'm on your side, Ms. Berdue, really I am. But that doesn't mean I can't be on Tom Travis' side too. You gave the police hours and hours of your time to help them get evidence to convict Tom. Can't you give me three minutes to help me get evidence to prove that he's innocent?"

Those big gray eyes turned up, studying Steve as if he were Indiana Jones promising that he would save her from the merciless villains who were pursuing her, if only she would trust him, and now, with the Nazi killers' footsteps pounding up the stairs behind them, she had to decide if she would. Jesus, Steve thought, now I understand why Tom Travis was crazy in love with her. You just wanted to fold her in your arms and protect her.

"Give me a couple of minutes," she said in that soft, innocent, breathy voice, and, the picture of grace and sensuality in one pink package, she disappeared into the hallway at the far end of the lounge. Steve looked around the deserted room and took a seat in front of the muted big screen that was showing a college basketball game on ESPN2. Five minutes passed, ten. What the hell? Had she slipped out the back? Steve checked the corridor. The only doors led to the men's and women's locker rooms and a fire exit to the parking lot.

Well, if she was gone she was gone. If not, she was in the women's locker room and he wasn't going in there. He decided to wait another five minutes before giving it up as a bad job all the way around. Four minutes later the front door opened and the Beast walked in.

Five feet one inches tall without enough meat on her bones to keep a hungry poodle alive over a long weekend, Margo Mansell stormed into view. Newsweek had once called her 'The Angriest Woman In America.' Steve had seen seasoned prosecutors shrink away and bow their heads when she passed through the bar to address the court.

Today she wore a leprechaun green wool top and matching skirt with polished gold buttons, gold necklace, earrings and bracelet, her white-blonde hair poofed out to the size of a basketball in vivid contract to her muddy, latte-colored skin and cinder black eyes. Steve noticed her shoes and, unbidden, the image of her pounding one of those green three-inch spiked heels into his heart filled his brain.

"Steven Janson?" she demanded staring down at him, too close for him to stand without knocking her over, which, Steve decided, would not be a good idea. Steve held out his hand. It might as well have been a stick covered in ants. "What the hell do you think you're doing trying to interview my client outside of my presence?"

"Miss Berdue is not an adverse party to any litigation, Ms. . . ?" Steve asked just to piss her off.

The Beast gave him a smile as icy as Siberia. "Margo Mansell. I represent Kaitlen Berdue. All communications with Ms. Berdue go through me."

"So, if I want to ask her to, oh, pass the salt or hold the elevator or maybe give me the time, I have to pass that through you?"

"Now you're getting it," Mansell agreed, her teeth bared in a yawning wolf's grin.

"We can do this the hard way," Steve replied evenly, "subpoena her, sit her in a room for a day or two answering questions."

"Sounds peachy."

"Fine, we'll do it the hard way."

"I love the hard way."

"Of course, we'll have to pay extra to tape it, but I guess Tom Travis can afford the cost."

Mansell's eyes blazed. No, Steve thought, you don't want your meal ticket on any video tape you don't own. No freebies for Sixty Minutes.

"We'll get a protective order."

"Be my guest. Get two. This is still a murder case and she's still a central witness and the defense has the right to take her video-taped deposition." Mansell's normally puffy lips grew thin. "Of course, your protective order evaporates once the trial is over. But that's okay with you, isn't it? Your client just wants to help the judicial process, right?"

Margo shot him another dagger of pure hate, then took the opposite seat, gave him a brief, humorless smile and pulled a packet of folded pages from her emerald purse.

"Steven Janson," she began reading, "Uniformed officer with the LAPD for nine years," she paused and looked up. "What's the matter, couldn't pass the detective's exam?"

"Addicted to donuts and high speed car chases. What can I say?"

Margo scowled and turned back to her Internet printout. "Attended night school at the UCLA extension law school, went straight into the D.A.'s office where you eventually rose to a mid-level position trying undistinguished cases—"

"Does it really say 'undistinguished cases' or was that your editorial contribution?"

Margo gave him a 'you're not as funny as you think' grimace and continued, ". . . until your wife of three years, Lynn Burris, daughter of the Honorable Malcolm Burris, was murdered by a serial killer you had interviewed and let go." The Beast's eyes flicked up accusingly. "It's believed that you followed the alleged suspect to Havana where you murdered him in cold blood. Thereafter you were charged with acts of moral turpitude and, in a case of gross misconduct, that's me editorializing, you were only suspended from the practice of law for two years instead of being disbarred. As of now, you've got a little less than a year left on your suspension."

"Congratulations, you can both type my name into Google and print the result."

"Steven Janson, Senior Associate," Margo recited.

"And you can read too? You're a triple threat."

"And you're practicing law without a license."

"Does my card say, 'Steven Janson, Attorney At Law'? Did I miss the 'Attorney At Law' part?"

"Come on, Janson, everybody knows that 'associate' means a lawyer who's not a partner."

"Do they? Gee, then there must be a lot of lawyers working at Walmart because they're all Sales Associates, and at Computer World, because I'm sure I bought a printer last week from a guy whose card said 'Junior Associate'. You want to look up 'Associate' in Black's Law Dictionary and see if it says, 'Associate is a synonym for Attorney'?"

"We'll see if you're so smart when I haul you in front of the Bar Association."

"And we'll see if you're so smart when I sue you for defamation, tortious interference with contract, and invasion of privacy. I bet you've got a lot more money than I do. And there are all those wonderful punitive damages. Do you think I could find, oh, I don't know, twenty or thirty people who would testify that you harassed them and made their lives a living hell without good cause? A common plan, scheme and design as lawyers like to say. So, how about it, you want to be a defendant for a change or do you want to stop all this bullshit and get down to business?"

The Beast stared at him for a full second, then gave him her most frightening expression yet, a smile of true pleasure.

"You think that now that you've waved your legal penis in my face that I'll get all 'Let's be reasonable and work this out'? Dream on! You want to sue me? Do it! I'd love it! I will grind you up into a little paste and piss you into the gutter. I don't care how long it takes, five years, ten, twenty. I will keep you in court for the rest of your miserable life and then I'll tie up your estate for twenty years more after you're dead. You want to depose Kaitlen? Go ahead and try. Try to get your order. Try to serve it. Try to enforce it. Then try to get her to answer any questions. Then try to defeat my motion to quash. Then you can fight my appeal."

Margo's eyes became glowing coals and little drops of spittle clung to the corners of her lips. Her nostrils distended and her mouth opened wide, showing pulsing purple-pink gums. "You want to fight with me? Bring it on! I will make you sorry you ever saw me, ever heard my name!" A drop of spit landed on Steve's lapel and he raised his hand to ward off the spray. "You want to hit me? Go ahead, you bastard, I dare you! Go ahead!" A cylindrical canister suddenly appeared in her hand.

"If you press that button," Steve said in as calm a voice as he could muster, "I promise that I will punch you right between your eyes as hard as I possibly can, in self defense, of course." The canister wavered in a small circle. "Before you press that button think about what I'm supposed to have done to Alan Lee Fry and ask yourself what I'm capable of."

For three seconds longer Margo glared at him, then suddenly gave Steve a vicious smile, dropped the tear gas container and took two steps toward the door. "If I ever catch you talking to Kaitlen Berdue," Mansell told him with icy certainty, "I will put a bullet in your brain. In self defense, of course." Glaring, she strode from the room.

Shit! Steve thought, his shirt soaked with sweat. If I didn't know before why they called her The Beast, I do now. His next thought was to wonder whether the police had included Kaitlen Berdue's home address in their report.

# Chapter Twenty-Three

The club was about half full, not bad, Edwin Bleaker thought, for a Monday night. Red, blue and yellow spots roved the place giving it the appearance of a festive concentration camp just before a mass escape. Bleaker leaned against the bar and scanned the faces, elbows, shoulders and breasts that popped briefly into view in the dancing lights. About a third of the people he recognized with greater or lesser degrees of familiarity. A couple of times he had chatted up the girl with the pale blue lipstick that fluoresced gunmetal gray under the UV glow.

He dismissed her as a small town girl in a big city body. He remembered the way she had frowned at his beefy torso and bulging waist when she thought he wasn't looking. He figured that deep down she imagined that if she came here two or three nights a week that it would be only a month and a half, two tops, before some Prince Charming carried her away in his S500. Until then she worked as the assistant manager of a Starbucks on Wilshire.

Bleaker rattled his glass and the bartender, built like a Greek God and as queer as the proverbial three dollar bill, splashed in four ounces of watered down Sprite. It was too early to start on the booze. Bleaker pushed a five across the bar.

He scanned the dance floor again, methodically working a grid pattern, but she wasn't there, hadn't been there since the trial began. He had tried a few subtle probes at work, offering to buy her dinner or a cup of coffee but she always turned him down. He figured that if he managed to run into Kaitlen in a place like this that she might loosen up, give him a chance, especially now that that asshole Tom Travis was out of the picture.

He caught a flicker of long dark hair and pale skin, then the golden beam moved on and the face returned to the shadows. Bleaker took half a step in her direction then she turned. Early twenties, Hispanic, large on top, but Bleaker noticed her thick wrists and solid neck. She'd run to fat and bloat up like Kirstie Alley by the time she was thirty. Not like Kaitlen Berdue. Kaitlen would never get fat and if she did, she'd still be beautiful, fat and all. But Kaitlen wasn't here, maybe never would be here. Time to start thinking about cutting one of them out of the herd.

The brunette with the white blouse tied just below her tits, gold necklace and painted on red pants looked like a good prospect. She was heading toward thirty, a lot of mileage for most of the girls in this place. He'd have to split her off from her friend, the blonde with the big hips. Bleaker glanced at Clark and gave him a subtle nod. Knowing eyes flicked back. Clark would make sure the brunette's drinks had some kick in them. The music slowed as the DJ changed the mood. Bleaker took a step forward and suddenly a big guy was standing in front of him.

"Ed Bleaker?" Steve half shouted over the swelling music.

Bleaker frowned and caught a glimpse of the girl already swinging to the rising beat with a new partner. Well, okay, in five minutes she'd be even thirstier.

"Who are you?"

"Steve Janson. Can I talk to you for a minute?" Bleaker gave the brunette another glance, marking her spot in the crowd.

"Okay," he said, "but keep it brief. I'm meeting someone." Edwin gestured to the hallway to the right of the bar. A moment later the music had been reduced to background roar pounding up through the soles of their feet.

"I work for Tom Travis's lawyer and—"

"And you want some dirt on Kaitlen Berdue," Bleaker said, half turning away.

"No, not at all. I talked with Ms. Berdue earlier today—"

"You talked to her? Where?"

"At her job."

"My studio. I don't like people bothering my employees at work."

"She seems to be a very nice young lady," Steve said, trying to get the conversation back on track.

Bleaker glanced at the dance floor then looked back at Steve.

"Look, you've got me all wrong. I'm just talking to everyone who knew Tom Travis and his wife, trying to find leads to somebody who might have wanted to hurt either of them. I'm sure Ms. Berdue is a fine, decent person. I just want to find out if she, or you, or anyone else can point me in the direction of somebody who's not so nice, somebody who might have wanted to hurt Tom Travis or his wife."

Bleaker thought that over while he listened to the music behind him. He knew this cut. It was going to be another four or five minutes before the next break.

"I met Travis a couple of times when he came in to my place. I thought he was a jerk. And that line of crap he gave Kaitlen . . . " Bleaker's lips bowed as if he had tasted bitter fruit. "Anyway, I don't know anyone who disliked him enough to want to hurt him."

"What about Kaitlen?"

"Too good for the likes of him. There are a lot of sleaze balls in this town who'll take advantage of a sweet girl like Kaitlen. You want to tell her what a guy's like, that he's just using her, but, what are you gonna do? People never want to hear it."

"I'm guessing that Kaitlen was different from most of your employees."

Bleaker paused, his expression distant, wistful. "I won't disagree," he replied a moment later.

"How so?"

"She was. . . ." Bleaker paused again, gathering his thoughts. ". . . She was special. . . ." he continued, his voice barely audible over the drumming beat. ". . . innocent, not stupid, not naive. More like . . . untainted. Most of these girls who come to me," Bleaker snorted, "they're half a step away from turning tricks, except the guy's got to take them someplace hot, maybe give them a little blow or weed, and, bam, they put out like bunnies as long as he's got a Porsche instead of a Toyota. They don't see it as hooking, but that's what it is, the pay's just different."

"But not Kaitlen?"

"Are you kidding? You could offer her five grand and she'd just slap your face. If she liked a guy it didn't matter if he had a Maybach or a Mazda. Sometimes I thought she was like those old ladies bringing home wounded animals. She always seemed to attract the strays." Bleaker sighed. "That's why I couldn't figure her with Tom Travis. Sure, he was a bullshit artist, but he wasn't any lost lamb with a thorn in his hoof."

Steve ignored the mixed metaphor and nodded for Bleaker to continue.

"She must have seen something needy in him, though." Edwin shook his head. "Once it all came out about his wife, I told her to forget him, move on, find herself a decent guy for a change. . . ."

Like you, Steve thought.

". . . but it was like she was stuck. I don't know. Sometimes people just don't know what's good for them."

"What about the guy before Travis. What was he like?"

"Typical loser."

"Did he dump her or did she dump him?"

"Who'd be crazy enough to dump her?"

"So she dumped her old boyfriend for Travis?"

"I guess."

"Maybe he wanted her back but Travis was in the way. Maybe he figured that if he got rid of Travis, he'd have another shot at Kaitlen."

Bleaker shrugged.

"What was his name?"

"Carl, no Carey . . . like two letters of the alphabet . . . EB, yeah, Ebbe, that's it. He was some kind of auto mechanic. More than that. . . " Another shrug.

Another name, another interview. A month wouldn't be enough time. What did he have left? Seven days? Ten? Steve looked into Bleaker's eyes as a roving beam painted his face.

"You like her," Steve said flatly.

"Yeah, I like her a lot. She's special, not like these. . . ." Bleaker gestured toward the gyrating mob behind them. The music began to swell. "Well, what can you to do?"

"One more thing—"

"I've got nothing else to tell you."

"I need her address. I've got to talk to her."

"Sorry." Bleaker began to turn away but Steve grabbed his arm.

"Look, I don't want to camp out in your spa or in your parking lot. If I do that and the press gets wind of it. . . ." Steve shrugged.

"Sounds good to me. Free publicity."

"Maybe Kaitlen doesn't want any free publicity. Maybe she'll quit to avoid it. I just want to ask her about anyone who might have wanted to hurt Tom Travis." Bleaker looked down at Steve's hand. Steve let go. "You don't want something to happen that makes her quit, do you? Five minutes is all I need."

Bleaker stared at Steve for a couple of seconds, then scribbled an address on a scrap of paper. "Don't tell her where you got that."

"Right. Thanks." Steve slipped the note into his pocket.

"Don't thank me." Now Bleaker grabbed Steve's arm in a crushing grip. "If you hurt her, I'm going to put you in the hospital. You see if I don't."

Steve looked into Edwin's blazing eyes and nodded. "I believe you. And I won't." Bleaker's hand slipped free and he turned back to the dance floor. Five minutes later he was at the bar with the brunette at his side. The lights spilling through the bottles sent vague colored shadows rippling across her face.

"I'm Ed," Bleaker said, handing her a tall glass.

"Kathy." the woman held up her drink in mock salute.

More like thirty-two, maybe thirty-five, Bleaker decided, catching a patch of tiny wrinkles at the corner of her lips.

"You're in great shape. Do you have a health club?"

"Tiger's on Doheny," Kathy shouted over the din.

"I own the It's All About You Spa in Westwood. Would you like to stop by sometime as my guest?"

"Gee, Ed, that would be great."

Yeah, thirty-five, Bleaker decided, motioning Clark for another round.

# Chapter Twenty-Four

Kaitlen Berdue lived in a two story stucco building in the hills above Sunset, in daylight a landscape of pale blues and beige, ivory and soft green with a few faded flamingo bungalows scattered here and there for good measure. After dark the moonlight reflected faintly off the pastel walls, tinting everything in muted tans and grays. A flight of twenty steps led from the sidewalk up the side of the hill, stands of century plants and rhododendrons flanking the bricks.

At the top Steve paused and glanced at the city spread out below him. A school of red and white lights streamed down Sunset. The highway was dotted with the reds and greens of the traffic signals and the store windows' neon blaze. In the background white and salmon street lights disappeared into the distance. A cool breeze brought with it the muted sounds of tires on asphalt, humming engines, a dog's bark, a solitary horn and carried the scent of night-blooming star jasmine. Janson felt as if he had stepped into a fairyland populated by a mysterious and exotic offshoot of humanity.

The walkway led beneath a twelve foot arch and into an interior courtyard where swings and a teeter-totter dominated a rectangular patch of late spring grass. Four apartments faced the courtyard on each side of the ground floor with four more on each second floor above. Guarding the back end of the lawn was a little fountain with an imp holding a terra cotta vase from which a thin stream of water splashed into a shallow pond.

Kaitlen Berdue's apartment was the last one on the right. Steve checked his watch. It was a little after ten. The shade behind Kaitlen's eight-paned window emitted a yellow glow. Softly, as if he were summoning an elderly priest to early mass, Steve tapped on her door. The pinprick of the spy hole briefly flickered then the door opened to the limit of the security chain. A gray eye and a sliver of Kaitlen's face appeared in the gap.

"Margo said I shouldn't talk to you," Kaitlen said in an uncertain tone.

"Margo just wants to keep you under her control so that nothing messes up her marketing plans."

"She's trying to protect me."

"She's going to sell you like a new flavor of chewing gum. Which is fine, if that's what you want, as long as an innocent man doesn't get sent to death row because of it."

"Do you really think Tom is innocent?" Kaitlen asked in the same sort of voice Steve's niece might have asked, "Uncle Steve, do you think there really is a Santa Claus?"

Steve looked nervously around as if afraid that the Beast might appear at any moment from behind the hedge of crimson bougainvillea.

"Could we talk inside, please?"

Kaitlen gave him another long stare then closed the door. Steve held his breath. The spy hole flickered again, as if she were checking to see if he had changed his mind and gone home. Five seconds later the chain rattled and the door pulled back. Steve entered and the panel snapped closed behind him. Kaitlen stood back as if afraid that Steve was about to become violent.

"May I sit down?" he asked politely.

"Sure." The room was about fifteen feet wide with a couch against one wall, two upholstered chairs and a TV against the other with a coffee table in between. Steve settled into the couch and Kaitlen took the chair next to the TV. Beneath her blue chenille robe she wore a pair of ivory-colored silk pajamas. Hardly an outfit from Victoria's Secret. The table lamp's thick yellow light seemed to heighten the highlights in her hair and the creamy perfection of her skin. Unconsciously, she tightened the robe, pulling the lapels closed almost to her neck.

"You asked me if I thought Tom Travis was innocent," Steve began. "I could give you a lawyer's answer, that all defendants are presumed innocent until proven guilty and that I've seen no evidence that convinces me that Tom is guilty. But I won't do that." Tom paused under Kaitlen's intense gaze. "The truth is that when I was a Deputy District Attorney I learned that killers don't look like killers, they don't sound like killers, that people can fool you. Having said that, from everything I know about Tom Travis, everything I've learned about him, my gut tells me that he doesn't have a killer's heart. There's a certain toughness you need to have to kill someone in cold blood, and that's just not in him."

"Are you sure?"

Steve ran his hand through his hair. "No," he said finally. "I don't know how anybody can be absolutely sure about something like that."

"But you know what it's like to kill someone?"

"Some people think I do." Steve looked away.

"In cold blood?"

"Yes. In cold blood," Steve said, studying the grain of the scarred coffee table. Finally he looked up to find Kaitlen staring at him as if he were some rare beast on display at the zoo.

"What do you want to know?"

"Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt Tom or his wife?"

"He never talked about her."

"Never?"

"I would ask him, sometimes, how her custody thing was going but he never wanted to talk about it."

"Did he say anything at all?"

"Just that everything was going fine and that he'd be free by June, last June," she added hurriedly.

"Is that the language he used, that he'd be 'free' or did he say that the divorce would be over by June?"

Kaitlen furrowed her brow. "Both, I guess. Sometimes he said 'free' and sometimes he said she would file for divorce in the Spring and that it would be all over by June."

"How did he seem, emotionally, when he said that?"

"Seem? I don't know. It was different almost every time. Sometimes he was sort of sad about it, then he'd laugh and say he was getting rid of the 'ball and chain.' He said they didn't love each other, you know, the gay thing, but I sort of thought it hurt him that she was so anxious to get rid of him. I told myself that it was an ego thing, you know."

"What about Sarah?"

"Sarah?"

"Marian's daughter. Did he ever talk about her? Was he going to miss her?"

"He never, ever talked about her. I asked once, because, I mean he said Marian was doing this to keep custody of her so I knew that Marian keeping Sarah was a big part of their . . . well, what he told me was their deal."

"What happened?"

"Tom got really, really upset. He said he didn't want to talk about Sarah. When I pushed him he grabbed a vase off the table and smashed it against the wall and stormed out. He didn't call me for two days, then it was like nothing happened. I never asked about her again. From then on, he acted like she, Sarah, didn't exist. Tom's like that, he doesn't like to think about anything that hurts him or upsets him. He says it only creates negative energy."

Kaitlen folded her arms and looked down, and the silence stretched out, one of those unplanned lulls when you suddenly become aware of the wind rustling through the trees and the creaks and groans of a weathered house. Steve glanced around. To his left was a small kitchen and dining alcove with a counter between them. To the right a doorway led to the bathroom and a small bedroom directly behind the opposite wall. Had Travis turned off the money spigot when Kaitlen's treachery hit the papers?

"I like your place," Steve said to cover his roving eyes. "It's quiet and the view out front is terrific. Have you lived here long?"

"A couple of years, just after I met Tom," Kaitlen replied, fiddling with the cord on her robe.

So, Tom wasn't playing sugar daddy. It sounded like she had met Tom, dumped her old boyfriend and moved in here all on her own.

"Ms. Berdue, you're obviously a beautiful woman. I assume you had a male friend around the time you met Tom. How did your old boyfriend take it when you and Tom started going out?"

Kaitlen wiggled her shoulders and hunched down in her chair. "Carey was upset. It's never easy when someone breaks up with you." Steve wondered if Kaitlen had ever been the dumpee instead of the dumpor, and figured the odds at a million to one. "But it was over. He didn't want to see that, but it was."

"Did he blame Tom?"

Kaitlen's eyes flicked down. "I . . . I let him blame Tom. I didn't want to tell him that it was him, I mean that, well, the feelings weren't there for him anymore, so I just let him think that Tom had, you know, swept me off my feet or something."

"So, maybe he thought that if Tom were out of the picture, he might have another chance?"

"I guess."

"Did you hear from Carey after Tom was arrested?"

Kaitlen hugged herself more tightly and focused on a spot on the wall next to Steve's shoulder. "He called a couple of times but I told him that too much had happened, that you can't, you know, go back, that you have to move forward."

"How'd he take it?"

"He was pretty upset. He said a lot of stuff about what we had been through together, that Tom had tricked me, stuff like that. I told him that it was impossible to change the past. I read that in one of those relationship books and it's true. He just had to understand that."

"You said his name was Carey . . . Carey what?"

"Ebbe," Kaitlen said after a little pause. "You don't think he had anything to do with Tom's wife's . . . you know?"

It was Steve's turn to shrug. "I don't think anything. It's just another name to go on my list of things to check out. Where can I get in touch with him?"

Kaitlen closed her eyes.

"If he had nothing to do with this, then there's nothing for me to find. I just want to check out where he was when Marian went missing."

Kaitlen's lids slowly opened and she stood and headed for the kitchen. A minute later she returned with a scrap of paper with the name "Performance Cycle & Auto" and an address on the edge of East L.A. Steve copied the info and gave it back to her.

"Do you have to tell him you talked to me?" she asked in that soft little voice.

"No. I'll tell him I got his name from one of your friends and that I tracked him down through a skip trace service." Kaitlen's face relaxed, almost invisible worry lines slipping away. "Did he ever hit you?" Steve asked with an intensity he hadn't planned.

"Sometimes Carey gets upset and loses control."

"Does he know where you live?"

"I don't know. He only had my number from work, but he could have followed me like you did."

Steve briefly turned away to hide his embarrassment. "If he, or anyone, tries to hurt you, call me." Steve scribbled his home number on the back of his card. "Day or night. I won't let anyone hurt you."

Kaitlen took the card without expression, doubtless a speech she had heard a hundred times before from a hundred different men and Steve wondered how many of them had ended up hurting her themselves. She laid her head against the chair's pale green fabric, worn shiny from the passage of the years, and seemed more than ever like some innocent child prematurely thrust into a grown-up's world.

"Thank you, Kaitlen," Steve said, standing and extending his hand. "I appreciate how uncomfortable all this is for you." Listlessly, she walked him to the door. "I meant what I said, about helping you."

"I know you did," Kaitlen said wearily. "You men always do."

Slowly the door swung closed leaving Janson alone in the dark, the thick scent of jasmine filling the air.

# Chapter Twenty-Five

The name 'Carey Ebbe' did not appear anywhere in the index to the police reports. Steve re-read all the interviews with Kaitlen Berdue and found no reference to Ebbe there either. Time for a trip to the horse's mouth. According to the Department, Simon was working the day shift out of Robbery-Homicide.

Steve waved at the Uniform on the front desk. The guy gave him a little nod and let him pass. Whether he knew and approved of Steve's reputation for vigilante justice or just recognized his face from Janson's years in the D.A.'s office, Steve didn't know, or care. This morning the Homicide Squad room looked no different from the last time Steve had been there when Katz and his old partner, Ben Olivera, were the lead detectives on the Headless Killer case. Simon's desk was still on the far left side, near the room's only window, a perk for his years of dedicated service.

For a long moment Steve stood in the doorway. The morning sun glared across Simon's hunched form. Today the seams in his face seemed deeper, his cheeks more hollow than Steve remembered. The crisp light picked out each furrow in Katz's neatly parted salt and pepper hair. Perhaps it was only the color of the beams but Katz's skin seemed faintly yellow like old ivory. Steve began to cross the room and halfway there Katz's head snapped up and locked on Steve's face. There was no warmth in his gaze.

"Simon," Steve said smiling and extending his arm. Katz reluctantly reached out, barely touching Steve's fingertips before pulling his hand away. "May I sit down?" Katz pointed listlessly to a chair behind the empty desk across the aisle. "The old place still looks the same."

"What do you want?"

"Just checking out a couple of things."

"You a PI now?"

"You've got to have a license for that. You think I could get one?"

"So, why are you here?" Simon asked, twisting his chair to face Janson head-on.

Steve noticed a faint stain on Katz's tie and found his mind wandering back to their hurried take-out lunches, what was it, seventeen years ago, when Simon was his training officer, only a couple of months before Katz made detective.

"Like I said, I just need to check out something," Steve said, dragging his thoughts back to the present.

"I'm not the 411 operator."

"I'm reviewing the Travis case files for Greg Markham—"

"So, it happened last night."

"What?"

"Hell froze over. Jeez, Janson, you need money that bad?"

Steve felt his face stiffen, all expression draining from his eyes and lips.

"I didn't see any reference in your reports to Carey Ebbe," Steve said in a cold, flat voice. "Did you ever interview him?".

"If we had interviewed him, the report would have been in the file, wouldn't it?"

"So that's a 'no'?"

"That's a 'no.' Anything else?"

"Did you ever run him through NCIC?"

"Not as far as I remember. Anything else?"

Steve took an angry breath, then paused. Grimacing, he silently counted to three and started again. "Okay, Simon, you don't like me, fine. That's your privilege. You think Tom Travis is guilty, that's fine too. But I've got my doubts. And I've got my own reasons for investigating this case, reasons that don't have anything to do with money—"

" Let me guess. Greg Markham called in his IOU. I get it."

"No, you don't. You're pissed at me for Alan Lee Fry—"

"Yeah, that must be it! A cop I thought believed in the law turns out to be a cold-blooded murderer and you think that pisses me off? I guess you figure I must be getting grumpy in my old age." Katz's eyes glittered. "Let me tell you something, Steve. You're a murderer, plain and simple. As far as I'm concerned you betrayed your badge, your oath, and me. I'd lock you up in a heartbeat if I could and be glad to do it." Katz's lips drew into a thin line and a pale pink flush crept into his cheeks.

"Your big speech about the majesty of the Law and every man deserving his day in court is real fine, Simon," Steve spat back, "if the guy goes to court. But that cuts both ways. The victims are entitled to their day in court too. Where was Lynn's day in court? Tell me that! You look me in the eye and tell me that Alan Fry was ever going to face a judge and a jury and I'll admit that whoever killed him was wrong. But you can't. Alan Fry took the courts and judges and juries out of the equation. He's the one who put himself outside the law and he's got no complaint when he was punished outside the law. And neither do you."

Katz pushed his chair back as if he might leap to his feet and knock Janson on his ass. "That's a pretty cute argument coming from a guy who's done exactly the same thing. How about if Fry's brother hires some guy to kill you because you aren't going to court either? Is that okay? Is that how we're going to run things from now on? Fry kills your wife and you kill him and Fry's brother kills you and your uncle kills Fry's brother? What do you think this is, the damn Hatfields and the McCoys? This is America. We've fought wars over this stuff, a little something we like to call the Bill of Rights. I've spent my life making sure that's not the way things work in this country, just like you were supposed to do, before you pissed on your badge and your sworn oath, and on me." Katz looked pointedly towards the door.

"I still need Carey Ebbe's rap sheet."

"I don't work for Greg Markham."

"If you'd never heard of Carey Ebbe you'd have asked me right off who he was. But you didn't. That means you know damn well who he is and that means you checked him out. You're too good a cop not to have checked him out. So, fine, don't give me the rap sheet. But Greg Markham's going to ask for sanctions against you and Ted Hamilton for holding back the paperwork. You want to get on the stand and perjure yourself about never having heard of Ebbe, be my guest. That puts you in the same box you've got me in. But we both know you won't lie under oath. You're still a guy who believes in the Rules. If Markham puts you on the stand we both know you'll admit you deliberately left Ebbe's paperwork out of the files you turned over to defense counsel, and you can't do that. So give me the fucking rap sheet."

"And I used to think you were a stand-up guy," Katz said, shaking his head.

"I could say the same thing about you, Simon."

"Don't touch anything." Katz slowly got to his feet and headed for the NCIC computer terminal in the next room.

"You're the guy who blew away Alan Fry."

Steve jerked back in surprise. Jack Furley had crept up on his rubber-soled shoes and now stood barely three feet to Janson's right.

"Jack Furley," the detective said, extending his hand. Steve gave him a quick once-over and wondered if there wasn't some cloning factory in Bakersfield that popped out LAPD detectives in any one of four or five basic models. Furley was the Blue-Collar-All-American-Eager-Young-Go-Getter right down to the health-club flat stomach, olive tie over a chocolate brown shirt, short-cut light brown hair, hazel eyes, broad shoulders and a miniature handcuff tie clip.

"Steve Janson." Steve accepted Furley's grip knowing the guy was going for the crusher shake. Each man gave the other a hard squeeze and then called a truce. Furley pulled up a gray metal chair and turned it around, resting his hands on the curved back.

"You gonna take Katz out for an early lunch?" Furley asked with a twinkle in his eye.

"Simon's not real happy with me these days."

"Yeah, I think I heard him say something about that, once or twice. For what it's worth, I told him to lighten up. One more asshole down the well, that's my philosophy."

"You turn him around with that argument?"

Furley laughed and drew his finger across his throat. "Fuck, I thought he was going to take my head off."

"Duty, honor, country," Steve said.

"Yeah, that's Katz."

"You can take the man out of the Marines . . . "

". . . But you can't take the Marines out of the man." Furley paused and then gave Steve a clever stare not entirely camouflaged by his easy tone. "So, what brings you down here?"

"Greg Markham's got me reviewing all the paperwork on the Travis case. Simon accidently left out the rap sheet on Carey Ebbe."

"Carey Ebbe?"

"See, that's what Simon should have said instead of telling me what a traitor I was for taking Travis's dirty money."

"Sorry," Furley said, still smiling, "the name doesn't ring a bell."

"You'll do real good on this job, Jack. I can tell." Furley just shrugged. "What about the little girl, Sarah? You ever get a lead on her?"

"That depends on who you talk to. The Tip Line got four, five thousand calls. Why? You got some fancy defense planned for Travis based on the kid?"

"That's not it," Steve snapped, the fake good humor gone from his voice.

"Yeah, so what is it?"

"I don't want to start sounding like Simon."

"Meaning?"

"Look," Steve said with sudden heat, "Travis is a jerk. He killed his wife, he didn't kill his wife, whatever. But the kid's a different matter. If she's dead, she's dead. But if she's not, that changes everything."

"You think you'll find her and she'll point the finger at the 'real killer'?" Furley asked with a smirk.

"God damn it! If she's alive somebody's got to find her! Somebody's got to save her!"

Furley gave Steve a long look. "My dad was a part-time preacher, Steve. I know that look. Damn, you're not a cold blooded killer after all. You're a Boy Scout who lost his faith. No wonder Simon's so pissed at you. You knew better and you did it anyway."

"I thought you were glad another asshole went down the well."

"I am. That's not the point. Simon, he'd expect me to do something like that, no surprise there. But a guy like you. Man, you're like the reverend who boinked the babysitter. Simon figured you to know better. He's not so much mad at you as he's disappointed in you, which is a hundred times worse for a guy like him." Furley scanned the room then leaned forward and gave Steve a cagey stare. "You want to waste your time looking for the little girl?"

"How much time? How sure are you that it's a waste?"

"A waste? One hundred percent. Time?" Furley shrugged. "An hour, maybe two."

"You got a snitch doing life who claims he'll tell you where the kid is if you'll just cut him loose?"

Furley laughed. "Worse. Wooooooohhhh," he chanted raising both hands in the air and shaking his fingers.

"Oh, crap. . . "

Furley scribbled a name and address on scrap of paper and shoved it into Steve's shirt pocket. "She's out in the Valley."

"Where else?"

"But she's very polite. She'll give you a cold drink and if you're very nice, maybe she'll read your palm and chart your tea leaves as a parting gift." Furley giggled and slapped Steve on the shoulder, then quickly backed up and frowned when he saw Katz heading toward the desk.

"We never interviewed him," Simon said, shoving a sheaf of papers into Steve's hand. "Here's his rap sheet."

"Thanks, Simon, I—"

"We're done, right?"

Steve stared at Katz's thin face, the frowning lips, his muddy brown eyes still showing a spark of the fire from his youth and Steve tried to remember the younger man who once wore Simon Katz's body. That man was still in there, Steve decided, still as dedicated and courageous as ever, the weight of the years notwithstanding. And Steve saw bitter disappointment flaring in Katz's eyes.

"Yeah, Simon, I guess we're done," Steve said softly then folded the papers into his inside pocket and slipped from the room.

# Chapter Twenty-Six

Steve berated himself all the way up the grade on the 405. There was enough unfinished work on this case to keep him busy for a month and here he was wasting time on a psychic. They always said things like: "The victim is buried under a tree near a body of water." Great, try and find someplace without a tree near a body of water. Then, when you eventually found the poor bastard buried in the neighbor's backyard, the psychic pointed to the Johnson's swimming pool a block and a half away. "See," he said, "just like I told you." Steve pounded his palm on the wheel but kept driving. He turned left past the Van Nuys airport and headed toward Topanga Canyon.

It was a typical Valley house, a one story ranch on a six thousand square foot lot sheltered by a big sycamore in front, orange trees and jacaranda in back. Steve had been building a mental image of the woman, Rebecca Minton — five feet five, a hundred and seventy pounds, dressed in a floral muumuu with a streak of gray running front to back through a briar patch tangle of auburn hair. A wild glitter in her eyes. Maybe a heavy gold and jade necklace around her throat with a silver pendant in the shape of a pyramid with an emerald eye in the center. Why was he wasting his time? But his imagination had also fashioned a picture of Sarah, terrified, emaciated, pleading for someone, anyone, to save her. Well, the woman had sounded reasonably sane on the phone.

He rang the bell. A young woman, twenty-five or so, blond and blue, dressed in a white cotton blouse and jeans appeared at the door. Sister, daughter, nanny?

"Hello, I'm Steve Janson. I'm here to see Ms. Minton."

A thin smile creased the girl's lips and she held out her hand. "I'm Rebecca Minton. Come on in."

Without pausing she lead him through the house and out to a covered patio in back. Red climbing roses just starting to bloom formed a tapestry to Steve's right. To the left an unfolding sea of purple bougainvillea coated a stucco wall. Two small pitchers, one of lemonade and the other of iced tea, sweated in the center of a glass-topped table. Rebecca waved him to the patio chair facing the roses then took the opposite seat for herself.

"I guess I'm not what you expected," she said, pouring a lemonade. "Help yourself." Steve paused a moment then took the iced tea. "Maybe you'd be more impressed if I had a pentagram tattooed on my forehead, a tasteful one, of course."

"I don't know what to say."

"Did you lose a bet?"

"Excuse me?"

"I may be young but I've dealt with the police enough to know how their minds work."

"And how's that?"

"You think I'm either a crackpot who believes all her dreams are visions or I'm some kind of crook out to scam the grieving family for as much as I can get. So, the only possible reason you could have for coming all the way out here is because you lost a bet, I'm guessing to Detective Furley, who by the way, is not nearly as clever as he thinks."

Janson listened to her with a strangely detached air, as if her words were the spill-over from a radio in the house next door. He thought that he should have found her face thin but instead the word 'elfin' came to mind. She was more slender than the women he was normally attracted to but somehow her body seemed larger than its mere physical measurements, as if it extended off into a strange dimension that balanced everything out and made her proportions just right.

"Are you just going to sit there and stare at me?"

Steve blinked and wrenched his eyes from her face. "Sorry, I was just. . . thinking."

"I'm a psychic, not a mind reader."

"Furley's not my friend," he snapped.

"What?"

"Jack Furley and I are not friends. In fact, sending me out here was his way of giving me a hard time. And I didn't lose a bet."

Rebecca stared at him, confused. "Then why are you here?"

"I want to find Sarah."

"You believe that I can help you?"

Steve gave his head a small shake. "No, I don't. I don't believe in psychics. Not at all."

"Then why are you here?"

Steve shrugged. "I guess I'm hoping against hope that you'll prove me wrong."

Now it was Rebecca's turn to stare. It seemed to go on forever. "Would you like a sandwich?" she asked finally.

"What—"

"Roast beef on white with lettuce and tomato or sliced chicken and salami on rye."

"It's only ten thirty."

"You'll take it with you." She stood and led him into the kitchen. "Sit down." Rebecca pointed to a white enameled table on chrome-pipe legs then opened an old-fashioned bread box and gave Steve a quick, penetrating glance. "Chicken and salami for you, I think. I'll put on some sweet roasted peppers. I inherited this house from my mother," Rebecca continued without looking up as she slathered mayonnaise on a couple of slices of rye bread. Steve snapped his head minutely back and forth as if trying to keep track of her disjointed monologue. "You mind bringing the drinks inside?"

When Steve returned he found her fishing soft red and yellow peppers from a jar. A few moments later the sandwich, encased in a double layer of plastic wrap, occupied the center of the table. Rebecca took the seat opposite Steve and fiddled with her drink.

"I guess I should tell you about Sarah," she said lowering her eyes as if embarrassed.

"That would be good."

"I don't see visions. Hallucinations are generally more a sign of psychosis or schizophrenia than psychic powers." She gave Steve a long look but he didn't speak. "Mostly, it happens when I'm sitting down, relaxed. I get a tingling sensation and I close my eyes and I see a movie in my head, as if I were dreaming even though I'm not asleep. I can't control it. I see what I see and nothing more, nothing less. I can't look around or ask questions or make it go slower or faster. It happens as it happens and it stops when it stops. All I can do is watch and remember. If this helps you, good. If not," Rebecca shrugged, "I'm sorry." For an instant her eyes seemed to plead.

"Sure," Steve said automatically. "I understand. Whatever you can tell me is more than I know now." Steve thought his response a meaningless courtesy but Rebecca seemed relieved.

"All right, here's what I saw," Rebecca began, tilting her head back and closing her eyes.

## * * *

She had been covered with her favorite blue blanket, fuzzy and soft and smelling like the ocean wind when mommy took her to the pretty beach far away but over the last few minutes with the bumps and the thumps and her kicking her bound legs, the top of the blanket had pulled down to just below her nose. The car was big, like mommy's car, but it bumped and thumped and rattled in a way hers never did and everything seemed dirty and banged around.

Sarah tried to move her hands but they were taped to her sides. She could raise her feet but only a little bit and only both together because there was some kind of silvery tape around them as well. She was very thirsty, but when she tried to ask for water only a tiny muffled noise escaped the swath of silver tape across her mouth. For a very long time she had lain there in the dark, seeing nothing, smelling the ocean in her blanket and oil and gasoline and a wet doggy smell and sour dirt that made her want to sneeze.

Once the man had stopped and lifted up the blanket and looked at her, his face all confused and upset as if he were having an argument with himself. Then he went around the back and she heard clanks and bangs and a minute later he stood over her with a bent old shovel. When she saw the shovel she thought he was going to put her in a hole someplace and bury her alive and she started to cry. He just stood there, staring. Finally, he glared at her and pulled the blanket over her head again and slammed the door as if she had done something very bad. A moment later she heard the shovel clatter into the back and then the engine started up and they drove away.

Everything stayed black and the smells got worse until she couldn't smell the ocean any more. Once she heard muffled voices and the words "visit" and "good time" then lots of cars and people jabbering in a language that she couldn't understand and then that all gradually slipped away. The road got worse and she bumped around a lot and lost all track of time. Finally the car stopped and the light through the windows dimmed as if they were inside a building. A few minutes later she heard voices, muffled but becoming clearer. Suddenly the door opened and her blanket was pulled away.

"We have a deal?" the man asked.

Another man with shiny black hair and little holes all over his leather-colored skin stared at her as if looking at an animal in the zoo. He reached down and ripped the tape from her face and she began to cry.

"You sure she's not enfirma . . . sick?"

"One hundred percent perfect health."

"Because my customers don't want no sick kids. They don't want nobody palming off some kid with AIDS or a bad heart or something on them. A-Number One quality is what they're paying me for."

"Don't worry, Jorge, she's perfect, I guarantee it."

"You better. I don't take no broken merchandise."

Jorge studied her for a moment then closed the door. "Okay, I take her," he said, his voice muffled by the closed door.

"She can't be tied back to me."

"You know what the policia will do to me if they catch me? I don't know you. You don't know me."

"Right."

There was sudden muffled CLICK. "You open your mouth, it's the last time. I have amigos in LA. Cut you into pieces if you open your mouth."

"Put it away. We're both screwed if anyone finds out. Now, you gonna pay me or what?"

There was a pause then another, softer, metallic click. "I get your money."

A minute later the door opened and a pair of leather-colored hands reached for her and she started to scream.

## * * *

Rebecca opened her eyes and unconsciously rubbed her cheek. "That's all I saw."

"No street names or building or signs?"

"Just what I told you."

"How about a sound, like a train or a factory or—"

"I told you everything. I only see what I see, hear what I hear, nothing else."

Steve tapped his fingers on the chipped enamel and gave a little sigh. "But she's alive?"

"She was alive. If that was Mexico and that man was going to sell her, who would he sell her to? A pedophile, a—"

"No. A pervert wouldn't care if she were healthy or not. He'd use her for awhile then kill her so she couldn't identify him. People who want healthy kids are thinking long term."

"He's going to sell her to someone who wants to adopt but can't?"

"Someone who has money. My guess, it's somebody around here, L.A., San Diego, maybe Tucson or Phoenix or Vegas, someplace he can drive to. Airports have too much security." Steve played with his empty glass, lost in thought. "Did you notice any logo or model name in the car?"

"I don't know if it was a car or an SUV or a van. I didn't see anything that could identify it. It felt big, bigger than a normal car. I think it was a van or an SUV but I can't be sure."

"What about the Mexican guy, Jorge? Could you work with a sketch artist to draw a picture of him?"

Rebecca closed her eyes for a long breath then opened them and nodded. "I think so."

"What about the driver?"

"He's kind of a blur."

"But you said he looked at you, stared at you while he was trying to decide what to do. That he looked angry."

"He did but . . . it's like in a dream when you pick up a book or a newspaper or something. You know it's a newspaper but when you try to look at it, you can't read it. You try and you try but somehow the words just go out of focus and slip away. His face is like that. It just . . . slips away."

"So, it could be anybody."

Rebecca's face subtly changed displaying an emotion that Janson could not identify.

"What?"

"Like I said, I can't tell you who the driver was . . . "

"But?"

"But, I can tell you who it wasn't." She paused for an instant then stared into his eyes. "It wasn't Tom Travis."

"Are you sure?" Rebecca gave him a little nod. "How do you know?"

"I don't know!" Rebecca flapped her hands in frustration. "I just know it wasn't him. This man was Caucasian but younger, his voice was different, his hair was different. He was mean, deep down angry and corrupt."

"How do you know Tom Travis isn't evil and corrupt?"

Rebecca suddenly seemed on the verge of tears. "I don't know! . . . Look, I told you that I just know some things. I don't know how I know them. I can't control it. I just know that this person was younger than Tom Travis, that it wasn't Travis."

"You said his hair and his voice were different. In what way?"

Rebecca started to speak then looked away, took a breath, and closed her eyes. "His hair was thick. There was no gray in it. And his voice was, I don't know, just different. In his movies Travis has that sort of gravelly undertone when he speaks." Rebecca paused then shook her head. "That's it. All the rest's a blur. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry!" Steve snapped, then continued in a softer tone, "I appreciate your help."

"It wasn't much help. I don't have any clues to where she is or who kidnapped her."

"At least I know it wasn't Tom Travis."

"But that doesn't help you, in court, I mean. My . . . vision isn't evidence."

"No, but it helps me."

"You believe me, then?" Rebecca asked with a note of hope in her voice.

"Yes," Steve said, not sure why. Maybe he just wanted to believer her. He looked around the room. A bumblebee droned just outside the screen door. "Well. . . ." He stood and clasped her hand in both of his. "Thanks."

"Don't forget your sandwich." She shoved the plastic wrapped package into his hands.

"Thanks. I'll eat it when I get back to my place."

She walked him to the front door. Outside a mild breeze rustled the greening sycamore and Steve smelled orange blossoms on the wind.

"If I think of anything else. . . ."

"And maybe I can call you, sometime, just to talk. Maybe something will, you know, come to you."

Smiling, shyly, Steve thought, she closed the door.

# Chapter Twenty-Seven

Carey Ebbe studied the Escort's front left brake assembly with sour disdain. Son of a bitch calipers were half locked up with rust and mud and sand. What did the guy do, drive it through a couple of feet of salt water for ten or twenty miles? Where the hell was his rubber mallet? He'd break the fucker loose or break it off, one or the other.

Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a big guy come in and start talking to Romero. The guy was about six three and in pretty good shape, dressed in slacks, an open collar blue shirt and dark gray sport coat. Tool salesman? Insurance agent? Carey didn't recognize him as a customer. Turning back to the Escort he lifted the mallet and whammed it against the frozen caliper. It made a thunk noise and bounced off. Fucker! Carey slammed it down again and thought he felt the slightest bit of give. Then his back tingled and he took a quick glance over his shoulder. Romero was still talking to the big guy and then pointing at him.

Carey did a quick mental check of any unpleasant business that might be trailing him. A couple of speeding tickets and a reckless driving charge he had dodged, but this guy wasn't a cop, and besides cops in plain clothes didn't come after you for traffic tickets. He'd clocked some guy outside of the Brass Penguin, what, a month ago? Naw, they'd both walked away dripping a little blood. "Mutual altercation" the cops called it. Could Jenny have tracked him down? Was this about child support for her brat? No, she didn't know where he was and if she did the first thing she'd do was garnish his wages, real quick like, before he could skip out and get a job under another name.

Two handed he pounded the caliper. This time he definitely could feel it give. Behind him he sensed the big guy's approach. Run or play it out? Shit, maybe it was nothing. He got ready to smack the thing again.

"Excuse me, Mr. Ebbe?"

Mr. Ebbe? At least the guy was starting out polite. That was probably a good sign.

"Yeah, who are you?"

"Steve Janson. I'm investigating the Marian Travis murder. Can I talk to you for a minute?"

"You got a badge?"

"No, I'm working for the lawyers. Would you prefer to talk with a cop? I can ask Detective Katz to invite you down to Robbery-Homicide if you like. Of course, you'd miss half a day's work."

Carey lifted the mallet and turned back to the Escort. "What do you want to know?" Thump.

"Where were you the day she disappeared?"

Thump. "When was that?"

"New Year's Eve day year before last."

"I don't remember." Thump.

Suddenly the mallet was yanked from his hand and Carey stumbled back against the fender.

"Hey, you could've—"

"I could have broken your fucking neck." Janson held the mallet even with his waist. "I still can." Carey gave him a mean glare which Janson ignored. "I've treated you politely but I guess you're one of those guys that doesn't work with, so we can go another way if you want."

Carey stared at the mallet for a second then seemed to subtly slump. "My boss don't like me missing work. I'm on the clock here."

"Then answer my questions and I'll leave."

"I've got work—"

"Your boss can't fire me, only you. So, how long do you want to play this game because I've got all day." Slap, the rubber hammer head slapped against Steve's palm. Carey stared at it then at Steve and figured he meant it.

"When was that again?"

"New Year's Eve day, year before last."

"How am I supposed to remember that?"

"It doesn't matter who you are, rich or poor, everybody remembers what they did on Christmas and New Year's so stop stalling."

"New Year's day, year before last," Carey mumbled as if the concept was just too complicated to grasp all at once. "Yeah, okay, now I remember. I was in Mexico."

"Where in Mexico?" Janson demanded. Carey could see interest flaring in his eyes.

"Where to you think? TJ."

"Tia Juana? What were you doing there?"

"Drinking and chasing whores like everybody else."

"At ten in the morning?"

"I wasn't even awake at ten in the morning," Carey said, snorting a laugh.

"Take me through your day."

Carey took another quick look at the rubber mallet and then at the office where Romero was giving him the evil eye, and shrugged.

"Okay, I woke up about, I don't know, ten thirty, eleven. I hit the Taco Bell for lunch then Phil Pentacoli and me, that's Phil over there," Carey pointed at the thin, hatchet-faced man two bays down, "hooked up. We kinda drove around then decided to go to TJ. We got there about seven, got some dinner then partied 'til midnight. Then we banged a couple of hookers to celebrate the New Year, drank some more and went to sleep in Phil's van. He's got a couple of air mattresses in there." Carey barked a laugh. "Phil woke me up about four in the morning, puking his guts out then he grabbed my shirt to wipe his face. We got back here around noon, New Year's day."

"And Phil will confirm this?"

"Go ask him," Carey sneered.

"He's your buddy. He'll say anything you want him to."

"Hah! We ain't buddies no more."

"Why's that?"

"Why's that? Because I punched his fucking lights out for getting his shit all over my shirt. Almost broke his fucking nose, damn pansy." Carey reached out and grabbed the mallet. "If you're done breaking my balls, I've got work to do. Go over there and bother Phil, Hot Shot."

Ebbe turned his back on Steve and began to wiggle the caliper on the Escort. Steve studied his back for a moment then headed for Phil Pentacoli. It only took two minutes to confirm Ebbe's alibi. Pentacoli was no friend. "Son of a bitch half broke my nose!" he complained bitterly.

Steve mentally crossed Kaitlen's old boyfriend off his list of suspects. Another dead end. As he left the shop he heard a loud thump-clang.

"Got you, you son of a bitch," Ebbe shouted behind him.

# Chapter Twenty-Eight

Steve made one more stop before heading home, Riley Fontaine's record store. For about half a minute a solitary customer roamed the aisles then, shaking his head at Fontaine's astronomic prices, shuffled out the door. Steve immediately headed for the counter. For about thirty seconds Fontaine feigned memory failure before a vision of Sarah tied up in a closet someplace overwhelmed Steve. An instant later Fontaine found his head being ground into the back wall.

"All right, all right!" Riley croaked.

Steve shoved a pen and a notebook into his hands. "Start writing the names of your sister's girlfriends."

In a scribbled, half printing, half sloppy longhand, Fontaine scratched out a list of five names and cities of residence with a few cryptic descriptions, 'girl friend from woman's shelter charity'; 'old college roommate'; 'grew up together as kids' and the like.

With an angry flourish he shoved the pad into Steve's hands. "You're a degenerate, you know that?" Riley rubbed the edge of his neck where Steve had half-strangled him.

"If you had kept your promise you'd have no reason to complain."

"You lied to me. I checked you out. You're no cop. You're asking me to help the guy who killed my sister."

"No, I asked you to help the guy who's accused of killing your sister, which is a whole different thing." Why am I wasting my time? Steve asked himself and turned away.

"How long do you think you can keep doing this?"

"Until the trial's over," Steve said, not looking back.

"I mean beating up anyone who gets in your way."

Steve paused and shot Fontaine a quizzical glance.

"It's karma man. What goes around comes around."

"You should go on Doctor Phil." Steve took a step toward the counter and Riley flinched.

"Your skull, man, it's like a bag of worms, all slithering around and pounding on the inside of your head. I can see them man, every time I look into your eyes." Steve took another step forward. "That's why I didn't give you the list, if you want to know the truth, because I knew you were all fucked up inside, just struggling every day to keep the top of your head from blowing off."

"If I'm as violent as you think, saying something like that could get you into serious trouble."

Riley retreated a step until his back was pressed against the wall. "There's no love in your heart man, just a crazy vacuum inside there. I don't want anything to do with you."

His face clouding with barely repressed rage, Steve leaned over the counter. "You got your list man," Riley whined, "so get the hell out of my place before I call the cops."

For a heartbeat all Steve could think about was pounding the smirk off Fontaine's face and then erasing the kid's accusations with a half a dozen shots of Scotland's finest. As Steve gauged the distance to Riley's head, the height of the counter, the reach of his fist, his brain seemed to fill with a hissing black squall that drowned out all rational thought, and all he could think about was the last time he had heard that black moaning inside his skull. It was the day he had killed Alan Lee Fry.

Suddenly, Steve's vision cleared and he noticed Riley Fontaine the way a hiker spots a spider sitting on his arm. All of a sudden Fontaine was just there, his t-shirt clamped in Steve's fist. Riley had leaned as far as he could away from the madman on the other side of the counter. Steve blinked and noticed his left fist pulled back, ready to strike. For a long second he stared into Fontaine's terrified eyes then released him and headed for the door.

# Chapter Twenty-Nine

A pale, flat-faced deputy escorted Tom Travis into the lawyer's conference room. Tom seemed almost a stick figure in his floppy orange jumpsuit as if the prison were slowly leaching the flesh from his bones.

"Can you remove those please?" Steve asked, pointing to the manacles that tethered Travis's wrists to his waist.

"Sorry," the guard said in a bored tone. He didn't sound sorry at all.

"I'd like some privacy, please."

"Rules are that we keep the prisoner under observation at all times."

"You can observe him through the window."

For a couple of seconds Steve and the deputy stared at each other then the guard sourly positioned himself on the far side of the door. The room was cement all around and contained only a small steel table and two steel chairs bolted to the concrete floor, an environment as inviting as a keg of nails.

"They giving you a hard time?" Steve asked nodding at the guard's doughy face peering through the Plexiglas.

"He's just doing his job."

That guard hates your guts, Steve wanted to scream, but didn't.

"Tom, some things have come up—"

"It was her drug dealing brother, wasn't it? It's just the sort of thing a coked-out loser would do. Shit, if he had just waited, Kaitlen and I—"

"Tom, hold on. One step at a time."

"Yeah, sorry." Travis gave Steve a tight smile and bit his lip.

It's finally starting to sink in, Steve thought. He's finally starting to get it that he's heading over the cliff and the cavalry isn't going to show up to save him.

"Tom, you can't hold anything back, nothing. I need to know who might have wanted to hurt you or Marian."

Travis shrugged. "You tell me. After all the time you've spent on this haven't you found anything?" he complained.

You really do know how to piss off people, don't you Tom, Steve thought, biting his tongue.

"I talked to Ms. Berdue and she gave me her ex-boyfriend's name. He's got a solid alibi. I talked to her brother and he was in jail at the time. I've just gotten the names of Marian's friends and I'm going to see if she said anything to any of them about somebody stalking her. . . ."

"That a waste of time," Travis broke in.

"Not necessarily. It could have been someone she knew from one of her charities, some man who became obsessed with her, a. . . "

"Steve, I appreciate your thoroughness, really, but you're barking up the wrong tree there. Marian didn't have any enemies. My money's on Kaitlen's scumbag brother. Sure, maybe he was in jail but he had plenty of friends who were capable of something like this. Maybe he was trying to sound like a big man, tells his buddies his sister is dating Tom Travis and they start to see dollar signs. Maybe it started out as burglary and Marian walked in on them—"

"If it was a burglary, why didn't they take something, paintings, silver, electronics, the Escalade? That doesn't fit."

"Fine, maybe it started out as a kidnapping. They figured I'd be good for a couple of million in ransom." Tom tried to point his finger but the chain to his waist held him back.

"If it had been a kidnapping they would have tried to get some money out of it, for Sarah if not for Marian."

Travis shook his head. "Not if they had killed Marian accidentally and panicked. Something happens, she hits her head, suddenly they—"

"Steve, she was strangled with an electric cord. That wasn't an accident."

"Okay, there are two of them. One guy goes to check out the house and the other one goes nuts on her. The first guy comes back, finds the second guy standing over her body, they panic . . . That's what happened in Blue Steel Justice. I played this homicide detective and—"

"For Christ's sake, stop it!"

"Hey, I was just—"

"This wasn't a burglary gone bad. It wasn't a kidnapping gone bad. It wasn't one of your movies come to life. Not one fucking person in the world believes that. If Greg tries to tell the jury that the burglar did it, they'll laugh him out of court. Jesus!"

"Okay, okay—"

"Tom, please God, listen to me. They're going to hang your ass. That jury hates you. The public hates you. The judge hates you. They can't wait to put a needle in your arm. Fuck! I'm trying to save your life here and you're giving me God damn movie plots!" Travis went ash white and Steve forced himself to stop shouting then counted to five.

"Does that include you, Steve? Do you hate me too?" There was no anger in Travis's question, just a quiet inquiry, like some pathetic husband asking his fleeing spouse, "Don't you love me anymore?"

The poor son of a bitch was pitiful, pale skinny arms poking out of oversized orange pajamas, thinning hair, gray at the roots, chained up hand and foot.

"Tom, I don't hate you. I don't think you did it. I believe you're innocent. But—"

"You mean that? You really believe me?" If Travis had only been a good enough actor to fake that tremor in his voice, the sad quiver at the corner of his lips, he'd have won an Academy Award by now.

"I'm absolutely certain, Tom, that you didn't have anything to do with Marian's death, but what I think doesn't matter."

"It matters to me."

"But not to the jury." Steve began to pace around the room. "You've got to level with me."

"I have! I've told you everything I know about this."

"Then tell me, who wanted to hurt you enough to kill your wife and pin it on you!"

Travis just shook his head and slumped in his chair as if anyone ever seriously disliking him was a concept he found impossible to comprehend.

Shit!

"Okay, let's try something else. I understand that you talked to some guys on the crew about going out with you on your dune buggy. Who were they?"

Travis just shook his head.

"Tom?"

"It was thirty seconds almost a year and a half ago. I don't even remember mentioning it to anybody, leastwise what their names are. I went alone so what does it matter anyway?"

Steve took another breath and tried again. "Somebody told me you had a stuntman friend. Maybe he knows something that might help."

"Nope. No way," Tom insisted.

"Still, I should give him a call. . . ." Steve's voice drifted to a stop in the face of the insistent shaking of Travis's head.

"Just let me have his name anyway. You never know when—"

"That's a dead end. I cut my ties to my old crowd when I married Marian. You don't have enough time left to waste any of it raking up ancient history." Travis paused then looked up, embarrassed. "Look, you know about my anger management problems. Well, most of them had something to do with booze. You get in with a group of guys and you get into a pattern, not a good one, and stuff happens, a lot of stuff I don't want dragged back into the papers. You start talking to people about the old days, that will give them ideas. The next thing they'll do is call the tabloids and try to sell them some dirt. All that's going to do is make me look worse.

"I made the decision when Marian and I tied the knot that I was going to clean up my act and to do that I had to cut some people loose. And I did, so. . . ." Travis held up his hands to the limit of the chain. "I mean, we don't have a lot of time left here. You've got to stick with the leads that have a shot at going someplace, not wasting your time digging up stuff that happened years ago, right?"

Steve wanted to argue but Travis' flinty expression stopped him. For whatever reason Tom wasn't going to talk about his failed friendship with some stuntman and when it came right down to it, what did it matter? If he hadn't seen the guy since his wedding it didn't sound like his ex-friend would have anything worthwhile to add to the case. Travis was a vain man. Maybe the ex-friend knew something from some movie set years ago that made Tom look like a pansy and Travis was holding back because his ego was too fragile for him to handle Steve hearing the story.

"Okay, Tom, I'll move on. I talked to Bobby Berdue." Travis's face twisted into a frown. "He said that you asked him for a connection to somebody who could get you prescription drugs and that he hooked you up."

"Yeah, right!" Travis snorted. "Like I need some gangbanger to get me a bag of Lipitor."

"So, he's lying?"

"You really think I need to get legal drugs from Bobby Berdue?"

"You see the problem I've got, Tom, is that you didn't answer my question. Listen, guy, this is your life here. I'm not writing your biography. I'm trying to keep you off Death Row. For Christ's sake, stop bullshitting me!"

Travis's frown deepened and he looked away. Ten seconds passed. Finally, he looked up. "This can't get out."

"Shit, Tom, nothing you tell me will make you look half as bad as being found guilty of murdering your pregnant wife."

"Yeah, okay."

"Okay, what?"

"Okay, I bought some speed."

"And?'

"And nothing. You get past forty and your energy level drops but you gotta keep going — meetings, reading scripts, staying up all night to learn your lines, and I still do a lot of my own stunts, always have. People expect it of me. I just needed something to keep me going. You start to look old and tired in this town and they'll eat you alive. So, okay, I bought some speed and I used it for a while but it started to make me crazy and I stopped, cold turkey. End of story. It's got nothing to do with anything."

"You bought it from Bobby Berdue?"

Travis gave his head a little shake. "I didn't want it getting back to Kaitlen. I made her a promise to stay clean and sober. I told the kid I needed some prescription drugs so that if it got back to Kaitlen it wouldn't sound so bad. I told him that I wanted them on the outside so some clerk couldn't sell my medical records to the tabloids. Once the kid hooked me up, I bought some speed."

"From whom?"

"From whom? Big Frank in the third alley on the left. Jesus, how the hell would I know? The kid gave me a number. I called it and left a message. I got a call back, 'Meet me in the park' or something. I show up, give the guy a couple of Ben Franklins and he slips me a paper bag, bing bang, he's gone, I'm gone. We didn't exchange resumes."

"You paid him the full amount? You didn't hold back—"

"Hold back? Shit, you think I'm retarded or something? Those guys would cut your throat for looking at them the wrong way. I paid him. He gave me the stuff. He left. I left. We never saw each other again. Like I said, end of story."

Steve paced around the table then looked down at Travis's worried face, his sincere eyes, and he didn't believe a word of it. Travis was hiding something. Tom looked back, politely waiting for Steve's next question. Whatever it was, Travis had decided that it had nothing to do with Marian's murder and that he wasn't going to admit a thing.

"Tom, you're not giving me much to work with here."

"I can't tell you what I don't know."

"So, I guess that's it then."

Travis gave another of his abbreviated shrugs.

"I'll let you know what I find out." Steve waved to the deputy who patted Travis down before leading him to the door.

"Steve, you're gonna find something, right? You're gonna get me out of here?" Travis pleaded over his shoulder as the guard led him away.

"Sure, Tom, I'll find something," Steve called back, not believing a word of it.

When he entered the plaza outside and felt the sunlight on his face, it was as if a set of shackles had been removed returning him to the company of free men. And then he saw the Beast.

# Chapter Thirty

Today her outfit was pink, from a ridiculous little pink pillbox hat to a pair of shiny pink high heels. It only made her look more monstrous, like dressing Frankenstein in a tutu. Steve looked away and kept on walking but it did no good. The Beast zeroed in on him like a guided missile.

"You talked to my client," Margo said in a voice with an edge sharp enough to cut bone.

"We've already had this conversation."

"I usually don't have to repeat myself."

Steve increased his pace. Margo's heels clip-clopped beside him as she broke into a jog to keep up. "You're only making things worse."

Steve glanced over his shoulder and the sheer meanness twisting her face brought him almost to a halt.

"I'm a busy man. Say what you've got to say and then get lost."

"I'm not having you ruin Kaitlen's reputation. I won't allow it."

"Threat noted. Anything else?"

"You don't believe me, okay. Maybe you think that just because I'm a woman—"

"Are you sure?"

"About what?"

"That you're a woman. Has anybody run a chromosome test?"

"You son of a bitch," Margo whispered, leaning close, her lips twisted into an evil smile, "When I get through with you—"

"Yeah, I heard the threats last time. Do you have anything specific to say or are we done?"

"Stay away from Kaitlen Berdue."

"At the present time I have no more questions for her."

"And stay away from her friends, her job, her—"

"Ex-boyfriend, Carey Ebbe?" Margo's eyes widened then snapped back. "Didn't think I knew about him, did you? Before you threaten me again, I've already talked to him. He's got an alibi for the day of the murder, which exhausts my current interest in your client. Of course, something new might come up. Brother Bobby was in the San Diego jail at the time but he's got some very unsavory friends. Meth dealing biker gangs are capable of almost anything, including murdering a pregnant woman.

"Of course, they'd need a motive. If Bobby owed them money and they figured that with Marian out of the way, Travis would marry Kaitlen and that would put some cash into Bobby's pocket. . . Or maybe Bobby set the whole thing up and got himself locked up just so he'd have an alibi, then Travis was arrested and that ruined the whole scheme. Not much of a plan, I admit, but nobody said Bobby was a genius. What do you think? Does that sound like a possibility to you?"

"That sounds like an alcohol induced delusion that nobody's going to believe."

"Yeah, you're probably right. I'd need some evidence to make something like that stick. I guess I'd better get busy. Like I said, if I have any more questions for Kaitlen, I'll give her a call."

"Over my dead body." If only, Steve thought but kept his mouth shut. "If the tabloids mention one word about Bobby Berdue or Carey Ebbe, I'm coming after you."

"You mean if they figure out that Bobby's a drug dealer or that Carey's got a child support warrant out after him? Right now I've got no motive to call to the tabloids. My suggestion is that you keep it that way."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know what it means. I don't want to see your smiling face again. Ever. Who knows, maybe we'll both get what we want. Are we done now?"

"Remember what I said," Margo warned before turning away.

"Wait, there is one more thing."

"What's that?"

"Kaitlen Berdue is a sweet girl. I like her. I wouldn't want anything unpleasant to happen to her. I'd take something like that really badly."

"I don't get your meaning."

"If you lay one manicured little claw on her on her creamy skin, we're going to find out between the two of us who the real Beast is."

Margo's face went from white to red, passing through an in-between shade of pink that almost matched her hat. For a moment Steve wondered if her head might explode, then he paused and his face went slack as if a switch had been tripped. Without wanting to, the thought of an exploding head triggered Janson's memories of the last time he had seen Alan Lee Fry.

## * * *

Steve barely noticed the Nassau airport or the flight to Cuba or anything else once he'd conned Katz's old partner, Ben Olivera, into giving him Fry's address in Havana.

"You're not gonna do anything stupid, are you Steve?" Olivera asked in that quiet, laid-back voice he used when he got a suspect in The Box.

"You're not gonna lie to me, are you, Miguel?" Olivera would begin his interrogation. "I've treated you like a man, haven't I? I've treated you with respect, right? So, you're not going to insult me by lying to me, right?"

And half the time the gang-banger or wife-beater or general drunken, coked-up mope would nod and look Ben in his friendly brown eyes and tell him that he hadn't meant to do it but one thing just sort of led to another until everything turned to shit, just like the rest of his life. Then Ben would smile and thank him for treating him with respect and not lying to him and ask him, politely, if he'd like a Coke or a bag of chips or something. As soon as he was out of the room, Olivera would write down the guy's confession, word for word, and seal his fate.

Steve gave Ben a smile and said, "No way" with as much conviction as he could muster. "I'm just going to hire an off-duty cop down there to keep an eye on the guy. I'm betting he'll get tired of Havana sooner or later and try to slip back into the states under another name. I just want to be sure that the Feds are waiting for him at the airport when he does."

Ben gave Steve another of his grandfatherly smiles and a little nod and slid the scrap of paper across the desk. "Anybody asks, you got this out of the file," Olivera slapped the four inch thick mound of paper with the flat of his hand, "while I was in the can."

Steve nodded and slipped the note into his pocket without even looking at it, then forced himself to sit there shooting the shit with Olivera for another ten minutes before heading for the door. It was just his bad luck that he passed Simon Katz on the way to the elevator. Steve knew that he had no time to waste. Simon was going to ask Olivera what Steve was doing there. The guy was more terrier than pit bull but he was going to keep after his partner until he got an answer.

Steve had no illusions. Olivera would give him two or three days, tops, then he'd admit to Katz that he had left Steve alone with the Headless Killer file sitting right there on the desk. Katz would try to track Steve down and when he couldn't find him Katz would call the Havana police. Simon couldn't help himself. The Law, the idea of the Law, was as sacred to Katz as his wedding vows or the oath he took thirty-five years before when he joined the Marines and swore to preserve, protect and defend the Constitution and laws of the United States with his very life.

The only notice Steve took of Havana was indirect glimpses interspersed with meaningless details that clung to his brain like hounds-tooth and ragweed. The airport was crowded and echoed with a polyglot of voices. The humid air stank of humanity and strange spices. The cab driver, a compact brown-skinned man with a short, thick neck and ebony hair curling at the ends, cursed and pounded the wheel as he shoved the Toyota Tercel through a river of ancient steel, maneuvering as if by brute strength alone.

The traffic was a strange mixture of Tercels, Audis and Daewoos intermixed with 1953 Chevys, '56 Fords, Plymouths, DeSotos, a '49 Mercury, all lovingly cared for.

"You speak English?" Steve asked when the horns and shouts had declined to a background clamor.

"A little."

"Cities," Steve waved his hand around, "can be dangerous. Dangerous. Peligro."

"Yes," the driver agreed, "dangerous."

"I would like to buy a gun, pistola, for protection."

"Pistola?"

"Yes." Steve bent his fingers into the shape of a gun and snapped his thumb back and forth. "Bang, Bang."

The driver studied Steve carefully in the mirror.

"Can you help me, ayudame con pistola?" Steve held out five one-hundred dollar bills. The driver eyed the money longingly. Steve added another hundred to the pile and they almost crashed into a '55 Dodge. A seventh bill joined the stack. Steve waited for five seconds, then began to put the money back into his pocket.

"Okay," the driver said and turned onto a side street and parked.

"My name is Juan," Steve said, tapping his chest.

"Jaime," the driver replied. Nervously he eyed the bills. "La Policia. . . " he began and looked around. Steve showed him his U.S. passport but covered his name with his thumb.

"Secreto," Steve said.

"Secreto," Jaime agreed, then stared hard at Steve. "Tu no sabes mi. Yo no sabo tu."

"Yes, si," Steve agreed.

Jaime studied the passport again. A flick of his tongue caressed his suddenly dry lips.

"Okay," he said, reaching for the money.

"El dinero por la pistola."

Jaime bit his lip then nodded and pulled away from the curb.

A few minutes later they parked outside a bar and the driver left Steve in the car. Ten minutes later Jaime returned with a paper bag which he placed on the floor in front of the passenger seat, then tore off again, eventually pulling into the parking lot behind the ancient Hotel Sevilla on Calle Trocadero. Looking around carefully he passed back the bag but retained the clip.

It was a model 1911 Colt .45, big and heavy and awkward and with as much subtlety as a chainsaw. Steve thought it was perfect. He handed over the Ben Franklins which immediately disappeared into Jaime's underwear. After Steve left the cab, the driver slipped him the clip. Steve surreptitiously stuck the gun into his belt at the small of his back and waited for the cab to disappear, then he walked over to the Hotel Telegrafo on the Prado a few blocks away.

After checking-in he took a nap and then a cold shower to jar him to consciousness. He was too nervous to be hungry but he forced himself to eat anyway, as much to kill time as anything else. First, he decided, he'd check out Fry's place. Steve figured it would be all gates and locks and guards. He might have to watch him for a couple of days before he . . . before he did what he came there to do. He didn't let the phrase "kill him" pass through his mind.

He had arranged with the hotel to rent an Audi and it was the work of a few minutes to pick up the paperwork at the Telegrafo's Guest Services desk. It was after ten and the city was jumping, jammed with Germans, Poles, Brits and Canadians all taking advantage of the great weather, friendly locals, and bargain prices. In Old Havana the sidewalks were thronged and cars danced through the glowing blue smog like chorus girls in a basement cabaret. The restaurants were busy, the fancy places filled with tuxedoed waiters, young men in pale silk suits, gorgeous women sparking in sequined sheaths of ruby and emerald. The neighborhood bistros were equally crowded, candles and cigarettes flaring like glow bugs in the dark, but in the Miramar District the wide, plane-tree shaded streets were subdued.

A few couples glided through the shadows while dark, windowed Audi's and BMWs whispered past, headed for the clubs and restaurants on Calle 23. Fry's building, a four story white stucco apartment house, stood at the end of the block. An eight foot high black iron fence circled the property. Within its confines were a swimming pool and a garden of palms and boxwood and hedges of flowering rosemary and yellow and red lantana. Each floor housed two luxury apartments with balconies on the upper floors. Fry's place was on the third floor, facing the pool. A yellow radiance poured through the patio door and in the balcony's shadows the stub of a single cigarette pulsed with an orange glow.

Steve waited until an elderly couple turned the corner then he slipped into the entranceway. A numeric keypad flanked the steel-latticed glass door. Inside the lobby a guard in a gray uniform watched a mini-DVD player, occasionally pausing to glance at the elevator. Steve ducked to one side and gave the door a closer look. The frame around the glass was steel, inset with a Yale deadbolt lock. So, the first question was, did the tenants need both a code and a key or either a code or a key?

He caught a flicker of movement and scuttled back to the street a second before the guard peered through the glass. Steve walked casually back to the car and killed a couple of hours before returning around one a.m. He had barely parked when a young couple got out of a cab and headed for the lobby. Steve pulled out a miniature telescope and focused it on the entryway. Too fast for Steve's eyes to follow the man punched in a four digit code and pushed through the door. Okay, then, you needed either a code or a key, but not both.

Steve crouched in the Audi for another twenty minutes then crept up to the building. The guard was tilted back in his chair, drowsing if not fully asleep. During his two hour break Steve had located a drug store. Glancing over his shoulder, he pulled out a plastic bottle of talcum powder and puffed a white cloud over the pad. After another quick check on the guard Steve blew on the keys as if he were making a birthday wish. The four most frosted numbers were 2-6-7-9, that meant twenty four possible four-digit combinations. Now for the big question, did the door make a sound when any combination was pressed or only when the right one was entered? Half holding his breath, he tapped in 2679. A small LED at the corner of the pad flashed red three times, then went dark. Steve peeked through the window. The guard was still tilted back in his chair.

Okay, next would be 2697 then 2769 then 2796 and finally 2967 and 2976 at which point all the codes beginning with '2' would be exhausted. He got all the way to 6972 before the green LED glowed and the lock began its electric imitation of cricket. The guard snapped awake and stared at the door. Steve was already halfway to the sidewalk. Half an hour later he was back in his room at the hotel and still trying to figure out how he was going to do this thing.

It had seemed simple back in L.A. as complicated things often do from a distance. Monster kills your wife and flees the country. Follow him and kill him then come home. Simple. But real life's messy and inconvenient details had started to get in the way. What did Fry do with his days and nights? Where did he go? Who did he see? Should he kill Fry secretly in the dead of night? Maybe he should rent a van, hide in the back and jump out when Fry returned home or left. Shoot him down in the street like a mad dog? On the way into the building or on the way out? Or, Steve, wondered, maybe he should sneak into the building when Fry was away, knock out the guard, use the doorman's key to let himself into Fry's room and then shoot the bastard as he came through his own front door. Steve knew he couldn't keep coming back to that neighborhood, that was for sure. But he thought he could risk it one more time.

Around eight the next morning he parked just out of view of the front door. A few cars exited the underground garage and a few more drove past, none of them paying much attention to him. On the way there a quick stop at a local garage had added a small crowbar to his supplies. Dressed in a dark gray suit, white shirt and gray tie at least Steve looked like he belonged in this neighborhood. At about twenty after eight the front door slammed open and a chunky black-haired woman in a red and blue print dress stormed down the walk. Shouting, the guard boiled out of the lobby half a second behind her. She paused only long enough to scream some insult at him and then flounce away. The guard broke into a run and, with a worried glance over her shoulder, she took off a few paces ahead of him.

Without thinking, Steve slipped the crowbar up his sleeve and headed for the door. His fingers sweating, he punched in 6972 and slipped inside. The elevator dinged and he flattened himself against the wall. A maid sauntered out, a net shopping bag in her hand. Steve slipped into the empty elevator just before the doors closed then hit the button for the third floor.

The doors opened onto a small foyer. To the left was a door marked "3A" and to the right "3B." Fry lived in 3B. For two long seconds Steve stood rooted then the elevator trembled and he ducked past the closing doors. For another second he listened but heard nothing. Shit! He slipped the crowbar into his hand. The apartment door was locked. Behind him the elevator whined. Leaning his shoulder against the door, Steve slipped the tip into the slight gap. Now it was a matter of leverage. The wood made a little crunching sound and the space widened. He shoved the tip in deeper and pulled. More crunching sounds then a sharp PING immediately followed by the echo of metal clattering across ceramic tile. Steve shoved the bar in all the way and gave it hard, fast pull. The panel resisted for half a second then something snapped and pieces of wood and screws broke loose. The door swung open on silent hinges. Steve hurried inside and pushed the door closed. Unless someone gave it a careful look they wouldn't notice a thing, Steve told himself.

Straight ahead was a glass-walled living room, to the right a large kitchen and to the left a hallway leading to the guest bath and master bedroom suite. Beyond the kitchen was another corridor leading to another bathroom and two more bedrooms. Scattered here and there were pantries, closets, a laundry room and a study-game room. The place was silent except for the faint hum of the AC. Steve cautiously made his way down the hall, placing his ear to each closed door. Only one of them seemed to have an occupant. He paused outside and took a deep breath then, gun in hand, burst through the door and raced for the rumpled bed. The mound under the comforter shifted and a bleary-eyed face peered up. For an instant Fry lay frozen then sucked in a quick breath, preparing to scream. Steve rapped the gun barrel across Fry's head before he could make a sound.

The blow made a thudding noise like a blanket-wrapped hammer glancing off a brick. Stunned, Fry bent forward, cradling his head. Droplets of blood dribbled through his fingers and stained the tented bedclothes between his knees. A soft whooshing sound like a pregnant woman's breathing in Lamaze class escaped his lips. By degrees, Fry's cries changed into a mewling whine, "ooohhh, oooohhh, oooohhhh, oooohhh."

Steve twisted his victim onto his belly and used his belt to tie Fry's hands behind him. It was the work of a few seconds to rip a strip from one of the sheets and secure his ankles as well. Finally, Steve twisted Fry into a sitting position, his back against the headboard.

Gauzy curtains covered the windows overlooking the pool and through them Steve could see a blurred garden and the gently swaying trees as if a Monet landscape had come to life. An errant thought comparing the bucolic scene below with the gory work ahead flitted through Steve's head. Blood leaked from Fry's forehead, around the curve of his eye and on down to his chin where it dripped onto his pajamas. Slowly, Fry became aware of his surroundings and a pair of lazy eyes fixed on Steve's face.

"If you try and shout, I'll shatter your teeth and then knock out one of your eyes. Do you understand me?"

Fry didn't answer aloud but he didn't need to. The fear clouding his face said it all.

"Do you remember me? Do you?" Steve swung the gun as if preparing to strike again.

"Lawyer," Fry mumbled.

"Wrong. I'm the husband of your last victim."

Involuntarily, Fry smiled, a smear of blood staining his teeth. Steve jammed a pillow over Fry's face and smashed his kneecap with the butt of the gun. Fry bucked against the pillow and a muted scream trickled through the goose down.

"You think that's funny? You think butchering my wife is funny?" Steve smashed the knee a second time and was rewarded with a protracted muffled scream. Half a minute later he released the pillow. "Who am I?" Steve asked, looming over Fry's pale form.

"Husband of the woman I killed," Fry wheezed.

"Why do you think I'm here?"

"To punish me."

"Right again."

"S-not right," Fry mumbled, then spit out a gob of blood that had drained into his mouth.

"Was killing my wife right, asshole?"

"I'm a sick man. I can't help myself."

"Maybe I'm a sick man too. Maybe I can't help myself."

"You're a lawyer. You know better. You can't do this."

"Did you enjoy it? Killing my wife."

"What do you want me to say?" Another gob of blood hit the sheet.

"The truth."

"Why would I do it if I didn't enjoy it? My father abused me. Screwed me up. It's the only way I can—"

"Shut up!" Steve hissed raising the gun like Hank Aaron wiggling his bat.

"Whatever you say. What are you going to do? You can't get me back home like this. How do you think you're going to get me on a plane?"

"Plane? Who said anything about a plane?"

"Why else are you here?"

"Moron, I'm here to kill you."

"You can't do that. I have a right to—"

"Shit!" Steve growled and a soundless explosion seemed to detonate inside his brain. His head filled with fire in brilliant reds and blacks. In an instant a web of invisible chains seemed to dissolve, releasing a screaming beast inside him. Janson shoved the pillow over Fry's face. The .45's muzzle sunk deep into the goose feathers and Steve yanked the trigger.

Even muffled by the cushion the automatic made a frightful roar and feathers swirled like snow in a squall. Fry let out a muffled scream. Steve lifted the pillow and saw a ragged gray-rimmed hole in Fry's left cheek. Shit, that wasn't going to kill him. Thrashing and screaming Fry tried to escape.

Not thinking about Lynn or about anything except murder Steve folded the pillow around the pistol and pressed it against the center of Fry's forehead. Janson's only emotion was a blood lust as ferocious as a shipwrecked sailor's craving for the sight of land. For half a second he paused then, unable to think of any reason not to, yanked the trigger. The gun kicked and blood splattered in a spray of sodden red feathers. That should be the end of that fucker. Better make sure. Steve grabbed a second pillow and pounded two more slugs into Fry's head, leaving it as broken as a morning-after-Halloween pumpkin.

If anyone had asked Steve what he was thinking when he fired those last two bullets into the leaking corpse he couldn't have told them to save his life. At that instant his head was filled only with a swirl of random sounds and twisted images like a traveler on the Kansas prairie suddenly sucked fifty feet up inside a tornado.

Some seconds later the roaring in his brain dissipated and Janson stepped back from the bed. Was Fry dead? Could a man live through that? He should check Fry's pulse but Janson couldn't make himself touch the dead thing on the bed.

Steve wiped the gun then washed his face and hands in the bathroom sink. The water swirled red and little bits of brain and bone poured down the drain. He threw off his coat which seemed, miraculously, to have protected his shirt from all but a few microscopic stains. In the mirror a wild-eyed man stared back at him. Janson paused a moment to study the stranger.

Carefully he combed his hair then, as if waking from dream, grabbed his coat and returned to the bedroom. He retrieved his belt from the body and made his way through the apartment, pausing to wipe his prints as he went. At the lobby he marched out looking neither left or right. For a moment the guard glanced at him. Was this man a guest of one of the tenants? Had he arrived during the night guard's tour?

He babbled something in Spanish. Steve waved without turning around and opened the door with a handkerchief-wrapped hand. Had someone reported the shots? Was the guard going to check on the tenants or call the cops or just go back to his paper? Steve neither knew nor cared. Only one thought filled his mind: drive to the airport and fly away. Wiped clean of prints the gun went into a garbage bin outside a busy restaurant five miles away. He didn't go back to the hotel, didn't check out, didn't pick up his bag, didn't return the car. He just parked it in front of the rental agency with the keys inside and raced for the terminal as if he was late for his flight.

The next plane headed in the right direction was a Mexicana flight to Cancun. Steve didn't care. It could have been headed for Nassau or Caracas for all that it mattered to him. The ticket cost him $984, one way. His VISA was no good down here so he paid with traveler's checks then staggered onto the plane and slept as if drugged. A few hours later he flew to Nassau and from there boarded a half-full L.A. bound flight and landed on U.S. soil a free man.

For several days Steve waited to be arrested but nothing happened.

"Everybody thinks you killed Alan Fry," Greg said as soon as Steve entered his office.

"I did."

"Don't ever admit that to anyone." Markham leaned forward. "Let's go over what they can prove. You were in Cuba—"

"That will be hard for anyone in the States to prove."

"Why?"

Steve laughed. "The Cuban government wants American tourists so they kindly refrain from stamping U.S. passports. As far as my records go, I was in Nassau."

"Passport stamps?"

"Nassau and Mexican customs glanced at but didn't stamp it."

"Credit card charges?"

"VISA and Master Card aren't accepted in Cuba. I bought Traveler's Checks at Barclay's Bank in Nassau."

"Which is out of the subpoena range of U.S. courts," Greg said, making a note on his pad. "So, the U.S. authorities can prove you were somewhere in the Caribbean during the period that Fry was killed but they can't put you in Cuba. Did you leave any evidence, the gun, fingerprints, witnesses?"

"It was a black market gun. I paid cash and I never gave the guy my name or where I was staying. I didn't leave any prints or physical evidence behind."

"The clothes you were wearing . . . ?"

"I dumped them in the Cancun airport when I changed planes. They're long gone." Steve looked away. "The only witness was the guard at Fry's building and all he saw was the back of my head. I don't think he could ID me. If they find the gun and trace it back to the guys who sold it to the cab driver and then back to him, he could pick me out of a line-up, but that's not what's bothering me."

"Which is?"

Steve gave a wry laugh. "The courts in Havana aren't exactly on my side. Once I'm back there they don't need any evidence. They'll just lock me up on general principles."

"Are you planning on going back to Cuba?"

"Not voluntarily, but I don't figure they'll give me a choice."

Now it was Greg's turn to laugh. "That will never happen."

"Won't they just extradite me . . . ?" Steve's voice trailed off at the shake of Greg's head. "Why not?"

"Without overwhelming evidence of guilt, and probably even with it, no American court is ever going to extradite an American citizen to Cuba on the charge of killing a Cuban citizen. The more the Cubans scream for your blood, the more the U.S. will tell them to take a hike. But, of course, it will never get that far."

"Why not?"

"The Cubans are never going to ask for your extradition. Ever. Ever!"

"I don't get it," Steve said, clearly confused. "I went down there. I killed one of their citizens in cold blood. . . ." Steve threw up his hands as if it was all self evident.

"You've got to look at this from Cuba's point of view. Fry was a big embarrassment to them. The U.S. was making them look awful in the international media for sheltering a serial killer. They were taking a beating in the press. If it were any country asking for Fry's head other than the United States, he would have been gone in a New York Minute. Castro is a very Law and Order kind of guy, but they couldn't give in to El Diablo, Uncle Sam. They were stuck. Until you came along and solved their problem for them. Arrest you? Hell, they'd probably like to give you a big kiss on the lips. They sure would never, ever try to extradite you. The last thing the Cubans want is a six month long extradition battle splashed across the world press, especially in a case that they know they would lose in the U.S. courts anyway. It's a lose-lose for them."

Steve's expression made it clear that he was still confused.

"Look, they want tourism and, surprise, giving asylum to serial killers is not real good for business. They don't want anyone reminded that the Headless Killer was a Cuban citizen and they don't want Cuba to get the reputation as some sort of a criminal haven. Do you think they want to give other would-be Alan Fry's the idea that they should escape to Cuba? You're talking about a national heart attack here. Believe me, the Cuban government wants no part of going after you, besides which, from what you tell me, they didn't have any evidence anyway."

"But if they find the cab driver. . . "

Greg waved away the suggestion. "There's no percentage in tying himself to gunrunning and murder. Down there it would be pure suicide. No way he talks. Plus the fact that the gun had to be untraceable before he gave it to you. The way that country works there's no way he would have given you a piece that could be traced back to him or his friends." Markham shook his head. "People may suspect you did it. They may believe you did it. But the only person who can prove you did it is you, and you're not testifying, even if the Cubans were to try to extradite you, which I guarantee they won't."

"So, I'm in the clear?" Steve said, not quite believing it was true.

"In the clear? Steve, you murdered a guy in cold blood. You can't just ignore that."

"He deserved it," Steve said angrily.

"What's that line from Unforgiven, when the kid tells Clint Eastwood that the guy they killed had it coming? Eastwood gives him that hard-eyed squint and says, 'Hell, kid, we've all got it coming.'"

Steve just frowned and walked out of the office as if he hadn't heard a word Greg had said. But he had.

## * * *

No, the Beast's head did not explode. Steve had seen a head explode once and as much as he wanted to suppress the memory, to wipe it from his mind like some fevered dream, it would not go away. Standing there in front of the Courthouse, watching the Beast storm into the smoggy haze, Janson remembered everything he had seen with perfect clarity.

# Chapter Thirty-One

It took the promise of a corned beef on rye with all the trimmings to get Jack Furley to meet him in the plaza near Parker Center. From a hundred feet away Furley gave Steve a quick nod and headed for the far side of the park where he hoped he wouldn't be spotted by anybody from the detective division. Steve grabbed a bench under a spreading plane tree and dropped the deli bag on the slats next to him. Dressed in a brown sport coat and pants over an olive shirt and black tie Furley settled on the bench looking exactly like what he was, a young detective catching a quick sack lunch.

"They forget the pickle?"

"It's on the bottom."

Furley dug through the bag. "Yeah, okay." For a few moments squawks of ravens and Stellar Jays competed with the pop of Furley 's Coke can and the crunch of his teeth decapitating the kosher dill.

"Mmmmm, this is good. You get this at Saul's?" Furley asked around a mouthful of thin-shaved corned beef.

"Only the best for my friends on the force."

"Unhuh," Furley mumbled and took another bite. "Didn't get any breakfast. You're not eating?"

"I'm not hungry."

"Unhuh," Furley repeated in a knowing tone. He noticed the small beads of sweat on Janson's forehead and that his lips had that pinched look guys got when it was all they could do not to think about a six pack of sweating long necks and tall red-strawed glasses filled with ice and good scotch. Half his life Furley had seen that look on his father's face. "So, you wanted to talk about something?"

"There's this guy, a biker meth-dealer, into some bad stuff. I need his rap sheet and I need to know where he was the day Marian Travis was killed."

"Is that all? Shit, you didn't need to buy me a sandwich to ask me for something like that." Furley took another bite. "So, are we done here?"

Maybe it was the smell of the corned beef, but in the deli the old cravings had hit Steve like a runaway train. He could taste the cold splash of hops against the back of his throat. He could feel the slippery bottle sweating in his hand. His mouth felt like cotton. Steve licked his lips and squinted into the sun.

"The guy's name is Terry Monroe," he said in a raspy voice. "He's Bobby Berdue's wholesaler. A guy like him could have popped Marian Travis and never given it a second thought."

"Him and about ten thousand other guys in this county." Furley grabbed the second half of the sandwich. As soon as he finished eating, Steve knew he would be gone.

"With Marian out of the way, Kaitlen marries Travis and brother Bobby's on easy street. These guys don't care who they kill if there's a payday in it for them."

"Do you have anything, anything at all, tying Monroe to this murder?" Furley waited three long seconds, then laughed. "That's what I thought."

"So, eliminate him as a suspect. Get a dump on his phone, run his credit cards—"

"What have you been smoking, Janson? That requires a warrant and a warrant requires probable cause. You were a D.A. for Christ's sake! You know better." Furley shook his head and crunched the last piece of the pickle.

"Okay, fine. At least you can run him through your system and NCIC. Maybe he got a parking ticket in Beverly Hills that day or maybe—"

"Or maybe they nailed him for running a red light in Thousand Oaks? If you're feeling that lucky, maybe you should give me a set of lottery numbers while you're at it."

"Jesus, it's just a wants and warrants check. If nothing comes up, nothing comes up. You know Tom Travis is no killer."

"Yeah, how do I know that?"

"You busted him way back when, didn't you? You talked to the guy, got to know him a little. Half the reason he talked to you guys is that he thought you were his friend." Steve's lips twisted in a sour expression and he squinted at a gull swooping down on a trash can halfway across the plaza. Finally, he turned back to Furley. "He doesn't have it in him to kill a pregnant woman in cold blood and bury her in the desert. You know he doesn't."

"What I know is that you never know what people are really capable of," Furley snapped, remembering when he was fourteen and he had sat up all night with a crowbar under his blanket and waited for his old man to creep down the hallway to his little sister's room. "Thanks for the lunch." Furley crumpled the aluminum foil and shoved it into the empty bag.

"I talked to the psychic," Janson said suddenly.

"What?" Furley paused, about to apply a one-handed crush to the Coke can.

"She said that Sarah's still alive, that the doer sold her to some guy in Mexico who runs an adoption mill for yuppies who can't qualify to get a kid the regular way."

"Oh, that's different. I'll just go out and pick her up in that case." The can made a metallic crumpling noise and disappeared into the bag.

"She told me it wasn't Travis."

"The psychic told you that Travis is innocent?"

"She saw the guy taking Sarah to Mexico. She told me that it wasn't Tom," Steve said in a defeated tone.

"And the vision of some psychic out in the Valley is supposed to convince me we got the wrong guy?"

"I'm just asking you to run wants and warrants on Terry Monroe for the day of the murder."

"They could put me back in the bag for something like that."

"Fine, she's not worth your job. Go back and get a new notch on your belt when they put Travis away. To hell with the kid, she's nothing to you, right?"

Red-faced, Furley smashed the bag into a small white ball and stormed across the plaza.

Steve watched a jay fight a gull for a scrap of bread then closed his eyes against the pounding in his head. Five minutes later he headed back to his apartment where he spent the rest of the afternoon tracking down Marian Travis's friends then pouring through the forensic reports for some shred of evidence that might be inconsistent with Tom Travis's guilt and intermittently calling Glenn Malvo's office to see if the big-shot producer had returned from his travels. Finally, around four-thirty, his persistence was rewarded.

Malvo had just returned and would give him ten minutes tomorrow morning. Steve was feeling reasonably pleased with himself until he got a call from Greg Markham. The judge was feeling better too. The trial would resume in one week.

"We're running out of time, Steve," Markham reminded him unnecessarily. "Do you have anything that looks like it might do us some good?"

"A little smoke, no fire, but I've still got a few places to look for new leads."

"Do you need some help, another body?"

"If you get nine pregnant women together can they deliver the baby in only one month?"

"Just asking. Call me if you need anything."

Steve hung up just as the clock ticked past five. Finally he could have his daily beer. He had just grabbed the icy bottle when the phone trilled. He stared at it, almost tasting the beer sliding down his throat. He grabbed the receiver on the fourth ring, the bottle still clenched in his other hand.

"Janson."

"No arrests in your time frame," Furley almost shouted. In the background Steve heard traffic and pedestrians swirling past a payphone someplace downtown. "But on the day she went missing a uniform in San Pedro filed an FI on Monroe and his bike. Suspicious circs, possible drug dealing, but they didn't find his stash so they kicked him loose."

"What time?"

"Around eleven. No way he was in San Pedro making a crank delivery in the middle of pulling off a murder-kidnap."

"Thanks, I. . . " Steve began but the line had already gone dead.

# Chapter Thirty-Two

Steve drowsed on the couch, a pile of police reports sliding off his lap when the phone dragged him back to consciousness.

"How are you doing, Steve," Cynthia Allard asked as soon as he said 'hello.'

"Uhh, okay. How are you?" What's happened to Tom Travis now? was the only thought that entered his head.

"Lonely and bored. I need a laugh or two."

"So you called me?" Smooth, Janson, very smooth.

"I've got two tickets for the nine o'clock show at The Stand-Up."

Steve glanced at the kitchen clock — seven forty-five. Dinner had been a can of chili an hour ago, Hearty Ranch-Hand Style, according to the label. He'd washed it down with a second beer, then fallen asleep on the couch. He was living the high life now for sure.

"I don't think I'd be very good company."

"Greg Markham working you too hard?"

"What?"

"Oh, come on, Steve. I've got one of your new business cards. Senior Associate?"

"How did you—"

"This is my job, Steve. People tell me things." She wants something. She thinks I know something, the little voice in his head muttered. God, I wish I did.

"I can't comment on the case."

"I'm not asking you to comment. I'm asking you to join me for couple of cocktails and a few laughs. . . strictly off the record."

Steve looked at the disarranged piles of boxes, stacks of manila folders, the worn couch, the dish-filled sink, the painting he and Lynn had bought on their honeymoon in the south of France, a landscape of a flower strewn meadow, and suddenly felt as rootless and lost as if, dazed, he had wandered on stage in some play without knowing any of his lines.

"Strictly social?" Does she mean it? Is this really a date?

"Completely off the record."

Steve glanced back at the kitchen counter and the empty chili can, Ranch-Hand Style. "Where are you?"

"I'll pick you up," Cynthia said and hung up before he could change his mind.

## * * *

In the early sixties The Stand Up would have been The Mystic Eye or The Purple Dahlia and would have featured pale women strumming guitars and singing about Peace and Love to the accompaniment of an espresso machine. In the seventies it would have sported one or more mirrored balls and lasers pulsing to a disco beat. Having morphed through several more identities over the years, it now boasted about twenty scarred tables, a hefty cover charge and five dollar beers. Comedians performed sets that ranged from fifteen to forty minutes each that, together with breaks for refreshments, ran to about two hours per show.

Cynthia handed the keys to her five series Beemer to a nineteen year old aspiring comedian working his way up from parking lot valet. Her tickets and an Andrew Jackson disappeared into the pocket of a young woman who looked like she had just missed the cut for one of the featured roles in the re-make of Charlie's Angels.

"You think she's pretty?" Cynthia asked once the girl had hurried off to seat the next party.

"Her?"

"I saw the way you looked at her."

"I was just wondering if she was old enough to work in a place that serves liquor."

"So, you don't think she's pretty?"

"I guess," Steve said, trying to sound uncertain. "She's a little . . . pneumatic for my tastes."

"Pneumatic?" Cynthia repeated, laughing. "Where'd you get that?"

"Brave New World. Wasn't that the book where all the women's chest sizes were described in inflatable terms?"

"I'll have to check that out." Cynthia smiled and squeezed Steve's hand. "You ever been here before?"

"Not for years. Last time I was here Drew Carey showed up to try out some new material. Bumped the regular kid out of his spot."

"Who was that?"

"Warren Zweigel," Steve said, throwing up his hands. "It was Drew Carey. Who remembers?"

"I bet Warren Zweigel remembers."

"Sure, when he's not asking people, 'Do you want fries with that?'"

Cynthia laughed again and caressed Steve's shoulder. "You're terrible!" Steve found himself smiling. Even casually dressed in black jeans and a simple burgundy blouse Steve found his eyes being drawn to her, watching the tilt of her head, the way her eyes seemed to notice everything around them without staring, the tapered elegance of her hands. How long had it been since he had just spent time with a woman, relaxed, shared a laugh, noticed the twinkle in her eyes when she looked at him? He tried to remember what he and Lynn had talked about the last time they were together, the day before that, and the one before that. It was all a blur — I may be late — Will you pick up the cleaning — Hanson is such a jerk — Mom and dad want us to come over for dinner — Ted's promised me second chair on the Sanchez kidnapping. . . . The arguments, We can't afford a kid . . . The unasked question, Are you gaining weight?. . .

"What?"

"What what?" Steve asked, his eyes snapping into focus on one of Cynthia's earrings.

"For a moment there you looked like you were a thousand miles away."

Are you gaining weight? Could he manage a smile. "Uhh, nothing, sorry, just thinking about Tom Travis." Steve waved his hand as if dispelling a cloud. "All done. Work over." Steve gave her a quick grin.

"I think you're a man who needs a drink." Cynthia signaled one of the jeans-clad waiters.

"You must be psychic."

"What can I get you folks?" The girl asked, pulling out some kind of electronic device.

"White wine," Cynthia said then looked at Steve.

"Scotch over."

The girl tapped a plastic stick twice against the plastic screen and disappeared.

"This place is just full of pneumatic girls," Cynthia said, her eyes following the waitress through the crowd.

"You're never going to let that go, are you?"

"Not a chance." Cynthia squeezed his hand then rubbed her fingertips across his knuckles before letting go.

Steve smiled but inside his head was spinning. Do I want to do this? It's been a long time. Then What about Lynn? as if she were still alive. When their drinks arrived Steve took a long swallow but the whiskey contained no answers. It never did. Then the house lights dimmed.

The first comedian was a late twenties white guy with a southwestern accent. For twenty minutes he babbled on about rednecks and pickup trucks, hound dogs, small town diners and women with big hair named Peggy Mary Lou. Steve laughed politely and was more than ready for a refill by the end of the set.

The second performer was an energetic young black kid. Maybe it was the second scotch or not having to think about anything, but Steve felt as if some spring inside his chest was slowly uncoiling. He found himself laughing at the kid's riffs about the life of young black people in L.A. from techniques for dealing with Driving While Black traffic stops to the difficulties faced by African-American kids who didn't fit the stereotype and wanted to play professional chess or become CPAs. He went ten minutes over his time limit to wild applause.

"I think I've created a Frankenstein," Cynthia joked when Steve finally stopped clapping.

"I can't have a good time?"

"You can, and should." Cynthia reached for his hand and this time didn't let it go. "I wish we had done this a long time ago." Steve just gave a little shrug and squeezed her hand back. "No, I mean . . . I'm sorry, Steve. I should have called you before, when you really needed a friend. I guess I was so busy trying to survive in the media jungle . . . You have no idea what people will do get a job on TV."

"Even cable?" Steve joked.

"Especially cable." Another squeeze, then she let Steve's hand slip away when the waitress brought their next round. Cynthia slipped her a twenty.

"You should let me get that."

"My treat. I asked you."

"You pick me up, get the tickets, buy the drinks. A guy could get used to this. This is a side of dating I've never seen before."

"You ain't seen nothin' yet," Cynthia said, patting his hand just before the lights went down for the final performer, a slumped guy in his forties, world-weary and exuding frustration like a fog.

"Hi everybody, I'm Chip Stein. Chip Stein. Hell of a name for a Jew. It's like my parents were hoping for something else. 'Let's call him Chip and when he grows up maybe he'll have blond hair and blue eyes and he'll be a world champion surfer.' So, what do you think? Do I look like a 'Chip'? Hey, it could have been worse. My mother was holding out for 'Troy.' That would have worked. Even the Hasidic kids would have beaten me up. 'It's not Saturday so let's make Troy cry.' POW.

"I knew when I said it could have been worse, some of you people were going, 'Oh, he's one of those 'the glass is half' full kind of guys. No. The glass isn't half full. The glass isn't half empty. The glass is just badly designed.

"Stupid people — I hate stupid people. Not retarded people. They're doing the best they can with what they've got. I hate the people who are stupid because they're just too damn lazy to think. You know who you are.

"'Yeah, I know there's a smarter way to test my brakes than racing my car down a steep hill covered with ice with a big concrete wall studded with steel spikes at the bottom but I'm just too damn lazy to figure out what that might be.' WHAM!

"You see, if I ran the world — do you ever think like that — If I ran the world, oh boy, there'd be some changes made! Hey, we'd do things right if I ran the world. Give me a break. You know damn well that if you ran the world you'd fuck it up in about twelve seconds. Now, as I was saying, if I ran the world — hey, I'm a lot smarter than you are — things would be done right. For example? Is that what someone said?

"Okay, for example, I would institute a stupid person eradication program. Every year every adult would have to undergo a 'Too Stupid To Live' test. No, no, this would be a very scientific test. See, we would put people on random floors of a tall building and tell them that to pass the test they'd have to find the elevator and take it up two floors. Okay, here's our stupid candidate in front of the elevator on the eighteenth floor. The doors open. DING — A big arrow pointing up flashes a brilliant red. If the candidate looks at the guy inside the car and says, "Is this elevator going up?" BANG, we shoot the son-of-a-bitch dead right then and there. Too fucking stupid to live! Scientific!" Stein tapped his skull.

Half an hour later Stein went into his "You've been a great audience. I'm Chip Stein. Thanks everybody" spiel and escaped the stage to thunderous applause.

The lights came up and Steve felt a little unsteady as they threaded their way through the tables, but he put that down to having being stuck in a hard chair in the dark for two hours. When they got outside the crisp air hit him like a slap in the face.

"Great car," Steve said when the valet pulled up.

"Don't get any ideas. You're riding shotgun."

Steve fumbled with the shoulder belt then relaxed into the seat. The car was still new enough to perfume the air with the smell of fresh leather. Steve took a deep breath. "Great car."

"If you're a good boy, maybe I'll let you drive it sometime."

"I'm always a good boy."

Cynthia didn't reply, choosing instead to take a quick left and accelerate through a yellow.

"Steve, can I tell you something?"

"I'm all ears. No, wait, I'm not. I'd look really funny if I were all ears. Ears on my elbows, ears on my knees," Steve mumbled in a sing-song voice and started to laugh.

"You know, we agreed that this evening was off-the-record, strictly personal, right?"

"Strictly personal."

"Okay, then I've got something to tell you, off-the-record, okay?"

"Okay," Steve agreed, a cold tendril beginning to caress his heart.

"I told you that I hear lots of rumors. Well, I heard one today about Tom Travis. I'm not saying it's true, just letting you know in case it is."

"In case it is?" Steve asked trying to figure out what came next. In case it is, then . . . what?

"If this rumor is true, Greg Markham will need to prepare for it, so the D.A. doesn't blind side him when the trial starts up next week."

"Oh, sure, in case it's true. Okay," Steve agreed, the warm scotch glow rapidly fading away.

"Word is that Kaitlen Berdue got pregnant with Tom Travis's child. He told her he didn't want any kids and forced her to have an abortion. The D.A.'s implication will be that Tom didn't want the child his wife was pregnant with either but that she refused to have an abortion and that was one of the reasons he killed her."

"Has Kaitlen Berdue confirmed this?"

Cynthia shook her head. "It's just a rumor. Did Tom ever say anything about Kaitlen having an abortion?"

Steve felt as if an icicle had been shoved into his belly. Is this why he was here? Was the whole point of this . . . date . . . to get him relaxed enough, drunk enough, stupid enough that he'd confirm this abortion rumor for her next broadcast? Sucker!

"I feel sick."

"Are you all right?"

"Pull over."

Steve fumbled with the belt release and staggered a couple of feet into an alley next to an abandoned auto parts store. A minute later, his face gray and his stomach empty, he got back into the car but this time the fragrance of the leather seats was overpowered by the cloying smell of vomit coating his nose and throat. He glanced at Cynthia then closed his eyes.

"Can you drop me off at my place?" The dead air in the cabin sucked up his words like stones dropped down a dry well.

"Sure."

A moment later some innocuous classical music filled the car and only another moment after that Cynthia was shaking his shoulder. "Steve, we're here. Do you need any help getting inside?"

Getting inside? Steve gave a sour chuckle. He wasn't getting inside tonight. No, not with Cynthia tonight.

"Did I say something funny?"

"No," he mumbled, blinking against the glow of the dome light. "Sorry." For an instant some perverse part of his nature dredged up the phrase 'Let's do this again real soon' but the moment passed. Knees weak, he made it to the sidewalk and leaned through the open door. "Thanks, Cynthia. I had a good time. Sorry I couldn't hold my liquor. Out of practice, I guess."

"So. . . " she began, then seemed to think better of it. "Yeah, I had a good time too. Give me a call when you feel better."

"You bet," Steve said and slammed the door. When hell freezes over, he muttered as he watched Cynthia's taillights disappear into the night.

# Chapter Thirty-Three

Glenn Malvo's company, Impact Productions, leased a small suite of offices around the corner from the Paramount lot. Janson settled into a worn flower-print couch under a framed poster for a direct-to-cable suspense drama called Night Lies. The office wasn't the cradle of dreams and romance that star-struck tourists might have imagined. On the opposite wall hung a lurid poster for Tom Travis's last movie, The Bone Yard. Steve leafed through a copy of The Hollywood Reporter while a very handsome young man alternately screened calls through a wireless headset and made coffee.

Every two or three minutes he shot a quick glance in Steve's direction as if worried that if not carefully supervised Janson might make off with the coffee table or the potted ficus tree. About fifteen minutes later, the receptionist received a silent order and told Steve that Mr. Malvo would see him now.

Malvo's office was a clone of the waiting room, only more so. Cheap furniture, movie posters, framed invitations to the Academy Awards, a couple of lumps of glass in futuristic shapes etched with flowery prose, "The Signus Award for Excellence in . . ." something or other. Malvo was on the phone. He gave Steve a quick glance and the flick of his hand then spun around to contemplate the second-story view of the traffic on Vine.

"Yeah, I understand, Jerry, but . . . Uhhuh . . . " Malvo turned back to Steve and shrugged, as if to say, 'What are you gonna do?' About five-nine, dressed in black slacks and an open collar white silk shirt textured with subtle beige embroidery, Malvo frowned and tapped a pair of heavy black-framed glasses against the arm of his chair. "Okay, Jerry, you do that and get back to me. Right." The phone clattered into the receiver.

"Hi, Glenn Malvo. You're here about Tom Travis?"

"Steve Janson. I'm helping Greg Markham."

"Have a seat. Chad get you coffee? You need anything?"

"I'm fine, thanks." Steve settled into a chocolate-colored chair that wasn't as comfortable as it looked.

"Greg's a terrific attorney, a real heavy hitter. Did a hell of a job on the Candace Lang thing." Malvo gave Steve a long look. "So . . . ?"

"Yeah. I'm trying to pin down anything on someone who might want to hurt Tom Travis or his wife."

"Let me guess — you asked Tom for a list of suspects and he couldn't think of a single person who disliked him." Malvo gave Steve a quick, cold smile. "You've never been in the business, right?"

"I used to be a prosecutor, before that, a cop."

"Sounds like half a movie right there. Anyway, look, a hundred million people in this country want to be in the movies. Maybe five or ten thousand people alive today ever had a speaking part. Maybe five hundred of them had a part where anyone might remember their name. Maybe a couple hundred of them are working featured players today and less than half of them are Stars. Tom Travis is a Star. Okay, he's not number six or eight any more, but he's still a Star."

"I don't—"

"Making it to the top in this business changes you. Nobody tells you you're full of crap. Nobody tells you your breath stinks. Nobody tells you you're wrong, about anything. Nobody hates a Star, except, maybe, another Star. . . True story, they're shooting a movie and one of the grips notices his watch is missing. The next day, the star is wearing the guy's watch! The grip says something, politely, and the star smiles, apologizes for the mistake, and returns the watch. The next day the grip is fired and the Assistant Director tells the crew that if the star 'borrows' anything don't say a word to him, just turn in a voucher and the production company will reimburse them. By the end of the movie, the star had 'borrowed' enough stuff to fill the trunk of his Rolls and nobody opened their mouth. I promise you that if you asked him if he had any enemies he would have sworn to you on a stack of bibles that everybody loved him. And he would have believed it. You get my drift?"

"Starting to sense a reality gap here."

"Now you got it." Malvo pointed his finger like the barrel of a gun.

"Okay, what can you tell me about Tom Travis that he won't tell me himself?"

"How much time do you have?" Another quick grin. "Just kidding. I don't have all day. . . Okay, where do you want to start?"

Where did he want to start? "How about women. Tom had something of a reputation as a ladies' man. Maybe one of them or their boyfriends or husbands . . . " Malvo's expression grew sour. "What?"

"I did a courtroom movie couple of years back, Deadly Verdict, lots of 'objection sustained' crap. We had a legal consultant work on the script. What's that wife-beating objection — assumes facts not in evidence?" Steve cocked his head questioningly. Malvo sighed and tried again. "Tom wanted to be a ladies' man. He wished he were a ladies' man. He pretended he was a ladies' man, but the truth is, well, you know the old story, the mind is willing but the flesh is weak."

"You're saying he . . . "

"Not enough lead in the pencil, if you get my drift. That was all pre-Viagra, of course. Tom's probably buying the stuff by the case now. The fact is, nobody who knew the real story was very worried about Tom being in the bedroom with their squeeze. From what I heard, mostly he just liked to watch."

"Watch?"

"Got off on it. He and his buddy would go cruising. Tom would pick up the girls, no problem there. Back in the day he had to beat them off with a stick, excuse the reference. They'd end up in a suite at the Beverly and Tom would ah . . . help out and when he'd gotten his girl warmed up, his buddy would take over and close the deal. Then the girls would switch and Mr. Reliable would go to work on number two. At the end Tom would get one of the girls to give him a BJ and then he'd order champagne and whatever and everybody went home happy." Malvo flashed another of his quick grins.

Suddenly an image of Bobby Berdue popped into Steve's head. Bobby said that Tom had wanted some kind of prescription drug that wouldn't show up on his medical records. Viagra? Cialis? I bought some speed to keep me going. Yeah, right, Tom!

"Son of a bitch!"

"A light just go on?"

"You could say that." So if Tom couldn't keep his soldier at attention . . . "Oh, Shit!"

"What?"

"Did Tom ever get anybody pregnant?"

Malvo shrugged. "Not as far as I know. A lot of the guys get a vasectomy, avoids a lot of nasty accusations. Who wants to have Marlon Brando's problems, right?"

"Maybe Tom didn't need one. Maybe a shortage of lead in his pencil wasn't his only problem."

Another shrug. "That I couldn't tell you." Malvo took a quick look at his watch.

"How about managers, agents, co-stars, business partners, anybody who might have been pissed enough with Tom to want to hurt him or his wife?"

Malvo's head gave a quick shake. "Tom's actually a pretty sweet guy. Sensitive, deep down. Truth is, I could never picture him wrapping a wire around his wife's neck and pulling until her eyes popped, not for real. Maybe if she had been shot from fifty feet away or something, maybe, but up close and personal? I don't think so. Don't get me wrong. Tom can make it look good for the camera. But in real life," Malvo held up his hands, then took another longer look at his watch.

"Last thing. You said Tom would get together with other guys to pick up women. Can you give me a few names?"

"Hmmm, that goes back a few years, PV, Pre-Viagra." Malvo smiled and stared off into space. "Actually . . . it was more like, I think, just one guy. For that kind of a job you need a real stud. It's one thing if Tom can't get the private to salute, but if both of 'em crap out, well, you can imagine how that could end up as a terminal hit on a guy's ego and Stars don't have the toughest egos in the world, more egg than ego if you ask me."

"So, Tom found the right guy and stuck with him?"

"Another stuntman, like Tom, except this guy was never gonna be a Star, except in the bedroom. He might have done some porno. I figure he had been bragging a little about his stamina while he was waiting to do a gag and Tom heard him and checked out his films. He must have figured the guy would make him look good, do the job," Malvo pounded his fist twice into his palm with a meaty smack-smack. "The guy likes the babes. Tom gets off on the action. Everybody's happy."

"You remember his name?"

Another vacant stare. "Shit, I can see him in my head, about five ten, wiry, long face, matted, curly kind of hair, blue eyes, his nose was too big to be a star, sort of funny looking. Couldn't read a line to save his life. Tom tried to get him a small part in a couple of westerns. Had a delivery like a mackerel. Jeez, what was his name? Bailey? Bobby? Billy? Barry! Barry McGee."

"Did Tom and Barry stay friends after Tom got married?"

"Well. . . ." Malvo twisted uneasily in his seat.

"What?"

"I don't know. They were tight then they weren't. I asked Tom if he wanted anybody special on the stunt team for The Bone Yard, keep the star happy, right, and he said 'no.' I said 'fine, okay' and started to leave and Tom stops me and says, real quiet, 'I'd rather not work with McGee this time around.'"

"Did he say why?"

"He didn't say and I didn't ask. If a star wants to tell you something, he will. You don't ask, not unless you don't want to work with him again. You get nosey and the tabloids print something, he's likely to think it came from you. Who needs that?" A final long look at his watch. "Steve I've got . . . "

"Yeah, me too. Thanks for all your help. Can I give you a call if anything else comes up?"

"Sure, you've got my number." They shook hands and Steve turned toward the door. "Hey, say 'Hi' to Tom for me, will you." Malvo called. "Tell him . . . tell him when this shit is all over, I've got a script with his name on it. Tell him I believe in him and, uh, that we'll do great things together. You tell him that for me, okay?"

"You bet." Steve gave Malvo a little wave and headed for his car and wondered if Google could get him an address for Barry McGee.

# Chapter Thirty-Four

Steve finally got McGee's phone number from the Screen Actors' Guild and left a message implying that he was doing a project with Glenn Malvo and needed somebody to supervise the stunts. McGee called back an hour later with the suggestion that Steve meet him at a riding club out in the Valley.

It was a little after one when Steve arrived at The Norcross Academy which straddled a small valley at the edge of Topanga State Park. Steve slipped the Mercedes into a lot full of ML430s, Honda Pilots and Soccer Mom minivans. Apparently the employees were required to park their dented Silverados and five year old Mustangs someplace out of sight of the paying customers. A mother in black jeans and a tightly fitted blue cotton shirt herded a bunch of twelve-year-old girls in formal riding costumes up to the barn. Three were white, one Asian, all wearing black small-billed hats, white shirts, black vests and black pants. Each clutched a dark brown riding crop. A handsome young man in blue jeans and a cowboy hat greeted the woman and checked the girls off one by one against a list on a plastic clipboard.

"Help you?" the kid asked Steve with a smile. Perfect teeth, Steve noted, white as a fifties refrigerator.

"I'm supposed to see Barry McGee. Is he around?"

The smile slipped three notches and the kid waved toward the barn. "He's in the back corral." He gave Steve's wingtips a quick glance as if to say "Watch your step." Behind Steve appeared three fifteen-year-old girls in designer jeans and orange-sequined t-shirts. Cowboy Bob's smile cranked back up to its full wattage.

The barn was about fifty yards long with large sliding doors at both ends. Inside it was dark and cool and thick with the scent of horses and old hay. Beyond the far end Steve spotted a staging area with troughs and hitching rails and beyond that an emerald-colored field fitted with hay-bail jumps all circled by a white board fence. To Steve's far right was a dusty, steel-pipe corral populated with four horses and a single sweat-stained ranch hand whose skin was the color of faded leather. As Janson drew closer he noticed the man's cap of wiry hair and long face centered with a nose like a splayed lump of clay.

"Barry McGee?" Steve called when he reached the pipe fence.

"Yeah. Janson?" McGee squinted, pulled off his sweat-stained cowboy hat and wiped a sleeve across his brow.

When they shook hands Steve noticed the rough cuts in McGee's palm. Barry gave Steve a quick once over and replaced his hat.

"You're in the production end, I guess. What're you, some kind of CPA who wants to make movies?"

"Actually, I'm helping Greg Markham with Tom Travis's defense. Glenn Malvo said you and Tom were friends."

"He did, did he?" McGee mused, squinting into the sun and wandering over to one of the horses. "Why'd that come from Malvo instead of Tom? You sure you're really working for him?"

"You can call Greg Markham. He'll vouch for me."

"Okay. What did Tom tell you?"

"He's a little reluctant to talk about the old days. He thinks it's a waste of my time but I like to be thorough."

"I guess you got your job to do and I've got mine." McGee lifted the mare's hoof and checked her shoe.

"I just need a few minutes of your time," Steve shouted.

"They pay me to work, not talk," McGee called over his shoulder and bent to check out another shoe.

"You can't take a break?"

McGee patted the horse's neck and gave Steve a calculating glance. "If you was to rent one of these ponies here, I could take you on a little ride and we could talk all you want."

Steve looked at his sixty dollar gray slacks and his black leather shoes and tried to imagine himself wandering the lower reaches of Topanga Canyon on the back of a horse.

"Up to you," McGee said easily, moving on to the next animal.

A light breeze rippled the wild grasses and in the distance a hawk sailed over the canyon.

"Yeah, okay," Steve said a moment later when the hawk had receded to a pinpoint and slipped from view. "Pick out an easy one. I haven't been on one of these things since Boy Scouts."

"Sure, old Buttermilk here's as gentle as a bunny rabbit. Come on in the barn and we'll get you fixed up."

Ten minutes later, having waived all claims for bodily injury, handed over his VISA card and strapped on a borrowed pair of weathered chaps, Steve mounted old Buttermilk and surveyed the world from a point about ten feet above the ground. McGee led them at a relaxed saunter down the dirt road that paralleled the steeplechase oval before wending up one of the finger canyons at the back of the property. As they passed the jumps a few young girls turned to watch, some covering their amusement, others grinning openly.

"Don't mind them fillies none," McGee said in an accentuated twang. "They're just a bunch of stuck-up rich kids havin' some fun with daddy's money."

The trail doglegged to the left and soon the green oval disappeared.

"So, how's old Tom holdin' up?" McGee asked, slowing his horse, a chestnut stallion named Sultan, so that they could ride side-by-side.

"He's hanging in there. It's no fun being locked up."

McGee smothered a grin and made a click-click sound with his tongue to increase Sultan's pace.

"I know you and Tom were friends," Steve continued. "I was wondering if you knew anybody who had a grudge against him, anyone who might want to hurt him or Marian."

"I don't know the wife, Marian. Only met her once for about five seconds."

"When was that?"

McGee tugged lightly on Sultan's reins and the big stallion veered off the trail and up the course of a dried-out stream. Used to being led, Buttermilk followed without instructions from Steve.

"Right after Christmas, just before she went missing," Barry called over his shoulder, then ducked beneath the branches of a massive black oak. The streambed widened into an inch deep leaf-strewn pool and Steve lightly pressed in his heels. Buttermilk agreeably speeded up until they were again riding side-by-side.

"What was the occasion?"

"Truth was, I needed a job. I hadn't seen Tom in over a year but I figured there was no harm in asking. I gave him call and asked him if he could help me out. He could've blown me off but he told me to come over to the house and we could have a drink for old time's sake. Anyway, she was goin' out while I was comin' in. I said, you know, 'Hello-Goodbye' and that was it. Seemed a nice enough lady for all I could tell."

The stream cut to the left and narrowed, its path clogged with rocks. Barry make another knickk-knickk sound between his tongue and teeth and Sultan clambered up the bank and out into a field of wild oats. Steve gritted his teeth and did the same. Buttermilk looked back, a wild look in her eye, and bounded up after them with Steve hanging on for dear life. They shot past McGee in a trot and Steve was afraid Buttermilk was going to break into a gallop and run halfway to Calabasas, but she apparently didn't want to leave Sultan and slowed to a stop all on her own. Smiling, McGee and Sultan sauntered up alongside.

"You're a real buckaroo, ain't you?"

"Tell that to Buttermilk. . . So, did Tom help you out?"

Barry gave his head a shake. "Said he wasn't no box-office champ no more, that he was looking for work himself, that he might have to start making those cable movies for HBO if he didn't get a break soon. Gave me a hell of a good glass of scotch, though," McGee added, smiling.

"So, is there anybody who had a grudge against Tom?"

"Nah. Tom didn't make enemies like that. He always took the easy way out."

"What does that mean?"

"Take a guy like me, somebody bumps me, I bump him back. He takes a swing at me, I swing back."

"But not Tom?"

Again, McGee laughed. "You bump Tom, maybe he bumps you back, a little. You take a swing at Tom, he ducks and walks away, unless he's been drinking. You get Tom sauced, he'll go fist city with you, but the rest of the time, mostly he'll just get pissed off and walk away, like you're not worth gettin' upset over."

They reached the crest of a long ridge. Below them the land descended to a narrow valley choked with manzanita and scrub oak. Barry shaded his eyes and stared into the distance as a breeze scented with wild oats and bay trees brushed their cheeks.

"Is that how Tom felt about you?"

Barry gave Steve a sharp look then shook his head. "Nah, Tom had no complaint with me."

"I heard you guys used to be tight, then something happened."

"Oh, you heard those stories about Tom and me, did you?"

Steve shrugged.

"Well," McGee said, flashing a self-congratulatory smile, "I suppose some of that's true. Nobody's ever accused me of being shy with the ladies, and, time to time, Tom maybe needed a few pointers in that department. We did have ourselves some fun."

"Then . . . "

"Hah! Then Tom got himself in trouble with that girlfriend of his, Clare Cantrell or whatever. Anger management!" McGee barked a laugh.

"You don't think he hit her?"

"Oh, he probably hit her all right. Probably a combination of too much booze and too little performance. My guess is she said something about Tom's moxie in the bedroom department and that's when he socked her, not that he'd ever want that to come out in court. I think that scared Tom, maybe that he hit her, maybe that it might get out why. Anyway, he decided he was going on the wagon and me, I liked to party. Tom had to either give up the booze or give up me." Another sour smile. "Then he met Marian and the good times were over for sure. You want my opinion, I think he was afraid that if we started hanging out together again, one thing would lead to another and we'd be back in the saddle with the fillies. Goodbye marriage, hello community property. You could say the wedding pretty much put an end to our friendship."

Barry flicked Sultan's reins and headed off at an angle down the far side of the ridge. Steve and Buttermilk paralleled them a few feet up-slope.

"So, who could have done this to Marian?"

Barry shrugged. "Maybe it had something to do with her boyfriend."

"Boyfriend? Marian had a boyfriend?"

"Had to," Barry said, fanning his face with his hat.

"What? Why?"

"She was pregnant and Tom wasn't the father. He told you that, right?"

"Tom wasn't the father? Are you sure?"

McGee looked over his shoulder and laughed. "I guess Old Tom left that part out. Tom and I were doin' these girls one night, sisters, man you ain't lived until you've done sisters, anyway, he's not using any protection and I say, 'Hey, partner, what you gonna do if she turns up one of these days with a little Tommy in her arms?' and Tom leans over and whispers, 'Can't happen. I'm shooting blanks.' That's not the sort of thing a guy lies about, even if he's had a few. Truth is, Tom was half in the bag. If he hadn't been I don't think he would have let that slip. Anyway, unless there's been some medical miracle that kid Marian was pregnant with belongs to some other guy. Maybe Marian and her boyfriend had a fight or something and, you know, one thing led to another."

They reached the bottom of the slope and McGee led them single file down a muddy trail knee deep in milkweed and Italian thistle.

"Dry year," McGee said, kneeing Sultan when he paused to snap up tussocks of spring grass. "Usually water flowing in this crick well into May."

"So Tom knew his wife was pregnant by another man? How'd he take that?"

McGee smiled and raised his brows. Sultan stopped again and this time McGee let him feed. Steve and Buttermilk drew up alongside.

"What's that mean?"

"You'd have to be blind not to see that she was knocked up, so after she's out the door, I give Tom a look, like, 'Hey, man, what's that all about?' and he gives me a look back, like, 'Yeah, I know but what can I do?' What was I supposed to say — 'Who's the guy who knocked up your wife?'" McGee gave Steve a helpless shrug.

Steve stared blankly into the distance, his brain spinning. Had Marian told one of her girlfriends who the father was? Maybe that's why Tom was so anxious to keep Steve from talking to them. No wonder he didn't want Steve dredging up 'ancient history' with McGee. Jesus, Travis had his life on the line and he was afraid someone would find out that his wife had cheated on him?

McGee nudged Sultan and he ambled on down the trail with Buttermilk following dutifully behind.

"Was that the last time you talked to Tom?" Steve called to McGee.

"Yeah, I didn't want to talk to the cops so I stayed away."

"Why's that?"

"I don't like cops." Another short laugh. "And, I didn't want them finding out from me about the kid not being Tom's. I mean your wife's murdered and the cops find out she's pregnant with some other guy's baby, I'm no lawyer but in the movie business we call that a motive."

Steve couldn't see McGee's face but he imagined it twisted in a sardonic grin. The baby thing was what trial lawyers called a "two-edged sword." It opened up a whole new pool of suspects but it also gave Tom Travis a hell of a motive for murder.

Ahead of them the trail curved around the base of the hill and the stables slipped back into view, the emerald steeplechase oval glistening like a an oasis in a desert of cars and smog and ninety-nine cent hamburger palaces.

# Chapter Thirty-Five

Steve sat in his car in the stables' lot and updated his notes while packs of girls trooped in and out. Didn't any boys ride horses? He unfolded a map and marked the addresses of Marian Travis's girlfriends. Four of the five lay along a more or less zigzag route between the stables and his home, most of them in the platinum triangle of Beverly Hills, Holmby Hills and Bel Air. Number five was out in the Malibu Colony along the PCH. It was almost three and Steve decided to hit her tomorrow. For about five seconds he considered calling ahead and then figured that would just give them a better chance to avoid him.

The first subject was Tamara Porter. According to the housekeeper she and her husband were in Sedona, hiking amidst the desert wild flowers, and they would be gone for another week at least. The second subject was Carol Ann Burke. He got as far as his name and the purpose of his visit before she politely closed the door in his face. He spotted number three, Leslie Wahlberg, just pulling out of her driveway and decided to follow her. In any other neighborhood her hundred thousand dollar silver Porsche Cayenne would have been hard to miss. In this part of LA it was as common as a Toyota Avalon in San Jose. On the positive side, Leslie believed in using her turn signals and Steve never felt he was in much danger of losing her. It turned out to be a short trip. About ten minutes after they started she turned into the Beverly Garden Center on La Cienega.

A tide of white people with a sprinkling of Asians and an occasional African-American surged through the parking lot, each pushing a rattling flat-topped cart. Leslie quickly grabbed her own clanking trolley and dived into the throng of shoppers. Late thirties, pretty in the way that money and attention can push you up a couple of notches on the beauty scale, she navigated the wide aisles with single-minded determination. Steve unobtrusively threaded his way behind her. The place was divided into sections, large fruit and ornamental trees along the rear fence, blooming flowers near the cash registers, fertilizers and clay pots to the left, garden furniture to the right, vegetables and shrubs in the middle.

Leslie headed for the edibles and carefully perused the tomato plants which ranged in size from six inch seedlings to half grown plants a foot and a half tall. Steve debated confronting her over the Early Girls and Better Boys or just keeping an eye on her until she returned home. But what if this was the first in a long list of errands? He might waste the rest of the afternoon, possibly lose her, or be spotted and treated like a stalker. Well, at least here she couldn't slam the door in his face.

"Ms. Wahlberg?" he asked politely.

Hazel eyes scanned Janson in careful appraisal.

"Yes?"

"I apologize for interrupting your shopping. My name is Steven Janson. I work for Greg Markham, the attorney defending Tom Travis. Marian's brother, Riley, told me that you and Marian were friends and I was hoping to talk with you for a couple of minutes." Steve held out his card.

Two long seconds passed. Leslie's eyes locked on his face. Finally, she took the card, read it carefully, then slipped it into her pocket.

"I was wondering if anyone was ever going to get around to me," she said in a musing voice and turned back to the shelf of plants. "What do you want to know?"

"Were you and Marian good friends?"

Again a long pause. "Good friends? We knew each other for a long time, liked each other. Marian was an unusually . . . straightforward person." Leslie paused to find just the right word. In the shadows cast by the mesh sunshades Steve noticed subtle hints of color on her cheeks and forehead, an ivory cast that he began to think had not come from the cosmetic counter at Nieman Marcus. And her eyes weren't simply hazel but glittered with green, gold and russet flecks against a background of warm honey.

"Straightforward?" he repeated, trying to force his attention back on the job.

"Direct, the opposite of passive-aggressive. Marian had strong values and she wasn't shy about telling people what they were and living up to them — Do you know anything about tomatoes?" She held up a plant in a square plastic pot.

Steve had the sudden impression that Leslie Wahlberg had a strong personality of her own.

"Sungold," Steve said, reading the label. "It's yellow."

"So?"

"Tomatoes should be red. Yellow ones wouldn't taste the same even if they did, taste the same."

Leslie gave him another of her long stares, then replaced the pot. "How about this one?"

"Beef Master," Steve read. "Much better."

With a hint of a smile she put it in her cart. Steve found her acceptance of his advice strangely gratifying.

"Did Marian ever mention that anyone was bothering her, hang-up phone calls, someone following her or watching her, anonymous letters . . . ?"

This time there was no delay. Leslie gave her head a quick shake. "No, nothing like that." She offered another plant for Steve's inspection. He read the label and dropped it in her cart. She made no comment and with a clatter pushed on down the aisle to the next display. A decisive woman. Steve studied her sidelong and noticed that her every movement was smooth, each step a display of grace and economy of motion. He increased his pace to catch up.

Now for the fun questions. "I don't quite know how to say this," he began when she stopped at the next leafy display, "but could Marian have been involved with another man?" Steve held his breath, expecting another of Leslie's long pauses while she parsed the question, word by word.

"You mean Robert?" she replied at once without looking up.

"Robert . . . ?"

"Robert Garsen. From your question I thought you knew."

"I suspected, but after your description of Marian's strict moral code. . . ." Steve let the rest of the sentence hang.

"Her moral code was adherence to the principles of honesty, generosity and kindness," she said with a hint of steel in her voice.

And remaining faithful to her husband didn't figure into that someplace? Steve thought but held his tongue.

"She felt she was justified," Leslie said, sensing Steve's disapproval. Her expression was thoughtful, not accusatory or defensive. Steve marveled at the harmony of the planes of her face, the balance of line and shadow. How could he have thought that hers was a beauty that depended on fabrics and potions?

"Justified?"

"Before they were married she told Tom she wanted another child and he agreed. They kept trying and when she didn't get pregnant she contacted a fertility doctor."

"And Tom refused to be examined?"

"One excuse after another until finally he admitted that he had been lying to her all the time, that he was sterile and had been for years."

"So, she got pregnant to. . . ?"

"Get even? Punish him? No, Marian didn't think that way. Too much negative energy. For her it was just a matter of fairness. Tom lied to her about being able to father a child and she felt that his lie released her from her commitment to him. Eventually she met a man she came to care for and who wanted to start a family with her. Of course, she told Tom."

"That she had met someone or that she was pregnant?"

Leslie's cheeks reddened and she looked away. "That she was pregnant."

Steve tried to imagine that conversation and a gout of acid twisted his stomach. Had Lynn ever . . . ? Would she have told . . . ? He pushed the offending questions into the dark place at the bottom of his brain.

"How did Tom take that?"

"Not well," Leslie said, still not meeting Steve's gaze. "He begged her not to leave him, promised to see a doctor, agreed to an adoption . . . "

"But Marian wanted out."

"His lies just ended it for her. She didn't hate him. She just didn't love him anymore. She couldn't love someone she couldn't trust."

"But she didn't leave him. Why not?"

"Tom begged her not to. He said it would make him look like a fool or worse if she left him in the middle of her pregnancy. Everybody would assume he must have done something terrible to her, beat her up or cheated on her or something worse for her to leave him like that. The name 'Charlie Sheen' was mentioned. So they came to an agreement."

Leslie picked up another plant, a large one, and handed it wordlessly to Steve. He nodded his approval and she placed it in her cart. It was such a small thing, but it pleased him with a strange intensity, as if it were evidence of some kind of a comfortable domestic bond. How could he have ever thought this woman ordinary?

"What kind of an agreement?" He asked watching her face, marveling at the flickering highlights in her honey eyes.

"She would see her lover, discreetly, and Tom would be free to do the same. Once the baby was born they would announce an amicable split. She would wait six months before marrying the father and in a year or two he would quietly adopt the child and Tom wouldn't object. She had her own money so the financial details wouldn't be an issue."

Marian's yoga classes were probably in response to her pregnancy, Steve realized, and Tom's sudden involvement with Kaitlen Berdue now took on a whole new dimension.

"How come you didn't call the police when she disappeared?"

"I didn't think any of this mattered. By then they were living separate lives. Tom's girl friend was no secret to Marian. She didn't care."

"And later?"

"When they found Marian's body near where Tom had been driving his dune buggy with the cord from one of their lamps around her neck, I just assumed that he had been drinking and that she had said something that made him snap. As I said, Marian didn't sugarcoat her opinions. Sometimes people mistook her directness for cruelty."

"And now what do you think?"

"Now I don't know. How could I? I'm not on the jury." Leslie's cart rattled into the concrete-floored building near the exit and she began picking through boxes of fertilizer.

"This one?" she asked, holding up a blue and yellow box of Miracle Gro. Steve checked the label's recommended uses, then nodded. She smiled and a warm glow spread through his chest.

"You know my next question," he said, giving her a level stare.

"He had nothing to do with it. He loved her."

"You know the old song, 'You only hurt the one you love.' He has to be checked out."

Leslie glared and pushed off into the checkout line. Steve followed, and when she came to a halt, poised the tip of his ballpoint above his pad. Leslie gave him another irritated glance then expelled a long breath.

"Robert Garsen," she said, finally meeting his gaze, "lives in Baldwin Hills. He's in the insurance business." Steve wrote it down. "He had nothing to do with this. You'll see."

"You're probably right, but he might know something that will lead me to someone who does. Tom Travis is innocent which means that whoever murdered Marian is still on the loose."

"Do you believe that or is saying it just part of your job description."

"He's not a killer," Steve said softly.

"Human beings have an infinite capacity to do the unexpected," Leslie replied with quiet certainty.

Steve shrugged and put away his pad. "Somebody knows what happened and if I'm lucky they'll tell me something that will lead me to the real killer."

They had reached the head of the line and Leslie paid and pushed the cart back to her Porsche with Steve trailing along behind.

Steve held out his hand. "Thanks for your help. You've got my number, in case something comes up."

"Yes, if something comes up."

Steve turned away, then stopped. "Ms. Wahlberg," he called as she hit the remote for the tailgate, "may I ask you a personal question?"

She gave him another of her appraising stares then a little nod. "I suppose."

"Is there a Mr. Wahlberg? You're not divorced, widowed . . . " Steve held up his hands.

Leslie laughed, her cheeks flushing a soft pink. "College sweethearts," she said.

"He's a very lucky man."

"I think it would be better if I didn't tell him you said so."

"I suppose you're right."

"And Mr. Janson . . . "

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

Steve's eyes followed her car until it was eventually swallowed in a river of steel and disappeared.

# Chapter Thirty-Six

Cynthia Allard's producer, Jarred Whiting, reclined his chair and appraised her with slitted eyes, his standard signal that he was going to have to make "a hard decision," hard, of course, on someone else. In a normal person Whiting's waved white hair and pale blue-gray eyes might have signified a distinguished, grandfatherly disposition. To everyone who knew him they only proved that soulless predators could assume a multitude of forms and guises.

"Your Travis story's dead until next Wednesday, at least. Then it's good for. . . ." Whiting speculatively raised his brows, "what, a fifteen second recap from the sidewalk in front of the courthouse?"

Cynthia stifled a frown and tried to meet Whiting's gaze. "Not necessarily. The prosecution's going to want to close strong. My sources tell me they'll put on expert testimony tying the murder weapon back to the missing table lamp and then close with a lawyer who'll testify that Marian Travis had engaged him to file divorce papers shortly after the baby was born."

Whiting waved his hand dismissively. "So, a week from now you'll have a couple of thirty second spots saying exactly the same thing as every other reporter covering the story. Explain to me why that justifies your sitting on your can for a week while everyone else around here actually does some work."

"Jarred, I developed this story. I'm the one who broke—"

"I'm interested in tomorrow, not yesterday. Why shouldn't I let Jeri or Dennis phone in the daily summary and have you dig into something new?"

"Such as?"

Whiting pulled a scrap of paper from the pile on his desk. "There's a kid in Aspen, fifteen, supposed to have killed his aunt and uncle in their sleep with a spear gun when they wouldn't let him go on vacation in Cabo with some of the rich kids from his school."

Cynthia shook her head in confusion. "Didn't that happen a week ago?"

"So?"

"So it's old news. I'll spend four days running around Aspen re-interviewing the kid's homeroom teacher who'll tell me what a quiet, moody kid he was. What's the point?"

"If he had used a shotgun, maybe I'd agree with you, but the spear gun gives it a nice twist, real curb appeal. You have something better to do with your time? Sitting here on your butt waiting for your phone to ring isn't going to cut it." Cynthia glanced into Whiting's icy eyes and looked away. "That's what I thought. Okay, your flight—"

"I've got something," she said quietly, not looking up.

"You've got something? Something on the Travis case?"

"Yes."

"Well, don't keep me in suspense. Dazzle me," Whiting demanded, a predator's smile twisting his lips.

An hour later, make-up finished with Cynthia's cheeks and throat and she checked herself in the mirror. A touch here, a push there and her hair looked right. Back on the set the sound man slipped the mike under her collar, did a sound check and nodded at the director who positioned himself to the right of the camera. Cynthia took in and expelled a deep breath.

"In five, four, three . . . " The director flashed two fingers, one, then pointed at her as the camera's light went red.

"Good afternoon, this is Cynthia Allard for Court Watch." Oversized text slid up the teleprompter screen and Cynthia's words effortlessly followed the script.

"The Tom Travis murder case has just taken a bizarre turn with the addition of suspended former Los Angeles County Deputy Prosecutor, Steven Janson, to Travis's defense team. Only a few months before Marian Travis disappeared, L.A. County Deputy DA Steven Janson was assisting LA Homicide Detectives in the search for the so-called Headless Killer. In the middle of that investigation, Janson's wife, Lynn Burris Janson, the daughter of Judge Malcolm Burris, coincidentally the judge who is presiding over Tom Travis's case, was murdered by the Headless Killer. After her death the police focused their investigation on a suspect named Alan Lee Fry.

"Before he could be arrested, Fry fled to Cuba where he was immune from extradition. Only a few weeks after fleeing the country Fry was found murdered in his Havana apartment and Steven Janson, the last victim's husband, was the prime suspect in Fry's death.

"Janson, who never denied shooting Fry, successfully avoided extradition back to Cuba with the help of Tom Travis's lawyer, Gregory Markham. Nevertheless, in response to a disbarment proceeding Janson eventually agreed to a two year suspension from the practice of law on the grounds of moral turpitude for his alleged cold-blooded murder of Alan Fry.

"Now, accused murderer, Steven Janson, former son-in-law of the judge trying the Travis case, has been hired by Tom Travis's attorney, Gregory Markham, as a so-called 'Senior Associate' to review evidence and interview potential witnesses for Travis' defense.

"Markham, Janson, and the Prosecutor, Deputy D.A. Ted Hamilton, have all refused to comment on this strange turn of events, but one courthouse regular, on condition of anonymity, told me, 'There's an old saying, 'Set a thief to catch a thief. Maybe Greg Markham thinks it should be 'Set a killer to catch a killer.'"

Cynthia paused and gave the camera a meaningful stare.

"For CourtWatch, this is Cynthia Allard."

"And we're out!"

The red light winked off and Cynthia unclipped the mike and sighed. She felt sorry for Steve but facts were facts and she had saved her job for another week.

# Chapter Thirty-Seven

Steve flipped through the email report he had received from the Foster Agency:

Robert Garsen: age forty-three, divorced, no children, a senior Vice President in a commercial liability insurance company, Santana Casualty, in which his family owned the majority of the stock. Salary and bonuses of about half a million a year. Between the family trust fund and personal assets his net worth was someplace between ten and twenty million.

Santana Casualty's PR materials listed the company as one of the sponsors of the campaign to build a new women's shelter, one of the charities in which Marian Travis had been active. He had probably met her over champagne and canapés at some fund raiser. How romantic. Steve frowned. Liar or not, Marian had married Tom Travis and it rankled him that she had been out trolling for a new lover while still living in Travis's house and sleeping in his bed. If she had been sleeping in his bed.

Steve tried to relax. He had no right to be upset with Marian. She wasn't his wife. Still, a wife shouldn't. . . Sure, he hadn't been the perfect husband, who was, but Lynn never would have . . . Steve squeezed that thought into a tiny pellet and made it disappear. Lynn loved him and she had never cheated on him. She was too honest. But, Marian had been honest. No, not really. An honest wife doesn't jump into the sack with another man no matter how much she wants to have a baby. Just because Steve wanted to wait another year or two, Lynn wouldn't have stopped taking the pill or found some other guy . . . Another forbidden thought to be ground into dust and swept away.

But if that was true, why didn't you read her autopsy report? a little voice echoed inside his skull. Why didn't you read the card she left you? That extra weight she had been putting on just before she died, the jeans that didn't seem to fit anymore . . . No! But, another little voice assured him, even if she was pregnant, certainly it was yours, had to be yours. Lynn would never . . . But you were using condoms the last two or three months. You told her it was a health issue but if you were both faithful . . . You know the real reason, the voice whispered. You didn't trust her. You were afraid she'd accidentally-on-purpose forget her pill, so every time you made love you wore a condom and reminded her that you didn't trust her. So if you were wearing a condom and she got pregnant . . . If she had been pregnant when she died you could have had a DNA test done on the fetus and then . . . He recoiled from the thought as if he was about to touch toxic scum. What was in that card? the little voice demanded. Was she leaving you. Had she found another man? If you weren't such a coward . . .

Steve closed his eyes and saw Lynn's face beneath him, that horrible bored, irritated look she got at the end when she thought he wasn't watching, the 'Fine, go ahead and get it over with' expression that was like a knife in his heart, and when he caught it he'd thrust harder, Feel this! Do you feel this? Don't look at me like I'm some dirty job you have to do! and then, the next time, he'd put on the damn condom again because not using it would be letting her win.

The fight they had had that last morning, the day she had been . . . the day she had died, flooded into his head.

## * * *

"Are you going to be late again?" Lynn asked when he ignored her and reached for the corn flakes.

"I could be."

"That's helpful. . . Fine, maybe I'll be late too."

"Knock yourself out."

"Steve, look at me!"

With a clink Janson put down his spoon and gave her an angry stare.

"Steve, it's not like we haven't talked about having a baby."

"We talked about it. We didn't agree to it."

"That's it. Play the lawyer card."

"You know we can't afford a child yet. Maybe in a couple of years—"

"Please! I've got plenty—"

"Of your father's money. You know he thinks I'm some second-rater who only married you because I'm after your family's money."

"Well, you're sure doing a crappy job of getting any of it."

"I'm not some kind of loser who—"

"Nobody thinks you're a loser. Steve, I want a baby. Now."

"And I want your family to respect me but that doesn't mean either one is going to get what we want any time soon. . . I gotta go."

Steve pushed back his chair and headed for the door.

"Steve. . . Steve?"

## * * *

Those were the last words they had spoken to each other. Shit! If he could do it over again, if he could have her back, he'd . . . But he couldn't. That bastard had killed her before he'd had the chance to make things right.

Steve looked at the desk. The card was still sitting there, unopened. He tried to make himself go over there and pull it out, but he couldn't move.

He wanted a drink so badly that it hurt. There was an emergency bottle in the cabinet over the sink . . . I've got to get out of here. Steve grabbed his keys and fled the apartment without looking at the kitchen cabinet. On the way out, Lynn's French painting seemed to call to him. He hurried past it without allowing his head to turn in its direction.

For a couple of minutes he just sat in his car. No bars, no night clubs. He didn't know how long he'd stay sober if ended up somewhere like that. Physical exertion, that's what he needed, sweat the frustration out of his system. The chances of finding a racquetball partner on short notice were nil. He had never been a golfer so no driving range. The batting cages? It took him twenty minutes to get to the Fun Center. Two of the cages were down for repairs and three nervous, frustrated men were already signed up for the third one. Back in his days on the force, the cops had had a bowling league over at the Twilight Lanes. If they hadn't bulldozed the place and turned it into a Mega-Starbucks it was . . . yeah, about a mile over that way. Steve absentmindedly waved his hand in that direction.

The Twilight Lanes still squatted in the center of a cracked asphalt lot. On the roof a storm of animated pink and green neon flashed cascading pins like a beacon in the night. Once through the double doors Steve was assaulted by the hollow racket of clattering pins and balls skidding over polished oak. An acre of fluorescents banished shadows and perspective like an Arctic white-out. Just like old times.

"I need an alley and a pair of shoes."

"Sorry, full up. It's league night. It'll be—"

"Janson, is that you?"

He'd gained twenty pounds around his gut and his mustache was showing white at its drooping tips but Steve still recognized Mike Leahy from his days at the Ramparts Division.

"Hey, Mike. You're looking good."

"Something happen to your eyes?" Leahy patted his gut. "What're you doin' here?"

What am I doing here?

"I just needed, you know, to get out of the apartment. I didn't figure on league night."

"You want to bowl? I can fix you up. The Blue Angels are short a guy." Mike gestured to a bunch of off-duty cops clustered at the end of alley 19.

"I'm not exactly on the job anymore," Steve said uneasily.

"Don't worry about it. Jack, give him a pair of shoes."

Four guys in blue and yellow bowling shirts looked at Steve with typical cop expressions of faint suspicion and barely concealed distrust.

"Guys, this is Steve Janson. He was on the job for, Jeez Steve, what was it, eight years?"

"Nine."

"Nine years, then he went over to the D.A.'s office."

"You're a lawyer?" a thickset Latin guy asked in the same voice he might have used to inquire if Steve were a homosexual, a pedophile or a communist.

"I used to be. They kicked me out."

"Janson? You the guy who blew away the Headless Killer?" the tall white guy cut in.

Steve shrugged.

"You know how to bowl?" the black cop asked, sporting a relieved smile.

"Used to have a one sixty five average, but it's been a while."

"So," Mike said, "you guys want Steve to fill in or what?"

"Okay by me," the Latin guy said. Everybody else nodded their approval.

"All right, you're up against. . . ." Mike consulted his list, "The Forty-Fives," Mike pointed to five guys chatting up the waitress and re-tying their shoelaces the next alley over. He made a check mark on the page then looked up. "Steve, come find me before you leave, okay?"

"Sure, Mike, catch you on the other side."

"I'm the Captain, Carlos Arriaga," the Latin guy said, holding out his hand. The black guy was Walter Purcell, and the two white guys were Tall Jerry and Regular Jerry. All were street cops from Central Division.

"I guess I'd better get a ball." Steve wandered past the racks looking for one that fit his hand.

"Anybody know this guy?" Carlos asked once Steve was out of range.

"I heard he came home and found his old lady's head sitting on the dining room table and by the time the Dicks had ID'd the doer, he'd skipped the country."

"Put the guy down on his knees and blew his fucking head off with a .45 the way I heard it," Tall Jerry added.

"Put the whole fuckin' clip into him."

"Seriously pissed."

"The guy killed his wife," Regular Jerry countered.

"Would you do a guy who killed your wife?"

"Kill him? I'd give him a fucking medal."

"Maybe Janson loved his wife."

"What's love got to do with it?" Regular Jerry asked and they all laughed.

"I miss something?" Steve asked, cradling a nicked, black sixteen-pounder.

"Just talking about the size of Walter's dick," Tall Jerry said, smiling.

"He's just jealous," Walter told Steve.

"So, are we gonna bullshit all night or bowl?" Carlos snapped his fingers. "Walt, you're up, and try not to trip on your prize possession, okay?"

The first game he was a little rocky. Steve kept missing the pocket and leaving himself splits. He finished with a one thirty two. By the second game he had gotten into the routine and the constant pitchers of draft helped loosen his coiled nerves. He hit one fifty seven eclipsing both Walter and Tall Jerry. He had forgotten what it was like to spend a normal evening with a bunch of guys who weren't wondering if he was going to snap and start shooting people. By the third game he felt the beer starting to get to him and switched to coke to the jeers of his teammates until he rolled a one-ninety-two and they took the match two games out of the three.

"Hey, Clara!" Regular Jerry waved at the waitress. "Time to celebrate!"

Steve glanced at his watch, a little after eleven.

"Two G and T's, a scotch — Steve, what're you having?"

Janson stared vacantly at Regular Jerry then down at his coke.

"I'm good."

"Pussy!"

"I've got a big day tomorrow. Anybody know where Mike is?"

Tall Jerry glanced at the clock. "By now he's in the lounge sweet talking Ella."

"Thanks, guys."

"So, Janson," Carlos said, grabbing Steve's shoulder, "you want to bowl next week?"

"Sure, but what about your regular guy?"

"Harry fucked up his ankle on a foot pursuit. He's on desk duty for a month."

Steve glanced at the plastic chairs, the screaming lights, the incessant clatter of the pins and the crash of the balls, the stink of beer and sweat and politically-incorrect cigarette smoke and felt as if some part of him that had been warped out of alignment was suddenly straight and true again.

"Sure, sounds good. Next week, same time?"

Carlos gave him a level stare and a closed-fist to closed-fist bump. Five minutes later Steve found Mike in the back corner of the lounge, a tall glass of something beige on the table in front of him. The almost invisible glow of UV light sizzled the air. The patterns on Mike's shirt fluoresced in sympathetic response. Mike sipped his glass dry through a red straw then rattled the ice like a dinner bell.

A latte-skinned bartender, about five ten with ample breasts and high coiled black hair slipped another cocktail into Mike's hand with a soft "Here you go, Sugar." Steve caught her eye and shook his head. With a quick wink she headed back to the bar.

"Is that Ella?"

"You know what they say, 'Ella is swella'." Mike laughed at his own joke. "Everything okay?"

"I had a good time. Thanks for getting the guys to let me in."

"No thanks necessary. They were a man short. Besides," Mike took a long swallow, "you've paid your dues."

"A lot of people think I belong in a cell."

"Bosses maybe. Not the guys who work for a living. You stayin' busy? You need anything?"

"I'm good. I'm doing work for insurance companies, PI lawyers, stuff I don't need a license for."

"That's good." Mike nodded and lazily glanced around the room. For a moment his eyes locked on Ella and she gave him a secret smile.

"What about you?"

"You mean Ella?"

Steve shrugged.

"Patsy and I broke up a couple of years ago. Can't blame her. Hell, if I was a stay-home-do-your-taxes-water-the-lawn kind of guy, I wouldn't be carryin' tin. So. . . ?"

Steve's finger drew a thin moist line across the table. "So . . . I'm working on the Tom Travis case for Greg Markham." Mike lifted his eyebrows in noncommittal inquiry. "It started out that Markham needed help and he called in his marker. A deal's a deal."

"I always said you were a stand-up guy." Another swallow. "But?"

"Damned if I don't think the prick is innocent."

"You got anything that'll stick?"

"You think the jury would take my word for it?"

"So, zip?"

"Yeah, zip. The thing is, the D.A. is right. I don't buy this as a botched burglary or some serial killer picking her as a random victim. This was personal but everybody's singing the same song — 'Marian Travis was a decent person who had no enemies and Tom Travis was a lightweight prick who wanted everybody to like him even when they didn't.' Travis and his wife are not people who were on the run from the mob or who ripped off some Columbian drug lord. It's like finding a barefoot corpse and two left shoes next to the body. Nothing fits."

"Sounds like a real who-dun-it. I'm just a dumb beat cop. I run across a dead body and I stand guard until the dicks arrive, then I'm gone. Whose case was it?"

"You don't read the papers?"

"Too much bullshit. I get enough aggravation on the job."

"Simon Katz and a young guy, Jack Furley."

"Katz? Your old training officer? He giving you any rhythm?"

"Are you kidding? Katz is leading the parade that wants to see me locked up. Furley's been decent enough, but nothing that does me any good."

Mike drained his glass and contemplated the half melted cubes. "Well, he ought to be."

"What?"

"Furley ought to give you a break. He and Travis were tight there for a while."

"Tight? How?"

Mike gave him a surprised look. "You didn't know? Furley busted Travis for slapping around that actress, Clare something."

"I know about that. So what?"

"Word was he convinced her to keep it cool and Travis appreciated his 'discretion.' Once the case was over they hit some clubs, you know, lots of girls, lots of action. Travis picked up the tab. Old Jack was ridin' high on the hog for a while there."

"But?"

"But, it was affecting his work. And then he made the Tattler. 'Movie Star And LAPD Cop On The Town' with a picture of a couple of centerfolds hanging all over them. That took about thirty seconds to get glued to Furley's locker. It took the Sergeant, one of the Born-Again types, about ten more seconds to find out. Man, he hit the fucking roof."

"What did Furley do?"

"What could he do? He told the Sarge that he was working as a bodyguard, good relations between the Department and the movie industry, blah, blah, blah. He got off with a warning but after that the Sarge was on him like white on rice. Furley had to cool it and I guess Travis found somebody else to party with. . . ." Mike stared off into space and Steve wondered if he had lost his train of thought or was just deciding whether or not to order another drink. "That's all I actually know," Mike finally said, then waved his empty glass at Etta. Steve put a ten down on the table.

"This one's on me."

"You pumpin' me for information, Steve?" Mike asked suspiciously eyeing the bill.

"Absolutely not."

"'Cause I'd hate to think your showing up here was some kind of scam to help Markham."

"I didn't even know you'd be here."

"Still, maybe you saw an opportunity—"

"On Lynn's soul, I didn't."

Mike hesitated, then raised his fresh drink in mock salute and seemed to relax. "Yeah, okay, sorry. A guy starts drinking too much, he starts thinkin' he's maybe makin' a fool of himself. Half the trouble in the world's caused by somebody doin' something violent or stupid or both just so people don't think they can make a fool out of him. Fear does awful things to a man. It makes him do things he shouldn't do and afraid to learn what he needs to know, or so dear old Father Feeney used to tell us."

"I wouldn't play you, Mike."

"Nah, I know you wouldn't." Mike pushed the bill across the table. Steve pushed it back.

"Now, I can't buy and old pal a drink? You trying to insult me?"

"Can't have that," Mike said, smiling and palming the ten. "Etta's tip."

"I'll see you next week."

"You joining the Blue Angels permanent like?"

"Until their regular guy gets back." Steve pushed back from the table.

"There was this rumor," Mike muttered, as if speaking to himself. "The story was that somebody was giving Tom Travis a hard time about something." Steve gave Leahy a sharp look. "I don't know who. I don't know when. I don't know why. Story was that before things could get too far, they caught the guy with four ounces of speed. Possession for sale. He would have gone to Quentin except it was his first drug offense and he got a deal for a year in the county jail. Travis's problem was solved."

"And. . . ?"

"There was another rumor," Mike continued as if musing on an old riddle, "that half the reason Jack Furley eventually made detective was that he busted some guy with four ounces of speed. Coincidence? Who knows?" Mike took a sip and smiled. "See you next week. And Steve, we never had this little talk."

"What talk?" Steve said and turned away. The only sound was the muffled clatter of pins. Steve started to leave, then hesitated. How could this puffy old boozer be Iron Mike Leahy the toughest guy in the squad? "Mike, you know if you need help with something. . . ." He let the offer hang.

Leahy gave him a bittersweet smile and shook his head. "Don't worry about Old Mike. I've still got a few miles left in me." Then Leahy paused. "You know the old saying, Steve," Mike said, his gaze suddenly intense, "about people who live in glass houses. Well, who am I to talk, but you've got the look of a thirsty man."

"I'm fine, Mike."

"Yeah, sure, I know you are, but . . . all I'm sayin' is that I don't know where it was that my life sort of jumped the track, just that it's way too late now for me to ever go back. You're still a young guy, Steve, a stand-up guy. I feel bad that I disrespected you. But Steve," Mike grabbed Steve's arm with an iron grip, "anger and fear will do terrible things to a man, burn him up from the inside out until all the booze in the world won't put out the fire. Whatever it is, let it go before it's too late. Before you end up like me." Mike gave him a crooked smile and opened his hand.

Fear? Steve thought. I'm not afraid of anything, anything except . . . and he pushed the thought away before he had the chance to admit it existed.

"You're a good friend, Mike," Steve said and patted Leahy on his shoulder as he headed for the door.

"Etta, Sweetie," he heard Mike call behind him, "What time do you get off, Darlin'?" and the black light tubes popped and sizzled and Mike's shirt flickered an ethereal blue.

# Chapter Thirty-Eight

Steve was surprised at how popular Cynthia's "Killer Helping On Travis Trial" piece was. All day long people seemed to be looking at him sideways as if at any moment he might pull out a .45 and start shooting. A secondary effect of the story was that he feared the publicity might force Greg Markham to fire him. When he thought about it he almost laughed. Two weeks ago he wanted nothing to do with Tom Travis and had felt coerced into taking the job, now his biggest worry was that he would be cut loose.

Janson's cell rang as he was heading south on Wilshire. Markham with the coup de gras?

"Hello."

"Mr. Janson, it's Rebecca Minton."

"Hi. Have you learned something new?"

"No. Well, not exactly."

Steve glanced at the large silver numbers above a set of oversize doors and figured he had about two blocks to go.

"I don't understand."

"Do you have any plans for dinner?"

You're the psychic, he almost said, but didn't. "Not right now."

"Could we meet somewhere?"

It appeared that suddenly his company was in high demand. First Cynthia Allard, now Rebecca Minton.

"Sure. What's up?"

"I'd rather explain in person. Is seven o'clock good for you? Do you know Franconia's in Van Nuys?"

"I can find it." Steve saw his destination across the street at the end of the block and dodged into the left lane. "Sorry, what was that?"

"I'll see you there," Rebecca's voice rattled through a sudden burst of static and the line went dead.

Santana Casualty occupied the twentieth and twenty-first floors of a bronze glazed high-rise in Century City, a convenient location for the lawyers who lived off the company either as marauders or defenders. It was Friday afternoon and Steve had no time left for subtlety. He tucked in his shirt, adjusted his coat and without an appointment marched up to the reception desk and asked to see Robert Garsen on urgent personal business. The receptionist gave him a suspicious stare and asked him to take a seat. Steve figured it was even money that her next call would be to security and he kept a watchful eye on the doors for the arrival of large men in blue polyester blazers.

The coffee table held a neat assortment of magazines, The Casualty Reporter, Insurance Age, Barrons. Steve rubbed his hands and nervously adjusted his cuffs then caught a glimpse of his shoes and was embarrassed at the scuffs and wear. When he was a D.A. and they were half living off of Lynn's trust fund, he had had them polished three times a week.

"Mr. Janson?"

Startled, Steve looked up to see a short slender man in a gray suit standing in front of him. "I'm Robert Garsen. What's this about?"

About five feet seven, clean shaven, ordinary to the point that you wouldn't look at him twice, this was the guy Marian had planned to leave Tom Travis for? She was already well off so it wasn't for his money. Whatever Garsen's charms were, they weren't readily apparent to Janson.

"I'm Steve Janson. I'm working for Greg Markham, Tom Travis's defense attorney."

Garsen gave him a long stare, obviously weighing his options, then turned and motioned for Steve to follow him. Garsen had a corner office and had placed his desk parallel to the door so that when he looked to his right he could see all the way to the ocean. The sun had begun to slide down the sky and the tinted glass imbued the vista with a warm glow.

"Have a seat."

"Great office," Steve said, trying to break the ice with a little polite conversation.

"Life's too short not to enjoy it if you can." Garsen glanced at the distant procession of waves marching toward the shore, then turned back to Steve. "Where do you want to start?"

"Obviously, I'm here about Marian Travis." Garsen fidgeted uneasily. At least he's embarrassed about cheating on Tom, Steve thought. "My information is that you and Mrs. Travis were romantically involved at the time of her death." Steve deliberately called her "Mrs. Travis," accentuating the fact that she had been a married woman. Garsen had the decency to blush and look away.

"Yes, that's true." Garsen admitted, staring into the distance as if fascinated by the play of light and shadow.

"I'm informed that Mrs. Travis planned to divorce her husband after the baby was born and that you and she were going to be married."

"Also true," Garsen agreed, still not meeting Steve's gaze.

"The child she was carrying was yours."

"We didn't do a DNA test but Marian told me that she and her husband hadn't. . . ," Garsen paused a moment and tried again, "had not been having relations at the time the baby was conceived." Garsen finally turned away from the window and looked at Steve. "She said that he had a girlfriend, that Berdue woman I suppose."

"That plus the fact that she told you that Tom Travis was sterile?"

"Yes," Garsen said looking away.

"So, you felt that because Tom was—"

"No, I didn't," Garsen said quietly.

"Didn't . . . ?"

"I didn't think that what we were doing was right just because her husband was sleeping with someone else. The fact is, it wasn't right, and no matter how much I tried to lie to myself about it," Garsen shook his head, "didn't change anything."

"Did Marian feel the same way?"

Garsen laughed, a sound simultaneously both happy and sad. "You didn't know Marian, did you?"

Steve shook his head.

"She was . . . one of a kind. Very logical in a kind of . . . pedantic sort of way, the kind of logic that doesn't necessarily have a lot to do with common sense." Garsen sighed and in response to Steve's obvious confusion, tried again. "Dealing with her was sometimes like arguing with a communist." Steve's frown grew more intense. "The thing is, communism would make sense if its basic premises were correct. If human nature worked the way the communists wanted it to work, their system would have worked too, but, of course it doesn't and that's the problem. If the basic premises you're working from don't match reality, all your brilliance and all your logic is just a waste of time. That's how Marian was about some things. She'd have this very rational, very logical set of ideas but sometimes the place she started from wasn't . . . well, I didn't think it had a lot of common sense behind it."

Steve stared at Garsen and hadn't a clue what the guy was talking about. With a sigh, Garsen tried again.

"Marian decided that Tom's . . . lack of candor freed her from her marriage vows and that her only obligation to him was to be forthright about what she planned to do."

"And you didn't agree?"

"You marry somebody, you do what you promised to do until you're not married to them anymore. I guess that's kind of an old-fashioned way of looking at things, but that's how I see it."

"But in spite of that, you—"

"I helped Marian cheat on her husband. I was wrong to do it. Absolutely wrong. No excuses. I fell in love. I wanted her. She wanted me. There's nothing I can say to justify what I did. I'm not proud of my conduct." Garsen threw up his hands in surrender.

"Did you ever meet him, Tom Travis?"

Garsen shot him an appalled look. "No, I never wanted to meet him or have him meet me. I was sleeping with the man's wife for God's sake!" Garsen swiveled his chair back toward the view of the distant sea.

"When was the last time you saw Marian?"

Garsen's face clouded with a strange expression, half embarrassment, half longing.

"Two days before she disappeared, the 29th. We had planned to spend New Year's day on my boat with Sarah and then Marian . . . as I said, she had a different way of looking at things, and she decided that after we got back the two of us should go out clubbing after dropping Sarah off with the sitter."

"And you didn't want to?"

Garsen looked at Steve as if he had made a rude noise. "The eight month pregnant wife of a famous movie star is going to publically celebrate New Year's Eve with the man she's cheating on her husband with? And when someone asks where Tom is or who I am or how we know each other, what are we supposed to say?" Garsen shook his head in disbelief.

"But she didn't see the problem?"

Garsen's lips bent in a bemused smile. "'Just tell them that we're friends and let them think whatever they like' she told me." Garsen shook his head. "I couldn't do that."

"You had an argument?"

"A beauty. Nothing I said seemed to get through. I wasn't kidding when I said it was like arguing politics with a committed communist — Marian was starting from a very dogmatic place. Penetrating her logic was like firing a BB gun at a battleship." Garsen raised his hands in helpless frustration.

Steve tried to picture Garsen strangling Marian with a lamp cord and burying her body in a shallow grave. He couldn't do it and after nine years as a beat cop and six years as a prosecutor he didn't think he could be that wrong about somebody. He had been hoping for knuckle-dragging narcissist and instead had found a guilt-ridden Boy Scout who worried about not doing the right thing.

"Did she have any enemies? Was anyone following her, bothering her?"

"Not that she told me."

"Did she seem worried, upset?"

"Just the opposite. She was looking forward to having the baby and leaving Tom. So was I. I wanted us to have a clean break. I wanted to stop feeling like a cheat." Garsen gave Steve a sudden stare. "Let me ask you a question."

Steve almost laughed. "You want to know if I think Tom did it?"

"I was wondering if you've found any leads."

"You don't think Tom did it?"

"Do you?"

Steve shook his head. "No. I was hoping you might be able to help me find Marian's killer."

"I wish I could. So, you've got nothing?"

"I'm exploring every lead," Steve said, the investigator's equivalent of 'no comment.' "Here's my card. If you think of anything, anything at all, please call me."

Garsen glanced at it, then dropped it on his desk. Steve extended his hand.

"You never mentioned why you think Tom's innocent," Steve said.

"Marian told me a lot about him and you don't get very far in the insurance business without being able to read people."

"And?"

Garsen shook his head sadly. "I just don't think he had the balls for it."

Outside, the sun had slid down the bowl of the sky and now floated over the ocean like a fat golden ball.

# Chapter Thirty-Nine

Franconia's was one of those Italian restaurants that Steve found vaguely confusing. The waiters pretended to be Italian but their birthplaces were closer to Mexico City than Milan. The maitre d', probably one of the owners, was continentally distinguished with curly steel-colored hair but Janson suspected that it was more likely that he had grown up in Marseille or Buenos Aires than anyplace in Italy. The provenance of the Chef was anybody's guess from Iran to Vietnam. At least the menu looked Italian, though he could have used a flashlight to make out some of the entries. But Rebecca seemed as happy as a Girl Scout on an outing to the Barbie Doll factory, so Steve restricted his remarks to good natured questions on the merits of the piccata versus the osso bucco. At least, he decided, she didn't have any ethical issues about eating veal.

Tonight she wore a semi-shiny burgundy dress with a modest scooped neckline accented with a heavy gold necklace with rubies scattered among the links, fake ones Steve assumed. The outfit was a good match to her fair skin and golden hair. The table featured a votive candle in a tulip glass and the flame flickered hypnotically in Rebecca's sea-blue eyes.

The waiter delivered a bottle and poured balloon glasses of purple-black Chianti followed by a platter of calamari looking like a gourmet version of miniature onion rings with an occasional clump of deep fried tentacles thrown in for good measure. Rebecca instantly stabbed one with her salad fork and twirled it in a ramekin of aioli sauce.

"Mmmmmm. I love their calamari here. The chef told me their secret is that they add baking powder to a rice flour batter to make it especially light and crispy."

Steve remembered his meeting with Gerard Fontaine at the cooking school and wondered if Marian's old man had learned that trick yet.

"You like to cook?" Steve asked as he speared his own piece.

"My mother was a terrible cook," Rebecca replied. Steve stared at her blankly, trying to figure out if she had said something more and he had just missed it. She caught his puzzlement and waved her fingers indicating that she would explain once she had finished chewing. "My friends," she continued a moment later after a sip of wine, "thought I was so lucky because all my mother fed us was hamburgers and pizza and take-out chicken."

"But not you?"

"She was a doctor," Rebecca said, her conversation ricocheting off on another unexpected trajectory. Steve figured that eventually it would all make sense and set the latest fact aside like a jigsaw puzzle piece you bank until its position eventually becomes clear.

"What kind of doctor?" he asked politely.

"Allergist. No runny noses in my house." Another sip of wine. "Anyway, mom had her practice and her gardening and making sure we did our homework. Cooking was always at the bottom of her list."

"But if she was a doctor . . . "

"How could she feed us junk food? 'That's why God invented multi-vitamins,' she used to say." Rebecca laughed and Steve dueled with her for the last non-tentacle piece on the platter.

"And you don't like junk food?"

For a moment Rebecca paused, confused as if she had been giving a well rehearsed speech and had unexpectedly lost her place. "Oh, mom's cooking," she said an instant later. "I got so tired of it, the take out. One day I woke up and just craved some fresh green beans with butter or a piece of rare prime rib or boeuf bourguignone on a bed of egg noodles, something, anything except Domino's, Colonel Sanders, Burger King and Swanson's frozen dinners!"

"Swanson's frozen dinners? Didn't they outlaw them in 1979? What did she do, smuggle them in from Tia Juana?"

Rebecca laughed again and poured them both more wine. "Once I figured out that if I wanted different food I would have to cook it myself. . . ." she shrugged.

"You taught yourself?"

"It's not that hard. I started with a meatloaf from the Betty Crocker Cookbook. I still have it."

"The meatloaf or the cookbook?"

"Silly," she said, taking a playful swipe at his hand. "Both. I pressed the meatloaf between two pieces of Saran Wrap and stapled it inside the back cover." More giggles and another swallow of wine. Steve glanced at the bottle's sinking level and wondered if by the time they reached dessert she was going be capable of walking to the door.

"The scallopini?" the waiter asked, appearing out of the darkness.

"For the lady."

"Yes, sir." A petrale sole with a half order of risotto and peas was placed in front of Steve. Rebecca quickly raised her knife and fork as if she hadn't eaten all day.

"I'm having a wonderful time . . . "

"Me too," Rebecca agreed. "Mmmmm, that's good." Her eyes closed in mock delight.

". . . but I was wondering why—"

"Why I asked you to have dinner with me?"

"Something like that."

She cut up another paper-thin piece of veal, if it's really veal and not pork loin, Steve thought, the oldest trick in the dishonest restaurant operator's handbook, but he kept his paranoia to himself.

"Maybe I just wanted to see you."

"I—"

"I know you like me," she broke in before he could reply.

"What?" Definitely an unpredictable girl.

"I can always tell."

"Because you're a psychic?"

"No, silly, because I'm a pretty girl . . . Well, I am." She paused and gave him an appraising glace. "You don't know a lot about women, do you?"

"Does any man?"

"Ha! That's what men who haven't a clue say to excuse their ignorance. We're not aliens, you know, in spite of what that guy said in that book."

"Book?" Steve was getting more lost by the minute.

"The Mars-Venus thing. I thought it was overrated, well, at least self-evident, stuff people should have been able to figure out on their own. It doesn't take a genius after all." She stabbed another morsel of veal and twirled several strands of pasta around her fork. Steve gave up trying to follow the thread of her conversation and poked at his fish. "Where was I?" she asked once she had stopped chewing. "Oh, right, women."

"My thought exactly."

"No, just think about it. If you're a pretty girl, or even not such a pretty girl, as soon as you hit twelve or thirteen, they're after you, boys. At first it's okay because they're so clueless, but by fifteen or sixteen, even boys will have figured out most of the basics, so we girls have to be able to tell which ones like us and which ones just want, you know, well, they all want that, but some of them actually care about you and the rest just want to try out their equipment. It's basic Darwinian self defense. You either learn how to separate the sheep from the goats, or is it wolves?" she shook her head in brief confusion. "Anyway, you've got to learn or you'll end up pregnant with some guy who'll make your life a total mess."

Steve had absolutely no idea what to say and stared at her blankly, a thin noncommittal smile frozen on his lips.

"That's how I know you like me," she concluded and speared a stalk of broccoli rabe.

"Oh." Steve took a few seconds to meticulously cut up the remainder of his fish. "So, this is a . . . social occasion?"

"Let's wait until dessert," she said with a quick, nervous smile.

Between the conversational non sequiturs and a second bottle of wine, Steve lost track of the rest of the meal. At least they avoided the usually mediocre tiramisu and instead split an order of Bananas Foster.

Lingering over cups of double-roasted black coffee sweetened with spoonfuls of rum and melted vanilla ice cream, Rebecca's mood suddenly changed.

"There was another reason," she began, refusing to meet his eyes.

"Another reason for our dinner?"

Rebecca nodded and bent over her cup. Steve took a sip of coffee and waited. She would tell him when she was ready.

"I've had a . . . feeling, about Sarah."

"A vision?"

"No, a feeling."

"Okay."

"Something's happening, where she is."

"She's still alive? She's all right?"

"She's not all right but she's in no immediate danger. It's very hard for her. She cries a lot." Rebecca looked across the table and the candle flame gave her glistening eyes a deep blue glow. "They're going to move her, soon."

"Move her?"

"The people they sold her to. Something's happened. Things haven't worked out the way they thought, maybe because Sarah is so unhappy. It feels like they thought that having a child would solve all the problems in their marriage and it's just made them worse. The husband wants to get their money back."

"She's a child, not a used car!"

Rebecca shrugged. "There was a reason why they couldn't get a normal adoption."

"So, what's going to happen to Sarah?"

"I don't know."

"Is the wife going to keep her?"

Rebecca suddenly seemed on the verge of tears. "I told you. I don't know! It's just a feeling. It's like watching a movie and suddenly you know how it's going to end. You don't know how you know, you just do." Her gaze bored into him seeking some sign that he understood.

"So, one way or another, Sarah's going someplace, either with the wife or back to the people in Mexico to be . . . re-sold to new buyers." Rebecca gave him a teary nod. "How soon?"

"I don't know."

"Can you make a guess?"

The candlelight reflected hypnotically from her eyes. "Maybe a week. Maybe two. Not longer than three, I think."

"And you're telling me because . . . ?"

"You said you wanted to know if I learned anything new."

"You're telling me," Steve said with sudden insight, "so that I understand how important it is that I find Marian's killer soon, in time to make him tell us the name of the guy in Mexico before Sarah disappears forever."

"Maybe you understand me a little after all."

"I wouldn't go that far," Steve said sincerely.

"We really are a mystery to you, aren't we?"

"We?"

"Women. You're too direct," she said after a little pause.

"Excuse me?"

"You're a black and white, see the hill, take the hill kind of guy. You'd need to be more manipulative to be really good at dealing with us. That's all right. I'm glad you're not."

"I'm lost," Steve admitted.

Rebecca gave him a sweet smile. "I know. It must have been hard for you, with your wife."

"What?" Had he told her that he had been married?

"It's one of the reasons I trust you so much."

Steve shook his head in confusion. Would he ever be able to follow this woman's conversational twists and turns. "I don't—"

"It's okay." Rebecca affectionately patted his hand. "She loved you very much."

"What?"

"Your wife."

Was this some kind of a scam? "Did you—"

"It wasn't a vision," Rebecca continued, "Not like I had with Sarah." Steve just sat there frozen, confused. "It's more a feeling, like I tried to explain, when you know something even though you don't know how you know."

"You had a feeling about Lynn?"

"It's nothing bad. It just seemed like you really needed to know."

"Know that . . . ?"

"I just told you, that she loved you very much. You'd know that without my telling you, if you weren't so . . . upset," Rebecca said after a little pause, as if 'upset' wasn't really the word she wanted to use.

"I don't think—"

"Please don't tell me I've ruined things again," Rebecca said, suddenly afraid.

"Ruined things?"

"I do that, tell people things I think they need to hear and it frightens them away. I don't want to frighten you away." She squeezed his hand.

Steve's head seemed unbalanced and overfilled with confusing thoughts. Then he looked at Rebecca's porcelain features and thought about what she had said — She loved you very much — and all his questions slipped away.

"You can't frighten me off that easily," he said and suddenly everything was fine. He looked around the half empty restaurant. "Do you need a ride home? I could give you cab fare to come back tomorrow and get your car."

"No, I'm all right. I have a high metabolic rate. Alcohol never stays with me very long."

"You're sure you don't need a ride home?"

"No, besides, it's too soon . . . " Rebecca paused and gave Steve a long stare. "But you know that already. Why don't you walk me to my car and kiss me goodnight."

That sounded like a good idea to Steve and he signaled for the check.

#  Chapter Forty

"What if I threatened to break his face?" Steve suggested. Greg Markham bent over his putter, concentrated on a spot six inches in front of the ball, held his breath for two seconds, released it, then swung the club forward in a smooth arc. The ball headed straight for the hole, then, at the last instant, rolled off to the right.

"Son of a bitch!" Markham muttered and advanced to the next practice ball.

"Greg?"

"What? Oh, yeah, break his face. If the guards weren't watching and you had a few minutes to really get to work on him, maybe that would do some good. But I don't think one punch would do it."

"This makes no sense! It's his life were talking about."

"Life — Ego," Greg raised and lowered his palms as if adjusting a scale. "Remember, he's a star."

"But—"

"He doesn't think that whatever he isn't telling us is important to the case because it isn't important to him." Markham lined up his shot and the ball made a dull thunk as it tumbled into the cup. "Yes!" Greg looked over at Steve who was nervously shifting from one foot to the other. "You have to understand that in Travis' world everyone is always asking you for something, ten, twenty times a day. 'Will you do a benefit? Will you endorse my product? Will you appear in my movie? Will you meet my friend? Will you invest in my company? Will you loan me money?' You're always turning people down. It's routine. To the guy whose kid will die without the surgery, refusing to give him that loan is a huge deal, but for you it's just another guy asking you for something that you're not going to give him. So what?"

Greg moved to the next ball on the practice green.

"Okay, I get it, but. . . "

Greg frowned at the interruption and straightened. "On the other side of the equation, whoever Tom might have sicced the cops on must have had something on him, otherwise he would have just ignored the guy, or woman. In fact, a woman makes more sense. Suppose she threatened to go public with Tom's performance problems or a claim that he punched her or maybe she had a picture of him fondling her underage sister? That's a major problem for a star. If—"

"That's just the kind of person we need to know about. How can he not understand that?"

Markham gave Steve a weary shrug. "As far as he's concerned if the person isn't important to him, then they aren't important at all. He just doesn't believe that some nobody would murder his wife over what he sees as no big deal. 'Tom, buddy, I need ten thousand to get my house out of foreclosure.' 'Sorry, can't help you.' — Nothing important. 'Tom, can you front me a few grand for my wife's eye surgery so she doesn't go blind?' 'Sorry.' — Nothing important. 'Tom, if I don't get this part, I'll lose my union medical insurance. Please, can you get the director to hire me?' 'Sorry.' — Nothing important. Are you starting to understand his point of view?"

"Then we have to convince him that he's wrong and it's not nothing. What's he got to lose by telling us?"

Markham laughed out loud. "What's he got to lose? Are you kidding me? He's a Star. You know how you spell Star? E-G-O. He doesn't want anyone, including us, especially us, to know anything embarrassing about him. He wants us, especially you, to respect him."

"Why me?"

"Because you were a cop, a real cop. You walked a beat. You faced real bad guys. Macho. GRRRR." Markham grinned. "And you blew away Lynn's murderer. That makes you a certified Tough Guy. He wants you to like him, to think he's a tough guy too. He wants you to be his buddy, like in the movies — Lethal Weapon — Glover and Gibson."

"Crap."

"Now you're getting it. So how's that going to happen if you find out he couldn't t get it up and that it frustrated him so much he ended up hitting some girl? If you find that out then you won't respect him anymore and every time he sees you, he'll know that you know that he's a pussy and that will piss him off. If the case were over and he never had to see either of us again, well, maybe . . . , but he needs us now so he can't stand us thinking he's a pansy-loser. — Now be quiet while I make this putt." Greg bent over the ball.

"So Tom tells himself that whoever he sicced Furley on, whatever problems they were causing him, had nothing to do with Marian's murder and he clams up and hopes for the best?"

Greg glared at Steve for two seconds then looked back at the ball and swung the putter. As it neared the cup the ball slowed, caught the lip and angled away.

"That was your fault!" Greg complained. "You broke my concentration."

"What are we going to do?" Steve demanded, ignoring Markham's pout.

"I'm going to see Tom this afternoon and beg him on my hands and knees to tell me the name of everyone he's ever known who's been arrested for drug possession and I'm going to promise him not to tell you anything about it."

"What's he supposed to think you're going to do with the information?"

"I'll tell him that I'm going to give it the Foster agency under the name of another client so it will never be linked to him."

"You're going to lie to him?"

Greg waved for quiet. The next putt stopped an inch before the center of the cup. Markham frowned. "Of course I'm going to lie to him," he continued in a sour tone. "He's been lying to us. It's only fair that we lie right back." Steve shifted uneasily. "You've got a problem with that?"

"No, it's something else."

Markham lined up for his next putt. "Let's have it."

"I've been talking to a psychic about the case."

Markham's club flew forward in a spastic jerk and the ball bounded ten feet past the hole.

"Have you lost your mind!"

Like a kid trying to explain why his hand was stuck in the cookie jar Steve recounted his meetings with Rebecca.

"Jorge? Silver tape. A blue blanket? That's it?" Steve shrugged. "Terrific," Greg muttered and advanced to the last ball. "If she ever tells you anything actually useful, let me know."

"I'll fax you a detailed report with everything she told me."

"I can't wait."

"When do you think you'll be able to get me the name of the guy Travis had arrested?"

"You're awfully trusting for a former prosecutor."

"What?"

"I figure that at best I've got maybe one chance in three of getting the truth out of Travis." Greg lined up for the putt. "You need to call that cop, Furley, and see if he'll give it up." This time the ball hit the cup dead center and dropped in with a pleasant THUNK. "Yes!"

Steve wandered away from the practice green trying to figure out how he was going to find Jack Furley on a Saturday afternoon.

# Chapter Forty-One

Steve poked his head into the Detectives' Squad Room and, like an escaping convict caught in a searchlight, was immediately speared by Simon Katz's gaze. Katz rose slowly from his desk by the window. Steve gave him an embarrassed smile and advanced to meet him in the center of the room.

"I've got to have a talk with the desk sergeant about letting civilians in here without an escort," Katz said, ignoring Steve's outstretched hand. "What do you want?"

Steve glanced around the almost deserted room. "Is Furley around?"

"You need to stop going behind my back to my weak-minded partners. You want anything in this office, you come to me."

"Can we at least sit down?" Steve gestured toward Katz's battered steel desk. Without grace Simon waved him to the equally battered visitor's chair. Janson felt his temper beginning to rise.

"What do you want?" Simon demanded.

"I'm still trying to get Tom Travis a fair trial."

"Aren't we all?"

"Not necessarily," Steve shot back. He could feel his cheeks beginning to burn. Katz always could push his buttons.

"Oh, now Tom Travis is Dreyfus and you're Emile Zola." Always the intellectual, Steve thought but somehow managed to keep the comment to himself.

"No, Travis is a jerk, but he's an innocent jerk."

"Yeah, yeah, and you're the only one interested in finding the 'real' killer."

"I didn't used to be. It used to be that you wanted to find the real killer just as badly I as I did. When did that change?"

"I found the real killer. His name is Tom Travis and the jury's going to back me up."

"Sure, because juries have never convicted an innocent man because the cops only looked for evidence that made the guy look guilty."

"If you've got something to say, say it straight out," Katz demanded, an ugly hiss in his voice.

"Fine. I've been killing myself trying to find out who might want to hurt Travis enough to do this and now I find out somebody gave him a hard time and he arranged for a friendly cop to have the guy busted for drugs. End of problem. I think a year in the slam might be a good motive for someone to want to get even with Travis, don't you?"

"Are you saying we planted drugs on somebody?" Katz asked in a soft, dangerous voice.

"No. I'm saying that the guy on the wrong end of that bust had a good motive for revenge and I'd like to talk to him."

"Who's stopping you?"

"I need his name."

"Ask your client."

"The stupid son-of-a-bitch thinks that the person in question knows something that will make him look bad so he's convinced himself that the person couldn't have anything to do with his wife's murder and he won't tell us shit."

"This is rich! Your own client won't give you the time of day so you want us to do your dirty work for you? I don't think so."

"I didn't ask you to."

"No," Katz said, thinking hard. "You asked for Furley. What's he got to do with it?"

"Who do you think helped out Travis by making the bust?"

Katz's mouth drew into a hard thin line, his gaze focused on a point in the vague distance as he remembered the second day he partnered with Jack Furley.

## * * *

"There's something I've got to know if we're going to work together," Simon told Furley in their car at the beginning of the shift.

"Sure, what's that?"

"If I'm going to have your back, I've got to know where you're coming from."

"What do you mean?"

"Listen, Jack, I've been at this a long time. I've had partners who were drinkers, partners who were chasers, partners who were born-again racists, and I could deal with all of that because I knew what to expect. If you have a drinking problem, tell me now. You've got a woman problem, a gay problem, a sex problem, tell me now and I'll do my best to cover for you as long as it doesn't interfere with the job. If I get blind-sided, I'm telling you right now, you're on your own. Are we clear?"

"Clear."

"You got anything you need to tell me?"

Furley just laughed. "I'm straight, not on the sauce, not a redneck, not born-again."

Simon gave him a hard stare then a nod. "Okay, just remember what I said. I don't like surprises when it comes to my partner."

"Sure. I understand. You want—"

"One more thing," Katz cut in.

"Yeah?"

"You got any on-the-job issues I should know about?"

"I don't get you."

Katz sighed as if talking to a slow third grader. "Any of the bosses got it in for you?"

"No."

"Have you gotten into any trouble that any of the bosses know about, anything they could hold over your head?"

"No!"

"So there's no sexual harassment complaint that your Lieutenant made go away but maybe kept the paperwork in his personal private file?"

"I told you no."

"How about civilians who you did favors for? Is there anybody who might think you owe them a pass?"

"Jesus, what's this all about?"

Ah, Simon thought, I've struck a nerve.

"This is homicide, Jack. The Big Time. We deal with killers. We don't let anything, ever, get in the way of nailing a killer. I don't care who did it, the Chief of Police, the President, the Pope, I don't give a good God damn. He's going down. Nobody gets a pass, on my watch, ever. You think I'm a Boy Scout, fine. You think I'm a fanatic, fine. But that's my rule — nobody skates on a murder no matter who they are."

"I'm not disagreeing with you. What's that got to do with—?"

"Jack, if you owe somebody and we trip over them in an investigation, I need to know that now. I don't want some scumbag lawyer to surprise me with a claim we blew the case because you owed some guy a favor and gave him a pass. If you worked security for a nightclub off the books, tell me now. If you banged some would-be movie star instead of busting her for grass, tell me now. If you fixed your uncle's parking ticket, tell me now."

"Jeez, Simon, I—"

"Of course, if you want to partner with somebody else, that's fine with me."

"Nobody's talking about switching partners."

"Good, then let's have it, because I swear to God that if I ever trip over somebody you so much took as a free sandwich from, I will make it my business to get you transferred to the Forgery Division out in the Valley."

Katz leaned forward and stared into Furley's eyes. It took about three seconds.

"Yeah, okay, there was this one thing, nothing illegal . . . "

"Sure, whatever, let's have it."

Furley glanced out the window then, slightly embarrassed, turned back to Katz. "When I was in uniform I went out on a call, domestic violence. The guy was Tom Travis, the movie star."

"Yeah, I know who you mean."

"I talked to the girl, Clare Cantrell. She was shook up but when she calmed down she didn't want the bad publicity any more than Travis did. I told her that the D.A. would prosecute even if she didn't push it, but that if she and Travis said it was a mutual dispute and Travis agreed to apologize and go to anger management class and if she told the D.A. she was good with that, then the whole thing would go away."

"Did you bang her?"

"No!" Furley paused for a couple of seconds, then smiled. "Wanted to, but," he shook his head, "I didn't get the chance."

"But she was good with it, you didn't push her?"

"Hell no! She didn't want Travis pissed at her. He was a lot bigger star than she was back then. She didn't want the old boy's club on her back."

"So, is that it?"

Furley again shook his head. "No." For an instant his fingers patted his pocket searching for a nonexistent pack of smokes. "Travis figured I had done him a favor talking her out of it. I let him think that. He played it cool but once he finished anger management and the case was dismissed, he called me and we went out on the town. Serious partying."

"He picked up the tab?"

"Oh yeah. And the babes."

Katz's eyes tightened.

"All he had to do was look at a couple of hotties and smile, and they'd be all over us. It got to be kind of a regular thing. Went on for, oh, maybe six months."

"Why'd it stop?"

Furley rubbed his chin and glanced away. "It started getting in the way of the job. He'd call up, eight, nine o'clock. 'Hey, Jack, let's get a drink." Next thing you know we're closing the bars and I've got an eight a.m. roll call."

"So, you put a stop to it."

Furley's face grew slightly pink. "My sergeant did. We, Travis and me, made the Tattler. The Sarge gave me a choice, pick either the job or Travis." Furley shrugged.

"So, is that it?" he asked, but he knew it wasn't.

Furley paused as if deciding how much to admit, then shrugged. "No, there are a couple of things more."

"Go on."

"First, about those parties with Travis, the thing was, he more or less liked to watch."

"Watch?" Katz asked, suddenly thinking about his thirty plus years married to the same woman and cringing at the thought of anyone watching them.

"Yeah, he'd like to get the two girls in the room and then—"

"Stop. I get the picture," Katz said, disgusted. "Were any of these girls under age?"

"No, of course not!"

"Okay, what's the second thing?'

Furley glanced uneasily out the window at the police cars jammed into the back of the lot, then began to speak without looking at Katz.

"It was about a year and a half ago. I had been working plain clothes a couple of years and out of the blue Travis gives me a call."

## * * *

The only part of Travis's phone call that made any sense to Furley was his claim that one of the crew on his movie set was dealing drugs.

"I tried to look the other way," Travis told him, "but now I'm worried that somebody's going to get stoned on the job and get themselves or somebody else killed."

"Killed?"

"We've got scenes with guys racing jeeps, riding horses, gun fights, a couple of explosions. . . ." Travis sighed. "One mistake and somebody could get fucked up real bad. I don't want that on my conscience."

"Have you talked to the director or studio security?"

"I can't afford to get branded as a snitch with the crew. Besides, if they fire him, he'll just pick up where he left off on his next gig. I've tried to talk to him—"

"You confronted him?"

"Not exactly confronted. Without proof you can't flat out accuse somebody. I sat down with him and said, you know, 'I've seen some suspicious stuff. I'm not pointing any fingers but if you're involved with that stuff, you need to stop it.'"

"What did he say?"

"Pretty much what you'd expect. 'I don't know what you're talking about. I don't have anything to do with drugs. . . blah, blah, blah.' So I said, 'Good' and that was the end of that."

"But you think he's still at it?"

"Oh, yeah."

"And you want me to arrest him?"

"I guess."

"With what for evidence?"

"He's dealing every day. He's got to have the drugs on him or in his car."

"Are you willing to give me an affidavit so that I can get a warrant?"

"This can't get back to me. The crew would sabotage my scenes until I couldn't get work anymore. This is a union business for God's sake."

"Then how am I supposed to bust this guy?"

"If he had a broken tail light couldn't you search his car?"

"I'm not a traffic cop and no."

"So, you're not going to do anything?"

"I didn't say that."

## * * *

They were shooting on location out near Lancaster with Joshua trees as far as the eye could see. Travis had tried to explain the movie's plot to Furley, something about a bank robbery and a double cross, money hidden in the desert, a small-town crime lord and a crooked sheriff but it all gave Furley a headache. After ten minutes of back and forth Travis finally agreed to get him and a Sheriff's investigator by the name of Bob Chiappari passes to the set.

Furley and Chiappari showed up in boots, blue jeans, blue cotton shirts and baseball caps. They told anyone who asked that they were friends of the caterer and otherwise kept their mouths shut and stayed out of the way.

The location was split into two parts. In front of the camera was a sandy wasteland covered in a forest of fifteen to thirty foot tall Joshua trees all the way to the horizon, the wilderness broken only by a weathered cabin in the foreground and a faint scratch of power lines three or four miles in the distance. The second part was a ragged line of cameras, lighting reflectors, booms, motor homes, catering vans, a commissary tent, portable toilets and the miscellaneous detritus that accompanied any group of contemporary humans. Travis had explained that they would be on location for several days of exterior shots, desert chases and a shoot out.

"Lancaster?" Furley had complained. "Why don't we just wait until you come back to LA?"

"Then I'd have to get you a gate pass from the Studio instead of just asking the AD to let you on the location. I'm trying to keep a low profile here. Jeez, can't you just help me out?"

Furley grumbled some more but eventually gave in.

"Remember, we don't know each other," were Travis's final instructions. Furley wished that that were true.

## * * *

"This is pretty cool," Chiappari said, pointing at the beehive of activity in front of them. The crew had laid down a set of wooden tracks right to left across the sand. The director sat behind them, his eyes on a TV monitor which received a picture broadcast from a camera on a little hand car that crew members pulled down the track. The camera's path paralleled the path Travis and his co-star, a devastatingly beautiful girl of about twenty-five named Rachel Cain, would take across the sand. In this scene the girl and Travis were supposed to be hiking across the desert after an escape from the villains. Travis was supposed to act macho but sensitive in a way that caused her to both love and trust him over the space of a few lines of dialog, which the audience would accept, the movie people hoped, in a 'suspension of disbelief.'

It took about an hour to set everything up, then Travis and his co-star began their stroll. Cain had apparently begun her career as a fashion model because she was about five feet eleven, easily as tall as Tom Travis and he complained that the dynamics of the story required that his character be more strongly perceived than hers. Two of the crew were ordered to dig a shallow trench in the sand so that on screen Travis's character, Rick Black, appeared to be a couple of inches taller than the girl.

The first take was a long shot which caught both of them from the knees up. Then they did it again with the camera holding tight on Rachel's face. Then they shot it a third time as a close-up on Travis. At the end of the shot a bug buzzed around Tom's face and he insisted they do it again. Finally, about two hours after they had started laying track and clearing a path in the sand, the director had a scene that would be on screen for a total of about twenty or thirty seconds.

The next shot was going to involve a race across the desert to the shelter of the cabin amidst a hail of gunfire from the villains chasing them in a jeep. The director called a break for lunch. Travis had furnished Furley with a publicity shot of the target and Jack stood back and watched the chow line. A large tent, open at the sides, had been set up with long tables and folding chairs inside. A catering van formed the fourth wall and the crew approached the pass-through windows in two lines. The featured cast members had already placed their orders and had their meals delivered to their air conditioned trailers. The Director, AD, and cinematographer huddled together at their own table in the back.

A chalk board listed the menu choices as poached sea bass on Mexican rice with a vegetable medley; grilled pork loin in orange sauce with garlic mashed potatoes with a Caesar salad, and for the unadventurous, hamburgers and fries. Chiappari turned toward the line but Furley gently held him back.

"Let's wait and see what our guy does," he whispered. Reluctantly, Chiappari halted and they slipped to the back of the tent. The target lazily wandered around, slapping shoulders, stopping to chat and joke with various members of the crew. Finally, after almost ten minutes of working the tent he joined the end of the line. A couple of his buddies from the crew entered the line behind him.

"Why don't you get us a couple of burgers," Furley suggested.

"What are you gonna do?"

"I'm going to have a look around while he's eating." Chiappari gave Furley an uncertain look. "Just get me a burger. I'll be back in five minutes." Chiappari looked at him suspiciously but hunger overcame his concern.

"Fine, but I'm getting the pork loin."

Furley had already run a DMV check. The subject owned a '92 Camaro which was parked at the motel. The crew had come out to the location in busses, the stars in their motor homes with teamster drivers. Virtually everyone who didn't have their own trailer had brought a knapsack or sports bag with sunscreen, bottled water, paperback books, extra clothing and anything else they thought they might need. Most of the bags had been left in a corner of the commissary tent, out of the sun. The target had stashed his in the stunt trailer with the guns, blanks, and other similar items. Furley checked the door, found it locked, and headed back to the commissary. Chiappari had a plastic plate with a burger and fries waiting for him.

"Find the can okay?" Chiappari asked loudly.

"Yeah. Thanks for getting this for me." Furley added some ketchup and took a bite. "How's yours?"

"No wonder people like this business. If I had free meals like this every day, I'd blow up like a pig." Chiappari played with his mashed potatoes then asked in a softer voice, "Anything interesting?"

No one seemed to be watching and Furley dipped his head. "We'll do it on the way to his car."

"PC?" Chiappari asked in a whisper.

"It's covered."

The director got three more scenes that afternoon, the escape to the cabin and the shoot-out at the cabin, first inside then outside, and the Assistant Director got the bad guy's half of the jeep chase with the second unit crew. Daylight-savings time had recently started and they were able to shoot until almost six before the light got too yellow to match with the earlier scenes. Back in town Furley and Chiappari exited the bus with the last few passengers and kept an eye on the target as he ambled across the lot to his Camaro. He had just unlocked the driver's door when Furley tapped him on the shoulder.

"Hi, you got a second?"

"Do I know you guys?" Barry McGee asked, eyeing Furley and Chiappari suspiciously.

"I'm Jack Furley. This is Bob Chiappari. We were out on location today and I noticed you talking to the guys in the crew."

"Yeah, so what?"

"Bob here is with the Sheriff's department. He was checking out maybe getting a job as technical advisor."

"And you're here to do his talking for him?"

Furley pulled out his badge. "LAPD. I just came along for the fun of it. Bob and me, we're old buddies."

"Tell me your life story some other time," McGee sneered and reached for the door handle. Furley put his palm against the glass and held the door closed.

"As I was saying, Bob and me were looking around, really hadn't been on a movie set before so were looking at everything really close."

"Good for you."

"And we were kind of surprised to see you dealing drugs like that right out in the open."

"What? Are you, nuts?"

"Pretty brazen, wouldn't you say, Bob?"

"I was shocked," Chiappari said with a smile.

"What kind of a cheap ass—"

"Drop the bag. Hands on the roof," Furley ordered, spinning McGee toward the car and lightly kicking his feet back. Chiappari forced McGee's right hand onto the Camaro's roof.

"What the hell—"

"You don't want to be resisting a police officer," Furley said in a soft tone. McGee gave him an outraged stare but stopped trying to pull away. "Frisk him, Bob."

Chiappari slid his hands down McGee's shoulders and under his arms. When he reached Barry's hip pocket he paused and reached inside.

"Well, look what we've got here," Chiappari said in mock surprise, holding up three postage-stamp sized glassine envelopes containing a pale yellow powder.

"Boy, that sure looks like speed to me," Furley announced.

"Sure does," Chiappari agreed.

"You planted that!"

"Is that so? How'd we plant your fingerprints on them?"

McGee started to say something, then shut up. The envelopes went into a plastic bag and Furley looked at the sport's bag lying next to McGee's feet.

"He could have a gun in there," Furley announced.

"I'd better check it, just to be safe," Chiappari volunteered.

Furley kept a light pressure on the center of McGee's back while Chiappari pulled the zipper and picked through the bag's contents. In the bottom corner, inside a crumpled white athletic sock, he found a Ziplock bag containing fifteen more glassine envelopes.

"Uh-oh," he said, holding up the bag, "this looks like possession for sale to me." A pair of cuffs appeared out of nowhere and Chiappari pulled McGee's hands behind his back. An instant later the bracelets made their distinctive CLICK-CLICK sound.

"Barry McGee, you are under arrest for possession and possession for sale of a controlled substance, methamphetamine. You have a right to remain silent . . . " Chiappari recited the rest of the Miranda warning as he steered McGee toward their car. Furley picked up the evidence and McGee's bag and followed behind.

Five or six crew members had paused at the edge of the lot to watch the arrest and when he saw them, McGee began to scream, "That son of a bitch Travis set me up! This is bogus! I'm being framed! Fucking Tom Travis did this to me. These guys are his trained dogs! That shit was planted on me! Fucking Tom Travis set me up!"

McGee's shouts were finally muffled by the SUV's thick doors but McGee continued to lurch around the back seat, kicking and pounding his head against the glass."

"You shut the fuck up or I'm going to duct tape you like King Tut," Chiappari shouted as they headed for the substation.

Furley tuned McGee out and sat back and watched the landscape drift by.

## * * *

Katz gave his new partner a long stare. "I don't want any BS here. Between you and me, did you plant that stuff on him?"

"I'm not a crook."

"Is that a yes or no?"

"No," Furley said, slowly and carefully enunciating his words, "I did not plant anything on him and neither did Chiappari. What do you think he was doing wandering around the lunch tent, running for union president? He was delivering drugs. He was smart enough to keep a mental list of who owed him what. He was probably planning on collecting the money the next day when he wasn't carrying, saying that the guy was paying off a bet or something. They were his drugs in his pocket and his drugs in his bag."

"Did they check the envelopes for prints?"

"He probably wore gloves."

"So no prints?"

"That doesn't prove anything."

"He got convicted out of Lancaster? How'd that work out for you?"

"It was on a tip from my CI. I got a gold star in my jacket."

"Where's the case now?"

"After a lot of back and forth the guy finally copped to possession and got a year in county jail without time off for good behavior. He got out a couple of weeks ago."

"Is there any way Tom Travis can jam you up on this?"

"It was a clean bust. If anything, I could jam him up if I let it get around that he had narked on the guy."

"That's it, nothing else?"

"I'm a good cop. You got any other questions?" Furley demanded.

"No." Katz paused, then extended his hand. "Okay, you've got my back and I've got yours. Partners."

"Partners," Furley agreed. They shook hands and Furley fired up the engine and pulled the Crown Vic out of the lot.

## * * *

Katz stared at Steve Janson and frowned.

"You got any proof this guy you're looking for had anything to do with Marian Travis's murder?"

"Guy?"

"Person," Katz said with a shrug.

"How am I supposed to have any proof if I don't know who he is?"

"You should be talking to your client about this."

"And he should be talking to me, but he's worried about looking like low-life pussy snitch instead of a macho hero."

"Then that's his problem, isn't it?" Katz looked at the door. "Unless you've got something else, I've got some real police work to do."

Steve angrily shoved back his chair.

"You don't know what real police work is any more, Simon. You're just like the rest of these humps, one crime, one guy in the slam and everything's in balance even if it's not the guy who did the crime."

"I don't need lessons in ethics from you, Janson."

"That's the sad part, Simon. You sure as hell do. That's the real pisser. You know that. I 'm here trying to get you to do the right thing. That's just pathetic."

"Get out!"

"When you close your eyes tonight, don't think about Tom Travis. You think about Sarah. It's still not too late to save her, you self righteous bastard!"

Steve shoved the back of his chair so hard it tipped over with a crash and he stormed out of the room. He was still angry fifteen minutes later as he was nearing his apartment when his cell rang.

"Barry McGee," Katz's angry voice snarled and then the line went dead.

# Chapter Forty-Two

The only unknown vehicle near Travis's house on the day of the disappearance was a black van with the name "Sunshine Pool Service" painted on the side. The detectives checked and confirmed that the Sunshine Pool Service had a scheduled filter cleaning and maintenance appointment that morning for a house at the end of the block. No other strange vehicles were reported for that morning, but most of the domestics had the day off and most of the neighbors were either out of town or visiting friends or out shopping for party supplies. If you wanted to pick a day when a high end neighborhood would be deserted you couldn't do much better than December 31st.

Nevertheless, Steve put the Foster Agency to work checking DMV records on every witness or suspect name he could think of and on Monday morning they emailed him the vehicle registrations as of the time of Marian's disappearance for a dozen people including Barry McGee, Robert Garsen, Bobby Berdue, Carey Ebbe, Leslie Wahlberg, Riley Fontaine, even, with a twinge of guilt, Rebecca Minton. He also ordered them to build a dossier on Barry McGee. With the DMV list in hand he dove back into the stacks of police interviews with Travis's neighbors.

The cops had been thorough and had canvassed every house, on some occasions returning two or three times until they had talked with everyone who had been in town on the day of the murder. And they didn't limit their questions to the day of the disappearance. They also asked about any unusual vehicles spotted in the neighborhood at any time during the two or three weeks prior to the thirty-first.

A gardener reported seeing a red Camaro parked in front of Tom Travis's house two days after Christmas. That matched Barry McGee's story about being invited over for a drink, a story that took on a whole new meaning when you knew that the reason McGee was out of work was because Tom Travis had set him up for a year behind bars.

I'll bet you thought Travis owed you a favor, Steve muttered to himself. He hadn't heard from Greg Markham so he assumed Tom was still blocking out the memory of his part in McGee's arrest. Maybe McGee was lying about the friendly drink. Maybe he had been in the neighborhood to case the house for a burglary or vandalism and had made up the story about being invited as a cover in case his car was spotted. At the very least they needed Travis to confirm that he had invited McGee into his house.

There were three other unknown cars mentioned in the Field Interview Reports for the two weeks before the murder: a mid-eighties Camry had been seen the week before that the witness thought "probably" belonged to a relative of the next-door gardener; a silver BMW X7 SUV that had been parked across the street from Travis's driveway for half an hour on the thirtieth, and a red Ferrari, (was there any other color?) slowly drove up and down the street four or five times three days before Marian disappeared.

The cops figured the Ferrari belonged to somebody scouting the neighborhood for a missing girlfriend, looking to see if her car was parked where it wasn't supposed to be. Burglars, hit men and the like generally didn't cruise their target zone in a quarter million dollar red sports car so the cops crossed that one off their suspect list. It didn't match any of the vehicles on Steve's list either. Without a description of the driver or a partial plate it was a dead end.

The witness described the Camry as dirty white with an off-center rear bumper and a cloud of blue smoke pouring from the tailpipe when the driver tried to accelerate. Again, not the type of car a criminal would choose for a job in the top end of Beverly Hills. The cops tracked down the gardener in question who rapidly lost the ability to say anything much beyond "green card." The magic word "imigracion" had only more firmly closed his mouth. Hermano and viejo Toyota blanco had gotten a guilty look but little more. Another vehicle slid off their radar. Again, it matched none of the vehicles on Steve's list. Another dead end.

The last one, the BMW X7, was exactly the kind of car you would expect to see in that neighborhood. It was a miracle anyone noticed it at all. A Beemer in BH was as ordinary as a Civic in the Valley. Except in this case, it did match something on Steve's list. Robert Garsen had bought a new silver X7 two months before Marian had disappeared.

Steve considered just calling him but he couldn't see Garsen's body language over the phone. There were reasons why cops wanted suspects interviewed in the box — it provided maximum tension and the ability to study their facial expressions and body language.

Steve tracked Garsen down to a lunch-hour workout at the Executive Gym on the fourth floor of his building. An incredibly fit young man in a dark green knit shirt over olive shorts escorted Janson to a Nautilus machine where Garsen lay on his back and pulled down a pair of bicycle handlebars then slowly released them against the tension of a set of weights at the end of a steel cable.

"Mr. Garsen, this gentlemen said he needed to talk with you," the kid said with a nervous smile. The 'I can throw him out if you'd like' part of the sentence was implied.

"Mr. Janson," Garsen said with a soft grunt and pulled the bar down again.

"I just have a couple of questions. It won't take long."

"It's okay, Jamey," Garsen said, giving the kid a slight nod.

"Yes sir. Call me if you need anything." Jamey headed back to the reception desk as if Janson didn't exist.

"They're protective of their clients' privacy," Garsen said, concentrating on his pulls.

Steve would have figured a guy like Garsen to be decked out in some electric colored Spandex outfit from Celebrity Sports on Rodeo Drive. Instead he wore a plain red t-shirt and blue cotton shorts.

"Fifty," Garsen said with a grunt and let go of the device. "Upper body," he explained as he sat up. "Want to give me a hand with the bar?" Garsen pointed to a padded tube on the floor next to the machine. Steve fitted it into a couple of clasps at the bottom of the bench. "A little lower would be good." Set screws allowed the supports to telescope up and down. Steve lowered them until the bar just touched the tops of Garsen's ankles.

"I may as well earn my answers, I guess."

"Sit-ups are still one of the best exercises for keeping your gut in shape," Garsen explained, then put his hands behind his neck and rose to a sitting position.

"Did you ever visit Marian at her home?" Steve asked.

"I've never been in Tom Travis's house." Garsen exhaled loudly and went back down then up.

"Have you ever visited her neighborhood?"

Garsen rose to a sitting position, then stopped. "Busted," he said, sourly.

"When was that?"

"The day before she disappeared, the 30th." Garsen didn't volunteer any further details.

"How long were you there?"

Garsen frowned and glanced at the floor. "I don't suppose you're going to drop this, are you?" He asked, giving Steve an irritated glance. "No, you're not." It wasn't a question. "Okay, let's get this over with. I told you we had had a fight."

"About New Year's Eve."

"About New Year's Eve. First she cancelled our day on my boat. Things went downhill from there. At the end she had said, 'Fine, if you don't want to take me out, I'll go out with Tom. He's my husband after all. Who knows, maybe he'll get lucky, for old time's sake.' And then she was gone."

"And that pissed you off?"

"It made me crazy. Tom was going to get lucky?" Garsen gave Steve an embarrassed smile. "She's cheating on her husband with me, and I'm upset that she's going to sleep with him? Nuts, huh!" Garsen shook his head in disbelief.

"You went over there to . . . ?"

"That's a good question. To tell you the truth, I didn't have a clear idea what I was going to do. One minute I was going to pound on the door and confront her."

"That would have been a good idea," Steve muttered, unable to restrain himself.

Garsen gave him a sharp look, then a smile. "Yeah, real genius-level thinking. Anyway, I parked outside the gate for about half an hour. Maybe I thought she might leave and I would follow her and . . . hell, I don't know. She wasn't taking my calls which, of course, made me even crazier."

"After half an hour . . . ?"

"Sanity started to reassert itself. I calmed down enough to realize that I couldn't make her do anything. She was going to do what she wanted to do. I had already left her three or four voice mails so, well, what else was there to do? I figured she'd call me after the holidays and we'd work something out."

"But she didn't?"

"I never heard from her again," Garsen said quietly, a desolated look on his face.

"You didn't go back on New Year's Eve day, maybe follow her to the mall, try to talk her out of sleeping with Tom?"

"I wish I had. Maybe if I had been around nothing would have happened to her. But I didn't."

"Because you figured you'd work it out later?"

"Because trying to push Marian in a direction she didn't want to go only made things worse. If I had tried to bully her into doing what I wanted, I'd have lost her . . . which I did anyway," Garsen said after a long pause. "It's a fallacy, Mr. Janson, to believe that we can control our lives. Things happen. Chaos theory. If you try to fight that, you'll only make yourself crazy." Steve wasn't sure if Garson was commenting on his own life or giving Steve advice about his. "Anything else?"

Steve paused for a long moment then shook his head. "That's it. Thanks."

"Sure," Garsen said, beginning another round of sit-ups. "Any time."

# Chapter Forty-Three

Just after lunch Steve found Barry McGee alone in the barn at the Norcross Academy, shoveling horseshit. Remembering their last meeting and McGee's feigned friendship for Travis, Steve thought it was an appropriate task.

"Hey, Barry, how you doing?" Steve asked pleasantly.

McGee looked up, a shovel of crap in mid-air, and scowled. He tossed the manure onto a pile a couple of feet to Steve's left.

"I don't have time to waste with you," he said coldly and scraped the blade across the concrete floor. "I work for a living."

"This won't take long."

"It won't take any time at all." This time the crap landed a foot closer to Janson.

Steve ignored the toss. "You know, you left out a few things the last time we talked."

"Oh yeah? Like what?" The manure missed him by six inches.

"Like the fact that I'm going to make you eat that horseshit if you get it any closer to me."

McGee straightened and gave Janson a menacing grin. Steve extended his hand and wiggled his fingers in a 'come-on' motion. McGee's smile grew broader and the shovel rose to port arms. Steve smiled back. Barry fainted with the butt, then choked up and swung the blade end, counting on Steve to flinch away from the steel. Janson stood flatfooted and waited until McGee had committed to the swing, then kicked out with his left foot catching the flat of the blade with his heel. If McGee had been smart he'd have let it go and barreled forward while Steve was off balance but instead he clung to the weapon and fell off to his right.

Before he could recover, Steve moved in close, grabbed the center of the shaft with his left hand, immobilizing it, and, as McGee wasted time struggling to pull it free, smashed the center of the stuntman's face with short right jab.

Steve felt McGee's nose crack and swiftly punched him again in the same place. McGee's grip on the shovel went limp and Steve tossed it away. Blood streaming down his face, McGee struggled to straighten and raise his left to block a third blow. With his own left hand now free, Steve smashed a crushing left hook into the side of McGee's face and Barry toppled to the floor.

"Don't get up," Steve ordered. Half leaning against the side of a stall, McGee tried to set his hands to lever himself up. "If your butt leaves the floor, you're going out of here in an ambulance." McGee paused, his face a mask of blood, and gave Steve an evil stare. "Stay down or I'm going to hurt you," Steve warned in a flat, deadly tone. McGee gave him one more long stare, figured the odds, and slumped back against the stall.

"What's all the hostility about?" Steve asked when it was clear McGee was done.

"I checked up on you," McGee said, wiping a sleeve across his bloody face.

"So?"

"You used to be a cop."

"And?"

"I don't like cops," McGee said with a malevolent smile.

"So you're going to take a swing at every cop you meet?"

Another broader smile. "Only the ones who aren't carrying tin anymore. I figure if I catch one of you guys as a private citizen, maybe it'll be a fair fight, even the odds a little."

Steve stared at Barry as if examining a crazy man. "Maybe that'll work out better for you next time."

"Maybe," McGee agreed, his smile even wider, then he spit a gob of blood at Steve's shoes, and missed.

"You didn't tell me Tom Travis got you busted for drug dealing."

"You didn't ask." McGee started to shift position. Steve wagged a finger and McGee froze.

"Kind of makes me wonder what else you didn't tell me." McGee shrugged. "What were you doing the day Marian Travis disappeared?"

"Ha!" McGee laughed. "Now you're tryin' to put it on me? Think again. I was in Ensenada. Drove down on Thursday, came back on Sunday. Cheap booze, cheap whores."

"Can you prove that?"

"If I have to. The credit card company probably's still got some records in their computer someplace. Find another patsy."

Steve gave McGee a calculating stare.

"Are we done?"

"I was just thinking — all those times you doubled for Travis, him making five, ten million a movie and you taking all the risks for a few hundred a day and a life of broken bones. Tom's sitting on his ass in his Bentley and you're hustling just to keep your Camaro in spare parts. Then you provide all that valuable stud service to make Tom look good in the bedroom and what do you get for it? Thanks and a Christmas card? Tell me, did Tom Travis ever do anything to make that up to you?"

McGee spit another gob of blood. "What do you think?"

"Yeah, that sounds like Tom."

"Stop pretending you're on my side."

"I'm not on your side. I'm not on Travis's side. I'm just doing a job. I don't have to like the guy. Hell, he hit on my wife. A thing like that doesn't make me all warm and fuzzy about him."

"You had nothing to worry about. What the hell was he gonna do with her if she said yes?"

Steve kicked a piece of crap in McGee's direction. "This was after Viagra. . . You ever ask him to help you out with anything?"

"I'm no beggar."

"I never thought you were. I'm talking about you getting what you earned. He ever pay you back any of that?"

"He didn't give me shit," McGee cursed.

"Did you ever ask? I'm guessing that he's not the volunteer type."

"He's the selfish-prick type. All I needed was a loan. I had the chance to go halves on a prop rental outfit, for TV-movies and stuff like that. The owner was an old guy, he'd had the business for forty years. I put in fifty, my partner puts in fifty, the old guy trusts us for the rest. All I needed was a little help. I'd have paid Tom back, with interest."

"Only fifty K? And he turned you down? I don't believe it."

"Believe it! You know what that is to him? That son of bitch makes fifty grand in one day from one of his fucking paintings. One day! All I asked him to do was sell one stupid picture and loan me the money. I'd have had a shot at a real life. How the hell long can you go on falling off horses and crashing cars before you're fucked-up crippled for good!"

"Hell of a thing to end up crippled, old, and broke. What excuse did he give you?"

"That's the right word, 'excuse.' The same old bullshit. He had a deal with the bank, he didn't loan money and they didn't make movies. Ha ha! I told him I'd put up my share of the business, my car, everything I had. You know what the son of a bitch said? 'What am I gonna do with a '92 Camaro?' Like I had already lost his money and he had taken my car and left me with nothin', like everything I had in the whole world wasn't good enough for him to piss on."

"What did you tell him?"

McGee glared. "You think I was gonna beg him? Shit, I don't kiss nobody's ass. 'Sure, Tom, fine, I'll get it some other way. Have a nice day in hell, you prick.'" McGee smiled. "I left off the prick part, out loud anyway."

"That's why you were dealing speed," Steve said, the pieces suddenly falling into place. "That's how you were going to get the money for the business."

McGee started to get up and Steve took a menacing step forward. Barry gave him a lopsided grin and sat back down.

"You know, Barry, there's one thing I don't get. Why? Why would Tom Travis go to all that trouble to put you in the slam? When you were asking him for that loan, did you happen to mention what might happen if he didn't give it to you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, like maybe if he didn't help you out that you might have to get the money by selling a few stories to the tabloids about your stud work or maybe getting some ghost writer to help you come up with a tell-all book?" McGee held his hands palms up in surrender and gave Steve a toothy grin. "Yeah, that's what I thought. So when you were telling me that you and Tom were old pals, and that you thought he was innocent . . . ?"

"You're working for the man. I told you what you wanted to hear."

"Now you're telling me you think he did it?"

"You don't know Tom Travis like I do. The one thing in the world he can't stand is losing anything to anybody. You know that bun in his wife's oven wasn't his. Well, so did Tom. Every day he saw her, her stomach out to here," McGee gestured with his bloody hands, "he thought about it being some other guy's kid, how she'd made a sucker out of him because he was such a pussy in the Man department. Man, it was like acid in his veins. You think Tom and me weren't pals? You ask Tom. He still thinks we're buddies, everybody is his pal, as long as stuff goes one way, from them to him and not from him to them. To him that year I spent in the County lockup is like a mirage. Out of sight, out of mind. As far as Tom's concerned, it never happened.

"He gave me his hundred dollar scotch like we were blood brothers all over again. He couldn't wait to whine to me that it had been ten months since he'd fucked his wife. He wanted to throw her out on her ass but she told him if he did it all would come out in court. Tom could never stand for that. Not Mr. Ego. Now you know why he killed her. Are you happy now?"

The blood from McGee's nose had slowed to a trickle. He wiped it with a stained handkerchief, saw Steve staring and smiled. "No big deal. A bloody nose for me is like a scuffed shoe for you." McGee nodded at Steve's black wingtips.

"You think he killed her because—"

"Because she didn't give him any other way out. He couldn't kick her out. He couldn't stop her from fucking other guys. He couldn't touch her himself. To all her friends his running around with Kaitlen made her the wronged wife and if he looked at her cross-eyed she'd tell everybody that he was such a bad fuck that she had kicked him out for her boyfriend because he knew how to put it to her good. In his own fucked-up head Old Tom is a macho hero. She opens her mouth and he turns him into a limp-dick loser. If that happens, as far as he's concerned, his life is over. Sure he killed her," McGee said, getting to his feet and spitting into the matted hay. "I was tryin' to be a nice guy and keep that to myself, but not anymore. Now I'm gonna tell the jury."

"What?"

McGee gave him an alligator smile. "Yup, I'm gonna tell them the real reason why Tom Travis killed his wife. I go on the stand Wednesday afternoon. Got my subpoena and everything. Some old cop by the name of Katz came by my place yesterday and him and me had a nice long talk. And, asshole," he hissed, glaring at Steve, "I'm gonna tell them how Tom's pet killer beat me up trying to scare me off the case. This here broken nose is Exhibit A, sucker!"

Steve took a quick step forward and McGee half ducked. Now it was Steve's turn to smile.

"See you around, tough guy." Janson half turned then lurched back toward McGee. "Boo!" Barry flinched against the stall and almost fell. Steve grinned.

"Laugh now, asshole. We'll see who's laughing when they come in with the verdict. He's gonna fry! Thanks to you I'm gonna see to it that that son of a bitch burns in hell. You see if he don't!"

"Have a nice day, Barry," Steve called over his shoulder, "and make sure you watch where you step. There's a lot of horseshit around here."

Steve's smile disappeared as soon as McGee was out of view. If it hadn't been for his nosing around Katz would never would have followed up with Barry McGee. But he pushed it, acted as if Markham was going to tell the jury that McGee might have done it. So Katz did the only thing he could do. Simon came down here and checked out McGee's story. Now if Steve didn't find some real evidence clearing Travis, and fast, Barry McGee was going to pound the final nail into Tom Travis' coffin.

# Chapter Forty-Four

Steve, Markham and Travis were back in the concrete-walled interview room. The guard had brought in a third chair though it bothered him to have anything in the room that wasn't bolted down.

"I'm guessing you've found something," Travis said hopefully.

Steve figured there was no point sugar-coating it. "I talked to Barry McGee."

"What the hell did you do that for?" Tom snapped.

"Because he's—"

"He's full of shit."

"He told me—"

"Everything he told you is crap. This is the last guy you want to talk to. If you set him off, who knows what he'll say. He tried to shake me down and I told him to pound sand. He's been out to get me ever since."

"He's going to testify tomorrow afternoon—"

"He's going to testify! Fucking Barry McGee's going to testify! What the hell have you done to me, Steve? Why don't you just get a God damned gun and shoot me right now!" Travis glared at Steve then looked away. "I don't believe this."

"Tom," Steve continued uneasily, "McGee's going to testify that you are or were impotent—"

"That's a God damned lie!"

". . . and that you told him that you weren't the father of Marian's baby." Travis started to reply and Steve held up his hand. "He'll testify that you invited him over for a drink a few days before Marian disappeared and you told him that Marian had kicked you out of her bedroom and threatened to go public with sensitive personal information if you didn't do what she wanted." Steve paused and nodded for Travis to respond.

"Lies, lies, lies," Tom said bitterly.

"Were you the father of the child?"

Travis shrugged. "Who runs a DNA test on their own wife?" For an unguarded instant Steve remembered holding Lynn's card and being afraid to read it, afraid to learn if she was going to leave him. Angrily, he pushed the thought away. He looked back at Travis who gave him a challenging stare. It was unbelievable. The stupid son of a bitch was going to lie himself onto death row.

"Tom, you can't afford this bullshit anymore." Travis frowned and looked away. "You can be sure that right now the DA is having a DNA test run on the fetus. What's that test going to say?"

"He can't do that, can he?" Tom asked Markham.

"He can and he will."

Travis slumped in surrender, head down.

"Did she threaten to go public with your personal information?"

"No! Marian wasn't like that."

"Tom, Robert Garsen told me—"

"Who?"

"Her boyfriend." Travis worked at showing no emotion and almost succeeded. "He told me that you and Marian had agreed on a quiet divorce after the baby was born, that she wasn't going to ask for any money and that you were going to give her and Garsen sole custody of the child. Is that true?"

Travis looked around like a trapped animal, then nodded. "Yeah, it's true. This all happened because she wanted kids and I didn't. Anything McGee said about . . . about anything else is bullshit."

Unbelievable. He was still lying.

"You made up the whole story you told us about child support and alimony and the rest of it?"

"I had to. How the hell was I going to explain paying no child support?"

"By telling us the truth right at the beginning?"

"You didn't need to know! None of this has anything to do with Marian's murder. It's, what do you guys say, 'irrelevant.'''

Steve took a deep breath and turned to Markham as if to say, Can you get through to him?

"It provides a motive for Marian's murder," Greg said softly.

"A motive for me to murder her! All the more reason for me to keep my mouth shut."

Greg looked at Steve. Your turn.

"Garsen said you told Marian that you were sterile," Steve said reluctantly.

Travis didn't reply and the silence dragged. Finally, after almost half a minute, Tom whispered "Shit," and bent his head.

"Tom, please, we've got to focus here. The D.A.'s going to argue that Marian's pregnancy by another man and her plans to leave you for him and her alleged threat to expose your sexual problems were a constant source of irritation and that over the holidays you finally snapped and, in a fit of jealous rage, you strangled her with the lamp cord then buried her in the desert. McGee is going to claim you told him that you and Marian were fighting and that you were desperate to get even with her for her infidelity but that her threats amounted to blackmail that kept you from doing anything."

"That's not the way it was," Travis said, his voice beginning to crack. "Marian was a very decent person. She would never . . . threaten anyone. It was all my fault, all right! Jesus! What does any of this have to do with anything? It was all my fault! Is that what you want to hear?" Travis gave Markham a pleading stare and his eyes began to glisten. "I lied to her about being able to have kids. I had," he flapped his hands, "measles or something when I was a kid. It made me sterile. Movie tough guy and I'm shooting blanks. Big joke, right! Have yourselves a good laugh!" Travis rubbed his eyes.

"She wanted kids. She told me so before we were married and I lied to her. I figured we could adopt or something, I don't know. I just didn't want to lose her. When the truth finally came out we . . . worked out a deal. I got Kaitlen and she got that . . . Garsen, I guess. She never threatened me. She was never mean to me. She was a very sweet person. She just stopped treating me like . . . a husband. It was like we were roommates or something. She did her thing. I did mine." Travis gave Steve a blazing stare. "I would never hurt her!"

Embarrassed, Markham glanced at Steve then fiddled with his file and scratched a few notes.

"Shit, shit, shit! This is why I didn't tell you about any of this stuff. This is exactly what I didn't want to have happen. This is why I didn't mention Barry McGee. I knew that if you started sniffing around him you'd get him excited and all this crap would come out. Why the hell didn't you leave well enough alone, Steve?" Travis turned to Greg. "You can tear him up on the stand, can't you?" Travis demanded. "He's a drug dealer for Christ's sake."

"It's not that simple."

"They're going to believe a drug-dealing blackmailer over me?"

"I'm not sure it's a good idea to put you on the stand," Markham said uneasily.

"Then what the hell are you going to do?"

Markham glanced at Steve.

"Garsen can tell your story," Steve said.

"You're going to put my wife's lover on the stand and that's going to help me?"

"Tom," Markham began in a reasonable tone, "the jury's going to find out about Garsen no matter what we do."

"Thanks to you!" Travis screamed at Steve.

Markham ignored the interruption and continued, "McGee may be a lying piece of shit but his story about you admitting you were sterile and not being the father of the baby is true. They'll have DNA to back it up. One of the neighbors saw McGee's car in front of your house so we can't claim he was never there. At least Garsen can testify that you and Marian had worked everything out, that you weren't fighting, that she wasn't blackmailing you, that you had no reason to hurt her. He's the vice president of an insurance company and he'll come across as a lot more believable than Barry McGee."

"But he'll back up McGee's story," Travis complained.

Markham held up his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "He's all we've got. Better that they believe half of McGee's story than all of it."

"Shit! Shit! Shit! If you had only left well enough alone. There was a reason I didn't tell you about Barry. But no, you had to poke the bear," Travis murmured, his head in his hands. "I'm screwed." Suddenly he reached across the table and grabbed Markham's hands. "Greg, you've got to get me out of this. I didn't do it. I swear I didn't do it!" Travis pleaded on the verge of tears.

"I believe you."

"Steve . . . "

It had finally sunk home, Steve realized. The moment of truth. Tom Travis had finally figured out that this wasn't about bad publicity or embarrassing revelations or an inconvenient interruption of his movie career. People hated him and were seriously out to take his life and they were likely going to succeed. As a prosecutor, Steve had seen it dozens of times, usually when the judge was about to pronounce the sentence. The bigger the ego the more impossible it was for the accused to actually believe that something bad was going happen to him.

"I know you didn't do it, Tom, but I need evidence to prove it. If I had another suspect—"

"McGee hates my guts. Maybe you're right. Maybe he did it. He's got a record."

Steve gave his shoulders a little shake. "He claims there are credit card records proving he was in Mexico."

"Did he show them to you?"

"No."

"Then he's lying. He's a bullshitter from way back."

"I'll see if we can track down the VISA charges, but that could take some time." Steve frowned.

"What?"

"The problem is that McGee's no master criminal. You had a good security system. Good locks. He couldn't have gotten in without breaking something and there was no evidence of a forced entry."

"We left the alarm off during the day when we were home."

"But he would still have needed a key to get through the gate."

"Maybe Marian let him in."

Steve shook his head. "Tom, you don't park a red Camaro in front of a mansion in Beverly Hills, ring the bell, walk in, murder someone, load them in your back seat and drive away in broad daylight without people noticing. Nobody plans a crime that way, not even a guy like McGee. That's amateur hour."

"Greg?" Travis pleaded.

"How could McGee have gotten into your house without anyone seeing him? That Camaro of his wouldn't have gone unnoticed."

"So he borrowed another car. Is that so hard?"

"And he climbed the wall? Then what? I don't see him picking those locks. And for what? Do you think he went to your house with a plan to murder your wife and blame it on you? That's just plain nuts. How did he know she'd be home and you wouldn't? How do you plan something like that? And how could he be sure the cops would tag you for it? He's not a Mission Impossible kind of guy and that's what it would take to pull off a plan like that."

"Okay, then who was it?"

"Jesus, Tom, that's what we've been asking you for weeks. Is there anybody else who you haven't told us about?"

"No, I swear to God."

Markham sighed. "Then were back to one of Bobby Berdue's friends. Are you sure you didn't piss one of them off?"

"I told you I didn't."

"Did you have anything going with any mafia people? Borrow any money, hit on some mob guy's girlfriend? Get into some deal—"

"I've told you a dozen times, no! Shit, we've been through this!"

"Tom, it's just—"

"God damn it, Tom!" Steve cut in. "We've been asking you for weeks who might have had it in for you and the name Barry McGee never passed your lips. It's only after I break my butt chasing down every lead I can find that I discover Barry McGee and then all of a sudden you tell us, 'Oh, yeah, he hates my guts. Sorry, I was hoping nobody would find out about him but now that the cops have called him as a witness, gee, maybe it was him. No? Well, gee, then I don't have a clue.' Well, Fuck You Very Much, that doesn't cut it!"

"Steve . . . " Markham put his hand on Janson's arm but Steve pulled away and paced the room.

"Jesus H. Christ, Tom. You didn't tell us about Barry McGee because you were afraid he would tell us some embarrassing stuff about you? What else haven't you told us?"

"I didn't tell you because none of that stuff has anything to do with the case and because I didn't want you to drive McGee into the hands of the cops or the tabloids, which is exactly what you did!"

"We're on your side for God's sake! What else didn't you tell us?"

"Nothing!" Travis shouted. "That's it."

"That's it? Really? That's it? How about the fact that you were buddies with Jack Furley and got him to bust McGee for dealing drugs? How about the fact that you and Furley, one of the lead detectives who built the case against you, used to hit the clubs together? How about the fact that you and McGee used to take on the girls two at a time but McGee fucked them while you just watched?" Travis's glare wilted and his head dropped to the table. "Jesus Christ, Tom, what else haven't you told us!" Janson shouted.

At first Markham counted the cinder blocks in the wall then, as the silence stretched, he opened his file and pretended to read.

His face flushed, heart pounding, Steve paced the floor looking anywhere but at Tom Travis whose head remained slumped over the steel table. Finally, Travis looked up and awkwardly wiped tears from his eyes.

"You're right, Steve," he said softly, all of his defiance finally gone. "I didn't want people I liked to know I've been living a lie. I didn't want people I respected to find out that I'm not a real man. So, okay, you've found out all my secrets. There's nothing left. The truth is, I don't know who my friends or my enemies are. Everybody lies to you in this town. Fuck, I thought you were my friend." Travis gave his head a sad shake. "All I can tell you is that I didn't kill Marian and I don't know who did. You say Barry wasn't smart enough to have pulled it off," another shrug, "Okay. I just don't know. You want this Garsen guy to testify, fine. I'll do whatever you tell me."

Steve looked at Travis's pathetic, defeated face, maybe for the first time the true face of the sensitive painter trapped in the body of a macho, narcissistic phony, and Janson had never felt like more of a bastard. He started to apologize then stopped. Anything he said would just make it worse. Son of a bitch! Never in his wildest dreams did Steve think he could be a bigger jerk than Tom Travis. It just goes to show you, he chided himself, people will surprise you.

# Chapter Forty-Five

One of Ted Hamilton's assistants handed Markham an envelope on the way out of the jail.

"There's been an addition to the D.A.'s witness list," Markham announced. "Barry McGee."

"You'll object, right?"

"For all the good it will do. I can hardly claim surprise when they know you've interviewed him twice. I've got to call my office."

"You're still going to put Garsen on the stand?"

"I'll have somebody serve him with a subpoena this afternoon. I can add him to our list as a rebuttal witness to McGee." Markham paused in thought. "You think there's any way McGee might be the guy?" he asked finally.

Steve gave him a dubious glance. "He's no professional burglar or hit man and that's what this would have taken. He a small timer, but we've got to be thorough. I've told the guys at the Foster Agency do a rush check on him. If he spent a year in jail the County will have his pedigree in the probation report — date and place of birth, social, any prior charges or convictions. I told Foster to go full bore, to check the court records in every state in the country, not just California. Maybe they'll pull up a felony conviction someplace that you can use to impeach him on the stand." Markham nodded and pulled out his cell. "And," Steve continued, "I told them to get all his arrest records, anything he was ever charged with even if it didn't stick. Plus, names and addresses of any of McGee's relatives who were alive when Marian was killed. Who knows, maybe he had a brother who was a hit man or something or maybe he had cell mate who was in the big leagues. That could explain everything. I told them to get his life story from the day he was born. Tom's money's not going to do him much good on Death Row. Maybe they can find something that makes it look like McGee might have done it. At least it will give you another suspect to wave at the jury."

"You know Burris won't let me do that."

"Malcolm Burris is your problem, not mine." Steve shrugged. "At least you'll have another ground for appeal. I'm grasping at straws here."

"What are you going to do?"

A cell began to ring and Steve looked at Greg who held up his phone. "Not me."

Steve patted his pockets and glanced at the display. "I guess I'm going to be talking to Riley Fontaine," he announced.

Once he'd jammed his Mercedes into the flow of L.A. midday traffic Janson navigated on autopilot and let his mind drift, hoping that his subconscious would come up with some clue he had missed. Instead, it dredged up the memory of his last encounter with his former father-in-law, Malcolm Burris.

## * * *

Steve had fled Cuba as fast as he could grab a flight off the island. In less than a day Steve was back in the cracker-box apartment he had rented in a daze the evening after he had discovered Lynn's headless body.

Now what? Alan Lee Fry was dead, nothing more than a pile leaking meat. In spite of his exhaustion questions spun through Janson's brain. Had the Havana police found the body? Were they already on his tail? Would he end his days in a Cuban prison? Would he ever be able to get some sleep? His worries finally chased him into a leaden sleep until, chirping like a maddened cricket, the phone gradually dragged him back to consciousness. He woke up holding the receiver and in the midst of a disjointed conversation.

"So, you'd better get down here," the voice said.

"Sorry, I'm . . . I just woke up. Could you repeat that?"

"This is Steve Janson, right?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm Steve Janson. Who's this?"

"Mr. Janson, are you okay? Do you need a doctor or something?"

"No, I'm . . . " Steve shook his head and forced his eyes open. "I was just dead asleep. Who are you?"

"I told you," the man whispered. "I'm one of the deputies down at the Superior Court."

"What did you say your name was?"

"It's not important. Jeez, just listen to me, okay!"

"Yeah, okay, what's this about?"

"Look," the deputy continued his voice gone soft, "Judge Burris is meeting with the Civil Duty Judge in twenty minutes—"

"Civil Duty Judge? I don't—"

"Do you want to hear this or not?"

"Sorry. Go ahead."

"Judge Burris," the deputy continued, frustration clear in his voice, "is going to present an Ex Parte Order appointing him the Special Administrator of your wife's estate with full power to marshal the assets. If you don't want him grabbing everything you and your wife owned, you had better get down to Department 17."

"I don't understand—"

"If what the morning news is saying about you is true, a lot of people think you're a stand-up guy. You don't deserve to get screwed this way. You never got this call. Good luck." The line went dead. No shower, no shave, a wet comb through his hair, somehow Steve made it to Judge Rodney Walters' courtroom only two minutes behind Malcolm Burris.

A thin Asian lady sat hunched over a pile of forms in the cubicle outside the Judge's door. Meticulously, she printed microscopic characters in a tiny box, then looked up. No tie, wearing a wrinkled blue shirt under a sport coat of some indeterminate shade between dark gray and chocolate brown, Steve's hurried wardrobe did not impress her. A slight expectant frown creased her brow.

"I'm here for the hearing on the Lynn Janson Estate," Steve volunteered.

Lips pressed together she gave him a long stare then wordlessly knocked on the chamber door and sat back down.

Half a second later Steve heard a muffled, "Come in."

The room was dim, the flanking walls covered floor to ceiling in with bookshelves. Walters peered at Steve as he entered the spill of light from the window behind the judge's desk.

"Judge Walters, I'm Steven Janson. I understand that Judge Burris," Steve nodded toward the leather wing chair holding Malcolm Burris's stumpy frame, "is requesting an Ex Parte Order concerning my wife's estate."

Walters' eyebrows arched slightly. "I was given to understand," Walters said, glancing uncertainly at Burris, "that you were out of the country for an indefinite period."

"I'm sorry someone gave you inaccurate information, Your Honor. I did take a very brief vacation to the Caribbean but I returned last night. Can you explain what this is all about?"

"A vacation you say? The morning news intimated something to the contrary." Tall and slender with a neatly clipped russet mustache, Walters gave Steve his best patrician stare as if to say, 'I'm a man of the world, Mr. Janson. You can't slip anything past me.'

"I haven't caught the news today, Your Honor."

"Best that you do at your first opportunity," he suggest dryly, again giving Steve a long, hard stare. Janson stared right back. "Moving on," he continued in a brisk tone, "have you had the chance to review the proposed order?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Judge. I just got an anonymous message about half an hour ago that Judge Burris was presenting some kind of proposed order to you. Naturally, I came down here as quickly as I could."

"An anonymous message? How very . . . intriguing." Walters frowned and flipped through Burris's declaration. "It says here," Walters said, turning to Judge Burris, "that you left messages on Mr. Janson's voice mail and that you delivered copies of the proposed order to his apartment. Did you do that personally, Malcolm?"

Burris fidgeted, wiggling his rump in Walters' worn leather chair. "Not personally, no," he said, fixing his gaze on a crystal rose-shaped paperweight on the corner of the Judge's desk. "I asked one of my clerks to take care of it."

"And you say you never received any such notice, Mr. Janson?"

"That's correct, Your Honor."

"Hmmmm. Well," Walters continued, flashing Steve a weak smile, "you're here now which is all that really matters. Let's proceed." Leaning forward he extended a stiff set of papers in Steve's direction. Stripped of all the procedural mumbo-jumbo, they constituted a request by Malcolm Burris to be appointed as the personal representative of Lynn Janson's estate on an emergency basis on the grounds that her husband, Steven Janson, had left the country for an indefinite period and that prompt and efficient administration of Lynn's property required the immediate appointment of a representative.

"Rod, it's obvious—" Burris began but Walters held up his hand.

"I've read your petition, Malcolm. Mr. Janson, your response?"

"Firstly, Your Honor, the alleged reason for the emergency action, namely that I'm out of the United States for an indefinite period is obviously. . . ." Steve started to say 'false' but swallowed the word, ". . . inaccurate. —"

"From what I hear, you're going to be in prison by the end of the day, so—"

"Please, Malcolm, you'll get your chance. Mr. Janson."

Steve smothered his anger and taking an audible breath, continued. "Secondly, I've filed Lynn's will with the Clerk of the Probate Department and we have a hearing for the issuance of Letters Testamentary set for the seventh. Thirdly, since I am the sole beneficiary of her estate—"

"That's yet to be determined!" Burris snapped.

Again, Walters raised his eyebrows. "Who is named in the will as the personal representative of the estate?" he asked, looking at Burris. The judge frowned then looked away. "Malcolm?"

"The so-called will he submitted," Burris said giving Steve an poisonous glare, "names him as the Executor, but—"

"And does this so-called will also name Mr. Janson as the sole beneficiary?"

"In theory."

"Uh huh. Malcolm, do you have any evidence that the will was forged or coerced or was the product of undue influence?"

"God knows what a man like that did to my daughter to get her to sign that travesty."

"I'll take that as a 'no'." Walters gave his head a mournful shake and grabbed his pen. "Since there are no longer any grounds for an emergency Ex Parte order and since the sole beneficiary opposes the request, I have no option but to deny the motion." Walters focused his gaze on a spot on the wall between the two men. With a flourish he wrote 'Motion Denied' across the front of the petition and appended his initials and the date. Next he drew an oversize 'X' across the proposed order followed by the words 'denied with prejudice.' "I'll have my clerk put these in the probate department's file for the information of the next judge who hears this matter." Walters looked pointedly at the door. "Gentlemen."

As if his joints had become corroded, Burris painfully rose to his feet and marched stiffly out the door. Janson nodded at Walters and followed several paces behind. His cheeks red, eyes squinted and burning Burris turned on Steve. "You're not getting away with this, you son-of-a-bitch!"

"Malcolm, what do you think—"

"You don't get to call me 'Malcolm' or 'dad' or anything else. It's Judge Burris to you." Burris paused to take a deep breath which only seemed to fuel his rage. "You bastard! You got my daughter killed! Big man, antagonizing that killer. And who paid the price? Who! My little girl, that's who! Now you think you're going to get her money too? You worthless, bastard. . . ." Burris's voice faltered and slowly his face crumbled and collapsed into a sea of tears. Tentatively, Steve reached out to comfort him and reeled back at a ringing slap across his face.

"Don't you dare touch me! You will never get a cent of Lynn's money. And I'm giving you fair warning; I will move heaven and earth to see you disbarred, and arrested and that you spend the rest of your miserable life in prison, you . . . you . . ." breaking down again, Burris turned and scurried from the room. Her forms forgotten, open-mouthed the Clerk stared after him. Steve gave her a polite nod and slipped away.

Over the succeeding months Judge Burris did his best to convert his threats to fact. It was Burris's constant urging, cajoling, and complaining that fueled Ted Hamilton's ill-fated attempt to have Steve charged with Alan Fry's murder. Burris tied up Lynn's estate for almost seven months before his meritless objections were finally dismissed. And then he appealed. The matter had only ended a few months before when the Court of Appeal affirmed the dismissal of Burris's charges and awarded Steve attorney's fees because of the frivolous nature of the Judge's complaint and appeal, a judgment that Burris vowed he would never pay.

All empathy for a father's sorrow now burned away, Steve sent the Sheriff to seize Mrs. Burris's BMW 740 IL and three hours later the judgment was paid in full by certified check.

## * * *

With a start Janson came out of his funk and realized that he had reached his destination. Fontaine had asked Steve to meet him at a parking lot on Pico that had been turned into a flea market for the day. Steve paid five dollars to be let through the gate. Once inside he found Fontaine flipping through boxes of vinyl LPs at the end of a row of folding tables.

"Is this where you get your inventory?" Steve asked from behind. Riley flinched and the albums tumbled forward.

"You made me lose my place," he complained.

"You lose your place. Tom Travis is about to be sent to death row. Life's a bitch." Steve raised his eyebrows in a quizzical expression.

"I wanted to talk to you about those names I gave you."

"Uh-huh."

Fontaine's gaze grew shifty and he backed away from the table. "That was probably a mistake." Steve just looked at him. "I don't think I should have let you intimidate me that way. I don't think that's right." Riley gave Steve a defiant stare.

"Uh-huh." Ten seconds passed.

"Leslie Wahlberg called my dad. She told him you had talked to her about Marian. She told him that I gave you her name." Another long pause.

"And?"

"And," Riley continued as if talking to a child, "that made it look like I was helping you get dirt on Marian, and that's not right." Riley fiddled with his watchband. "I don't want any of that stuff she told you about Marian coming out in court."

"You mean the stuff about Marian being pregnant with another man's baby and her cheating on Tom Travis? That stuff?"

Fontaine's expression grew petulant, like a child working up to a pout. "Marian is the victim here and you're trying to make her into something dirty."

Remembering what a jerk he had been to Travis only an hour ago, Steve choked back a smart remark and reminded himself that the kid had a point. Steve gently pulled Riley out of the stream of bargain hunters into a quiet spot near the chain link fence.

"Riley, you're right. Marian was a decent person who didn't deserve what happened to her. She is a victim. But Tom Travis is a victim too."

"But if you tell people—"

"We all do what we do. Marian wasn't ashamed of her actions, even if everyone else was. She was honest with Tom, honest with her lover, honest with everybody. If everyone were as honest and decent as your sister, this would be a much better world than it is." Riley frowned as if Steve's words had been delivered in a frequency beyond Fontaine's ability to detect. "I don't have any control over what the lawyers do."

"I could ask the judge not to let any of that stuff in. You got it out of me under duress," he pronounced the word carefully as if he had just learned it that afternoon.

"Riley, it's the D.A. who's going to bring all that testimony out, not me."

"The D.A.?"

"He thinks it gives Tom a motive for killing Marian."

Fontaine's face grew longer and he scuffed his foot on the asphalt. "This is going to kill my dad. He thought Marian was perfect."

"Nobody's perfect."

"Marian was, to Dad. I was the screw-up. She was the one who counted."

Steve studied Riley's face, twenty-eight going on seventeen, somebody who watched the world spin past, not understanding much of any of it and not knowing why. He felt sorry for the kid.

"Look, Riley, I talked to your dad. He's a very sharp guy. He understands people. He's the one who gave me your address. Do you think that your helping me was a surprise to him? Do you think that anything Marian did would be a surprise to him? He understood her better than anybody. Do you know what he'll say when he hears what Marian did?" Riley gave him a blank stare. "He'll say, 'Yeah, that's Marian all right. That's exactly what she would do.' And then he'll laugh because she would laugh at anybody who looked down their nose at her. From everything I've learned about her, Marian didn't care what anybody thought. All she cared about was doing the right thing. Nothing's going to change that."

"But people are going to think. . . ." his voice slowed and died away.

"'To hell with what people think,' that's what Marian would have said."

Riley looked back at the boxes of records. "It's going broke."

"Your store?"

"I'm such a loser."

"At running a store."

"What else am I going to do?"

"What would Marian tell you to do?"

"She always said I should find something I was good at."

"There you go."

"I'm not good at anything."

"Look harder."

"I have."

"A friend of mine told me that we have to look hardest in the places that we're most afraid to see," Steve said, remembering his conversation with Iron Mike. It wasn't all that different from the kinds of things Lynn used to say to him in the early days, before things had gotten so . . . tense.

"What?"

"Sometimes the things were afraid to see are the most important things of all."

"I don't understand."

"Understanding is overrated. Sometimes you have to just do it and figure it all out later."

"You're not making any sense."

"Actually," Steve said unable to avoid a flood of painful memories, "I am."

More confused than ever Riley wandered back to the record bins but only stared blindly at the labels and left without buying a single one.

# Chapter Forty-Six

Steve called Markham from his car. "What's the latest from Foster about McGee's records?"

"I got the duty judge to sign a production order based on the D.A.'s last minute addition to his witness list. Foster's guy should be serving it on the Probation Department right about now. The rest of the stuff they'll have to get from the credit card databases and their Internet contacts. They'll email each of us a copy of their report before court starts tomorrow."

"I'll check my email at six tomorrow morning. When's Hamilton going to rest?"

"He'll finish up with Sampson, Marian's divorce lawyer, tomorrow morning, and put McGee on in the afternoon. Thursday he'll call his tech guy to testify that the lamp cord is similar to the cord on the other lamps in the living room. He'll have a couple of other loose ends to tie up and I figure he'll rest sometime on Friday." Steve took a left on a yellow and ignored the glare from a guy in a Lexus 430 coming the other way.

"Can you stall starting your case until Monday?"

"I can try."

"Don't cross examine McGee right away. Put it off and reserve the right to recall him next week in case Foster turns up something useful."

"I hate to let his testimony sit there unanswered."

"Give me more time to get you something that will hurt him."

Markham paused then finally agreed. "All right, but I don't want McGee on the stand any longer than necessary. He's a liar and he hates Tom. God knows what stories he'll make up if I give him an opening."

"Just have the judge order him back to court next week. You don't have to put him on the stand for long if Foster doesn't come up with something. Who else do you have?"

"My tech guy will testify that the lamp cord was generic and could have come from anyplace and I've got the people from the dune buggy trip subpoenaed to say that Travis didn't act like a guy who had just murdered his wife. I'm also going to call the maid to testify that Tom and Marian got along well. And, of course, Garsen will say that everybody had reached an amicable settlement on the domestic front. I'll probably put Garsen on Monday morning, as soon after McGee as I can to try to neutralize his story. That's it."

"You're not putting Tom on the stand?"

"Right after I shave my head and join the Hari Krishnas."

Steve pulled into his building and cut the engine. "I need more time. Can you stall?"

"With what?"

"I'll go through the reports and fax you a list of everybody who was reported on Travis's property in the two weeks before the murder, the pizza delivery guy, the gardener, the cable TV guy, the neighbors, everybody. You included them all on your original witness list didn't you?"

"Are you kidding? I've got half of Beverly Hills on my list. You always include everybody whose name shows up in the police reports just in case. Hell, I've even got the locksmith who installed the security system. Just out curiosity, what am I supposed to ask them?"

"'Were you in the house? Who else was there? Did you have a key to the house? Did you see anyone new in the neighborhood? How were Tom and Marian getting along when you were there?' Just keep them on the stand as long as you can. The more time I have the better. Who knows, maybe one of them will suddenly remember some stranger dressed in a black trench coat and sporting prison tattoos peering through a hole in the fence."

"That would be nice."

Steve turned the lock on his front door. "I'll fax you the list."

An hour later Janson lay sprawled amidst a sea of police reports, at his elbow was a yellow pad with eight names, the maid, Delfina Angelinez, Barry McGee, and six more, one of whom was the mailman who had appeared at the front door a few days before the murder just long enough to get Delfina's signature on a certified letter from Travis' tax attorney. Steve gave the page one final check then stuck it in the fax machine, one copy to Greg, a second one to the Foster Agency so that they could get their guys out serving the subpoenas.

Steve collected all the loose reports into a pile and put them back into chronological order. The next folder in the carton was the forensic report on Travis' house. It was one of the first documents he had examined. Steve glanced at the clock. A quarter to six. There was a frozen something or other in the freezer. The thought alone killed his appetite. He pulled out the folder and lay down on the couch.

There had been a few unidentified prints but Tom had had a catered Christmas party a few days before so the only unusual thing would have been if no unrecognized prints had been discovered. Steve checked the list of identified prints. Nothing on Barry McGee. McGee was in the system so the prints from his drink with Tom must have been cleaned up before the day of the murder. Well, Delfina was a full-time maid.

Nothing except the lamp seemed to be missing from the house. The photos showed paintings, sculpture, electronic equipment, lots of expensive stuff lying around. Steve was ready to bet that Tom had at least one pair of ten thousand dollar diamond cuff links in his bedroom. Steve checked the file. There it was: "HO confirms that no jewelry or personal articles missing." Not a robbery for sure.

A Luminol test had found no traces of blood or semen in any of the downstairs rooms. That Delfina was some maid. A faint trace of gasoline or some other hydrocarbon was found on the family room rug in a narrow line about ten inches long. Steve flipped through the report. No other traces of hydrocarbon spills anywhere in the house. No explanation for this one. Spot remover? Lighter fluid? It could be anything.

Steve closed the file, went to the kitchen and got a bowl of corn flakes. How could it be lighter fluid? Nobody used lighter fluid anymore. These days all lighters were butane. Spot remover in the family room? Delfina was a neat-freak. Steve couldn't picture her spilling spot remover on a white carpet and not cleaning it up. Sure as hell Tom Travis wasn't removing any spots. The mystery tore at him like an unscratched mosquito bite. Steve finished his cereal then tracked down Delfina Angelinez's number.

"Hello?"

"Ms. Angelinez? This is Steve Janson. I'm working with Mr. Markham, Tom Travis's lawyer."

"Yes?" she said cautiously.

"Ms. Angelinez, can I talk with you for a couple of minutes?"

"You are helping Mr. Tom?"

"Yes, I'm working for Tom's lawyer."

"He did not do this thing. He would not hurt Missy Marian," she insisted in a pleading tone.

"I know he's innocent, Ms. Angelinez. I'm trying to prove it. I was reading the police reports—"

"They are wrong! It is not true. Mr. Tom is a good man."

"I know. Ms. Angelinez. That's why I'm calling. The report said the police found traces of gasoline or something like that on the family room rug. Do you know anything about that?"

"Gasoline? In the family room? It is not possible. I told you they were wrong."

"So you didn't use any charcoal lighter fluid—"

"No charcoal. We use propane, big grill in back. Mr. Tom likes to barbeque." Steve could hear the smile in her voice as she pictured Travis turning steaks on the grill.

"Did you use any spot remover or anything like that?"

"Impossible. The police are wrong. I tried to tell them. Mr. Tom didn't hurt anyone but they would not listen to me. Will he be all right?"

What am I supposed to tell her? Steve wondered. "We're doing our best." Was there anything else he needed from her? Steve paused. "Ms. Angelinez, you came back to work the night Ms. Travis disappeared. . . "

"Mr. Tom was alone. I came to help."

"How did he seem?"

"He was upset."

"Upset?"

"He tried to hide it, but he was worried when Missy Marian and Sarah did not come home. . . ."

Not necessarily helpful. People might interpret Travis's nervousness as evidence of guilt. Well, it had been worth a shot.

". . . he almost could not open the door for me."

"Open the door for you? When you came back that night?"

"The lock, it is . . . deadbolt. You need a key even when you are inside. He almost couldn't make it work. That's how I know he was upset."

What? "Didn't you have your own set of keys?"

"The new key didn't work very good. It kept sticking."

"You had a new key?"

"Yes. New. Missy Marian got it for me but it did not work right. It always stick."

"What happened to your old keys?"

There was a long pause, then, embarrassed, Delfina finally said "Lost."

"Lost? When? How?"

"I don't know," Delfina said, clearly frustrated. "I always left them in the same place, then they were gone."

"Where? What place?"

There was crash and a long muffled pause and then Delfina came back on the line. "No, hijo! . . . My grandson is making a mess. Can you call me later?"

Steve felt an odd shiver down his spine. "No, this is important, very important. Please."

"Important for Mr. Tom?"

"Yes, very, very important for Mr. Tom."

There was another pause and a faint, "Edwardo, calmate! Estoy hablando en el telephono . . . Okay, what did you want to ask me?"

"Where did you usually keep your keys?" Steve struggled to keep himself from shouting.

"Where? In the back door, in the lock. That way, if I had to go outside I could just turn the key. It was a deadbolt. All of them were deadbolts, like I told you."

"So you usually left your keys in the back door deadbolt lock?"

"Yes."

"And when you went home at night?"

"I lived in the house."

"But when you did go out, did you take your keys?"

"If I went out alone, grocery shopping, then I would take my keys."

"If you didn't go out alone . . . ?"

"If I go out with Missy Marian, then she take her keys and I leave mine in the back door, so I will know where they are."

"Had you gone shopping with Ms. Marian the day you couldn't find your keys?"

"Yes, she want to go to the Beverly Center. I don't like the Beverly Center. Too big and crowded. The Grove is much nicer," Delfina volunteered in a low voice. "But Missy like it."

"So you left your keys in the back door when you went to the Beverly Center and when you came back, you couldn't find them? Is that right?'

"Yes. I look everywhere."

"Had anyone been in the house while you were gone?"

"While we were gone? No, just the man with Mr. Tom."

The man with Mr. Tom?

"What man was that?" Janson demanded in too loud a voice.

"His friend from the movies. He come in when we go out."

Shit! Shit! Shit!

"What did this friend look like?" Steve asked in as level a tone and he could manage though his heart was racing.

"He look like a cowboy, from the movies. His nose was funny."

"Funny? Like it had been broken?"

"Yes, like that. Is this important?"

"Yes, this is very important."

"Mr. Tom didn't know I lost the keys," she confessed in a rush.

"What?"

"He would be very upset if he knew I lost my keys. He was very worried about safety. Missy Marian got the new keys for me. She said not to tell Mr. Tom. Are you going to tell him?" she asked in a worried tone.

"Don't worry. This is good news."

"Good news? I help Mr. Tom?"

"More than you know."

"Okay. You say hello to Mr. Tom for me?"

"Yes I will. Thank you." Steve had begun to put down the phone when he heard Delfina say something.

"Hello?"

"I remembered something else about that man."

"What?"

"Mr. Tom called him, 'Barry.'"

"Thank you, Delfina, more than I can tell you."

Steve set down the receiver and stared at the stacks of evidence boxes scattered around the room.

Damn! So that's how McGee got into the house! Damn!

# Chapter Forty-Seven

Steve tried to sleep but made a mess of it and staggered back to consciousness around one a.m. For a while he lay there, awake behind his closed eyelids until he finally got up and checked the e-mail at a quarter to two. Nothing. He grabbed a paperback, Jack Vance's The Book Of Dreams, from the pile on his dresser and read until the type started to swim and he couldn't remember what the last sentence was about, then turned off the light. This time he was rewarded with a mish-mash of fevered dreams.

At first he was a kid, back home in his dad's garage working on something or other on dad's old table saw. No matter how hard he tried he just couldn't get the pieces to fit together and the old familiar hollow feeling poured into his gut. In a flash his father was there, staring at the crappy thing he had built, all the ends uneven and askew, shaking his head and frowning. Then his father looked up as if he had just noticed Steve. "Another piece of shit!" he said, frowning, and tossed the thing into the big green plastic can next to the bench. Steve watched it hit the top of the pile and shatter into a dozen pieces. He tried to catch them but they slipped from his grasp. When he turned around his father was gone and Steve noticed that all he was wearing was a pair of jockey shorts and that he was in a room was full of people, some kind of cocktail party. A couple of guys weren't wearing shirts and Steve felt a little better about being half naked, then the guys without shirts disappeared and people started to give him nervous sidelong glances.

"I'll take care of you," Lynn said and led him down a hallway. Then they were inside their bedroom and she was wearing her old beige slip and lying on the bed and Steve started looking around for a condom but he couldn't find one. He pulled out the night stand drawer and there was the box in there but when he tore it open it was empty.

"Steve," Lynn called but he kept ripping the box apart, looking, looking.

"Steve."

"Can't, can't," he whispered and when he turned back to the bed to show her the empty box she scowled and he knew she hated him and that he had let her down. He looked around the room and when he turned back the bed was empty and there was a terrible puddle of blood in the center and he knew why and he didn't want to look but—"

Ahhhhah Steve groaned and lurched awake. His heart was pounding a slow sledgehammer beat, thudding so hard that he feared that at any moment it might fail and he would die in this shitty apartment in a puddle of sweat without Markham even knowing the secret he had discovered about Delfina's keys.

Steve closed his eyes and lay back against the plasterboard wall, the crappy bed too cheap to even have a headboard. He listened to the pounding of his heart, willing it slow to normal and let him live for another day. Finally, his breathing lost its rasping gasp and Steve squinted at the glowing digits on the dresser clock — 4:17. He took a deep slow breath and closed his eyes. 4:53. In the distance he heard the muted rumble of the freeway. The monster was already coming alive. Screw it! He stripped off his shorts and t-shirt and staggered into the shower.

By the time he was dressed and had put water on for coffee the Foster Agency report was in his Gmail InBox attached to a brief cover note. Most of it had come straight out of the Probation Department's pre-sentencing investigation in connection with McGee's drug charge.

The first interesting fact was that the actual charge that McGee had pleaded guilty to was "offering to furnish methamphetamine to a minor" instead of possession of methamphetamine for sale. That made the conviction a strike under California's "Three Strikes" law. Apparently the only way the D.A. would allow McGee to stay out of state prison was for him to carry a strike for the crime.

Steve jumped to McGee's personal history section. Born in Golden, Colorado, his father was listed as rancher, his mother a homemaker. McGee dropped out of school at the age of sixteen following a fire that destroyed the family home, then he worked at various jobs, fast food clerk, Walmart Associate, carpet installer and the like for the next five or six years.

He was charged with an assault for a bar fight when he was twenty-one but the case was dismissed as a mutual altercation. He picked up another charge a year later for petty larceny from the auto parts store where he was employed but those charges were dropped when the store's records were destroyed in a fire.

The year after that McGee was arrested for attempted murder in a baseball bat attack on a bouncer in the parking lot behind a strip club. No wonder he didn't like cops. Those charges were dismissed when the victim refused to testify after his tricked-out Lincoln went up in a ball of flames one night while parked in his own driveway. That apparently really pissed off the cops and, although they couldn't get him on the attempted murder charge, McGee ended up pleading guilty to arson for torching the car and did nine months in the county jail after time off for good behavior. Portrait of a young sociopath, Steve thought.

Even though his arson conviction was in another state and he didn't get state prison time, it was still a strike under California law. That made McGee's drug charge a second strike. After a look at this record, no wonder the D.A. insisted on him getting a strike for the speed. The D.A. set things up so that one more serious conviction would be a third strike that would put McGee away for twenty-five years! Maybe he figured that would keep Barry on a short leash.

Once he got out of jail on the arson charge McGee left Colorado for LA. Like a million other people he must have decided he was destined for a career in the movies but he had better luck than most of them. He started as an extra and apparently discovered a talent for stunt work. Except for his drug conviction, for the last ten years McGee's record had been clean.

According to the probation report Barry had a younger sister, married and living in Denver. The report said they were 'estranged.' His father was dead. At the time of his arrest Barry's mother, Sheila Travis, had moved to California and worked in a beauty salon in the north end of the County. The Foster investigator had been thorough and had run her Social. According to her contribution records Sheila Travis had stopped work three months before Marian Travis disappeared. A Medical search revealed that she had suffered a massive stroke and had been confined to a long term care facility out in the Valley shortly thereafter. She had no current vehicles registered in her name but a back check revealed that at the time of Marian Travis's murder Sheila Travis was the registered owner of a 1999 Ford Windstar. The vehicle's color was not included in the DMV files.

The van was listed as having been sold in mid-January, two weeks after the murder, to a Lorraine Goodwin in Thousand Oaks. McGee's only vehicle was the '92 Camaro which was still registered in his name.

Uttering a silent prayer, Steve called information and asked for Lorraine Goodwin's number. After a ten second pause, the computer clicked in and offered to dial the number for him for a slight additional charge. The phone was picked up on the third ring.

"Hello?"

"Ms. Goodwin?"

"Yes?"

"My name is Steven Janson. I'm working with Attorney Greg Markham on the Tom Travis murder case."

"Oh my goodness."

"Ms. Goodwin, did you purchase a Ford Windstar van about a year and a half ago?"

"Does it have something to do with that woman's murder?"

"It might. Did you purchase such a vehicle?"

"Yes, I did."

"Ms. Goodwin, what color is it?"

"The van? It's black. Why?"

Yes!

"Do you still have it?"

"It's in my garage right now."

Thank you God!

"Ms. Goodwin, your van may contain vital evidence in this case. Would you allow us to have it inspected? We'll pay for a replacement vehicle."

"When would you need it? I've got deliveries to make. I bake pies."

"I'll have Enterprise deliver a new van to your house by nine this morning."

"Are you sure this is necessary?"

"This may be our only chance to get Ms. Travis's killer. Please, Ms. Goodwin, I'm begging you."

She paused a second but couldn't miss the desperation plain in Steve's voice. "Well, I suppose I can do without it for a day or two."

"Thank you. Do you still have the paperwork from when you bought it?"

"It was a private sale, out of the Times want ads."

"Do you have the cancelled check?"

"It was a cashier's check, but I have the carbon copy in my file."

"Who did you make it out to?"

"Just a minute. Let me check."

Steve made a fresh pot of coffee with his left hand while he waited, growing more anxious with each passing minute.

"I'm sorry I took so long. I had to find the file. I made the check out to the owner's son. A . . . Barry McGee. . . Hello?"

Jesus Christ, the son of a bitch actually did it! I was in Ensenada! Bullshit!

"Yes, I'm here. Please don't go anywhere. I'll be there in," Steve checked the clock. "Forty five minutes."

Steve hung up the phone before she could change her mind or he started babbling, whichever happened first, then began pounding his fist on the counter as he waited for Greg to answer his cell.

"I see you got the report."

"The son of a bitch did it!" Steve shouted into the phone.

"What?"

"That bastard, Barry McGee, did it! That prick, that son-of-a-bitch—"

"What a minute! Slow down. What—"

"He stole the maid's keys. That's how he got into the house."

"McGee stole her keys?"

"I talked to her last night. They went missing right after McGee and Travis had their little drink together."

"And nobody ever mentioned this before?"

"Tom didn't know. Delfina was afraid he'd be mad so Marian covered for her and got her a replacement set without telling him."

Markham shook his head in frustrated wonder. "Okay, that's good work but—"

"His mother owned a black van!" Steve shouted, unable to restrain himself.

"You've lost me."

"The only unidentified vehicle on the street that day was a black van. McGee's mother owned a black van. He sold it two weeks after Marian disappeared."

"We've got to find—"

"I already have. Get out your pen. Foster's people need to send a transport to take it to a forensic lab. The owner's giving us permission to search it and a copy of the cashier's check she gave to Barry McGee. If there are prints, hair, blood, anything belonging to Marian's or Sarah still in that van, we've got him!"

"It's been almost a year and a half."

"I've decided to think positively. All we need is one fingerprint. One lousy print! We'll need comparison DNA samples and full forensics team and a testing lab on standby."

"The D.A. has already typed Marian and Sarah's DNA. I'll have a copy by lunch."

"The owner said she got the van from an ad in the Times. We'll need somebody to run down their records to prove McGee placed the ad. And we'll need his mother's medical file or her doctor's testimony to prove she was incapable of driving a vehicle at the time of the murder." Markham was writing so fast even he could barely read his own scrawl.

"The van Travis's neighbor saw was supposed to be from a swimming pool company so I'd better talk to them and find out some way to prove the one the neighbor saw wasn't theirs."

"Get a picture of one of their vehicles and show it to the witness."

"You need to have somebody call Enterprise and have them deliver a substitute van to the owner," Steve recited her name and address. "I'm on my way over there to get her paperwork."

"Don't forget to get a picture of her van to show to the witness and the swimming pool people. I'll have Brian get a court order for the Times' want-ad records."

"Are we going to have enough time to get all this done? When I was with the D.A.'s office DNA tests usually took more than a month."

"I'll ask my questions real slow."

"I'm out of here."

"Steve . . . you did good."

"Hold on to the congratulations until we find out if this works."

Steve slurped half a cup of coffee and ran out the door.

# Chapter Forty-Eight

The woman who saw the black van Mrs. Eleanor Roberts who lived across the street and three houses down from Travis's mansion. Armed with a picture of Ms. Goodwin's Windstar Steve parked in front of the Roberts' house around ten-thirty. Unlike Travis's walled estate, the Roberts home had a large, open front yard guarded only by a waist-high lattice fence, now almost completely hidden by roses in bloom. A new Bentley Continental Flying Spur, royal blue, was parked in the driveway and Steve paused for a moment to admire its sleek lines and a paint job so lustrous that he felt that if he tried to touch it his fingers would sink into the surface to the depth of at least half an inch.

"Do you like it?" a thin voice asked.

Steve turned to see a slender woman, well past seventy in spite of a mound of orange-russet hair. An old-fashioned rose tray hung from her left arm and inside lay half a dozen blooms in a rainbow of colors.

"It's beautiful," Steve told her. "How long have you had it?"

"About two months. I bought it as a present to myself, when my Walter died." A cloud passed over her face, then she smiled gamely. "I don't know what I was saving the money for. I never had a car I really enjoyed before this. It's all Mr. Leno's fault."

"Mr. Leno?"

"I read that he has hundreds of cars, buys them all the time. I was looking at my old car, Walter's car, really, and I wondered what it would be like to have fifty cars or ten cars or even two of them. How would you drive them all?"

"I understand that Jay Leno drives a different one every day."

"Yes! That's what the paper said. Well, it started me thinking. I should get a car of my own, one that I liked. Once I decided to buy a new one, I had no idea what kind I should get. I looked in the magazines but it was so confusing. I couldn't make head nor tail out of it. My grandson, he's at Cal Tech, told me to go on the Internet." Ms. Roberts laughed.

"How did you pick the Bentley?"

"I called Mr. Leno. One of Walter's friends is a something or other at NBC and he said to call and use his name."

"And Leno took your call?"

"Such a nice young man. He asked me all kinds of questions about what I wanted the car for and what I liked and didn't like and how much I could afford to spend. Well," Eleanor waved at her house, a ten million dollar property at least, "I don't care about the money. I just wanted to have a little fun. I don't have too many fun years left," she admitted with a little frown. "Mr. Leno told me to spend the money and enjoy life while I can, then he recommended the Bentley. They're owned by the Germans now, you know."

"Really," Steve said, involuntarily glancing back at the car.

"I picked out the color. They'll make in any color you like and they measure you for the seats. It's all custom built. I thought things like that were a lost art." Mrs. Roberts stared at the car with an expression akin to love.

"It's magnificent," Steve agreed.

"It's a V-12. It will go zero to sixty in five point four seconds," Eleanor added proudly. "Mr. Leno came over after I got it and he drove me down to his studio so that I could watch his show. Such a sweet man," she said with a beatific smile. They both stared at the car for a few seconds longer, then Eleanor turned back to Steve. "Are you here about my Bentley?"

"No." Steve handed her his card.

"Oh. I never thought Mr. Travis did it," she confided in a soft voice. "He's such a nice man. Never made any noise. And he was always very polite. Excellent manners, not like some of the people in this neighborhood." Ms. Roberts glanced toward the end of the block and frowned.

"According to the police, you said that you saw a strange van in the neighborhood on the day that Ms. Travis disappeared."

"Yes, I did. You can't trust the police to protect you, you know. You have to watch out for yourself these days, what with the gangs and the terrorists and all."

Steve couldn't picture a band a marauding gang bangers from East LA terrorizing this neighborhood, but he kept that thought to himself.

"I couldn't agree with you more. Do you remember what the van looked like?"

"Of course. There's nothing wrong with my memory."

"No, ma'am." Steve stared at her politely.

"Oh, yes, the van." Eleanor closed her eyes. "It was black. Not blue, not brown. Black. I told that detective that. And it had a sign on the side. A black sign with white letters, Sunshine Pool Service, with a phone number. I don't remember the number."

"A black sign? The name wasn't painted on the van?"

"I said it was a sign. I know what I saw. It was one of those plastic signs about," she held up her hands about three feet apart, "that long and," her arms closed to indicate a two foot gap, "that high. You see them all the time on pickup trucks. Plastic things they glue on the door."

Steve was about to ask if she had told all this to the police but stopped. Obviously, she hadn't. Why not? Probably because they didn't ask. He had stopped at a Walgreen's on the way over and printed out a picture of the Ms. Goodwin's Windstar from the digital camera's memory card.

"Does this look like the van you saw, except for the sign on the side?" he asked removing the eight by ten photo from a manila envelope.

"Hmmm. Let me see." Ms. Roberts slipped on a pair of glasses from a chain around her neck. "Just for reading," She assured him. "My distance vision is fine. Want me to read that street sign at the end of the block?"

"No, Ms. Roberts. I'm sure your vision is excellent."

"Except for up close. Let me see . . . " For a moment she stared at the picture then hummed, then looked back at Janson. "Yes, that's the van, but, as you said, without the sign."

Steve gave her a big smile. "That's great, Ms. Roberts. Wonderful. Just to be absolutely sure, this is the same type and color vehicle that you saw on the street here the day Marian Travis disappeared, New Year's Eve day, last year?"

"No."

"No? But. . . ."

"It's not the same type of vehicle. It is the very same vehicle I saw, without the sign," she said firmly.

"This is the same vehicle?" Steve asked, confused.

"Yes."

"The same actual, identical vehicle that was here on that day?"

"Isn't that what I just said? I'm not senile you know."

"No . . . I . . . how can you be sure it's the same one?"

Mrs. Roberts tapped the picture. "Well, just look at that."

Steve stared at the photo. Eleanor's ruby fingernail tapped the driver's side front bumper. Steve squinted at the picture. The bumper was dimpled to the depth of a small tea cup.

"The dent?"

"I noticed that the instant I saw that van. I remember thinking how those tradesmen drive those things every which way until it's worth your life to share the road with them. Just look at that dent in that bumper. And there it still is." Eleanor tapped the picture one more time for emphasis.

"Son-of. . . ." Steve bit his tongue. "Sorry."

"Gentlemen don't use that sort of language, Mr. Janson."

"I apologize, Ms. Roberts. I was just amazed and gratified by your keen powers of observation and your excellent memory."

Eleanor beamed. "Well, in that case, you're forgiven."

Steve gave her an appraising glance. "Have you ever testified in a murder trial?"

"Me? Gracious no."

"Would you be willing to tell the jury what you saw? Remember, a man's life is at stake."

"Would reporters be there?"

"Yes, they would. It will be very exciting. Unlike anything you've ever done before or ever will again. Can you stand a little excitement to save an innocent man's life?"

"Well," Eleanor said, considering the matter, "I suppose I shall have to, won't I?"

"We can send a limo to pick you up."

"Out of the question." Eleanor glanced at her Bentley, fluorescing a brilliant blue in the morning light. "If I must testify in court, I shall arrive in style."

Steve told her that someone would contact her with the details and shook her hand. She insisted on giving him a rose.

# Chapter Forty-Nine

Markham felt a strange sense of déjà-vu. Tom Travis flanked by two of Greg's junior attorneys again sat beside him. Malcolm Burris was back on the bench, if anything more irascible than ever. And Ted Hamilton was his old pompous self, grinning as he led his pet witnesses through their paces like trained ponies. Hamilton finished with Harold Sampson Wednesday morning, then plugged some minor holes in his chain of evidence testimony with various clerks and paper pushers on Wednesday afternoon. He had asked Markham to stipulate to these points but, mindful of his desperate need to stall, Greg had refused, ending any hope he might have had for any similar courtesies from the D.A. should Markham need them later in the trial.

Thursday morning was consumed with testimony from the D.A.'s expert on the electrical wire which served as the murder weapon. Markham had managed to stretch his cross out for over an hour with a series of questions that seemed pointless even to him, surrendering only when it was close enough to noon that he knew Hamilton would be unable to get another witness on the stand before lunch. When they resumed Thursday afternoon, Hamilton called his final witness, Barry McGee.

Markham objected and drew out the argument for over ten minutes before the judge, red-faced with frustration, sent him scuttling back to the defense table. McGee was dressed in black cotton pants, a freshly pressed white shirt, open at the collar, and a wheat colored sport coat, obviously specially bought for the occasion. Polished oxblood cowboy boots completed his outfit.

The prosecutor began with McGee's name, address and occupation to which Barry replied with an exaggerated Good Old Boy twang, like, Markham thought, George Bush in a flannel shirt and jeans campaigning in Oklahoma. 'I'm just a simple country boy,' Markham heard as a vague echo in the back of his head, 'but I'll tell you the straight story without any fancy lawyer tricks. I'll tell you what.' But even an idiot could tell that the jury was buying it. They smiled at McGee's 'aw shucks' simplicity and hung on his every word. Hamilton was smart enough to begin with McGee's long relationship with Tom Travis, a little inside movie history that only increased the jury's interest.

"When is the first time you met the defendant, Tom Travis, Mr. McGee?"

"Well sir, that was, oh, ten years ago. I was just a kid. My daddy had a ranch in Colorado, near Golden, where they make the beer." McGee glanced at the jury and smiled. They smiled back. "Well, like a lot of kids I got it into my head to get into the movies. It wasn't as easy I thought." Another grin. "I had been here about three or four months and I'd just about run out of money when I got a job as an extra on a western, Yuma Sunset. Tom was the star. He saw me over by the horses and said, 'You look like you know your way around a pony' and I told him I could ride some. He looked at me and said that it looked like we were both pretty much the same size. Would I like to double for him in the big chase scene. He'd hurt his back, you see, and it was real painful for him to ride a horse at a full gallop. Anyway, I told him 'You bet,' and we've been friends ever since."

"How many movies have you worked on with Mr. Travis over the years?"

"Well, let me see. After Yuma Sunset there was Double Cross, Against The Grain, Danger Nights . . . I guess maybe ten movies all told."

"Did you always act as Mr. Travis's double?"

"No, he helped me get into the stuntman side of the business. Better pay. If you," Barry looked at the jury, "saw a movie in the last ten years where Tom Travis fell off a horse or crashed a car or was thrown out of a building, that was me." Barry gave the jurors a proud grin.

"Would you say that you and Tom Travis were friends?"

"Well," McGee said with small sad smile, "as much as crew and stars can be friends."

"What do you mean?"

"It's like when the rich guy goes into the market and says 'Hi' to the butcher. He's friendly but he's not going to invite the man over for Christmas dinner, if you take my meaning."

"But you and Mr. Travis were on good terms?"

"Oh, sure. Before he got married we used to go out together all the time, hit the clubs, chase some girls." Another smile. "We had some good times all right."

"What about after Mr. Travis and his wife Marian were married?"

"That pretty much put a stop to our running around, which, of course, was the right thing, him being married and all. I'd still see him at work though, you know, on the set."

"When was the last time you saw Mr. Travis before his wife disappeared?"

"It was a couple of days after Christmas, right before she went missing."

"And where was this?"

"At Tom's house in Beverly Hills."

"What was the occasion?"

"I hadn't seen him for a while and I gave him a call. I needed a job and I was hoping he could call some of his producer friends and help me out. He told me, 'Come on over to the house. We'll have a drink for old times' sake.'"

"So you went to Mr. Travis's home on North Rexford Drive on the afternoon of December 27th?"

"Don't have to offer me a free drink twice." Another smile.

"Was Mr. Travis alone when you arrived?"

"His wife and the maid was just leaving when I came in. She said hello. She seemed very nice, real friendly, then they left, her and the maid, and Tom took me into his family room and offered me a drink."

"Had Mr. Travis been drinking before you arrived."

"There was a half empty glass of scotch on the table next to him and I could tell—"

"Objection, speculation," Markham interrupted. "Mr. McGee's not a mind reader."

"Your honor, Mr. McGee has testified that he had gone out drinking with Mr. Travis on numerous occasions. He certainly has experience in observing the effect alcohol has on Mr. Travis over time."

"Overruled."

"You were saying, Mr. McGee?"

"I could tell that Tom had already had two or three drinks before I got there. His face gets this pink color after he's had a couple and I could tell by how he walked and the tone of his voice that he was at least two drinks ahead of me."

Suppressing a frown, Markham bent over his legal pad and pretended to take notes. Having established that McGee was a salt-of-the-earth fellow who was a long-time friend of the defendant, Hamilton had now given the jury a reason why Travis might have been foolish enough to shoot off his mouth about his marriage. Of course a half-drunk egomaniac might let slip his boiling frustrations to an old companion in the privacy of his own home. What better venue for Tom Travis to reveal his deepest secrets?

Step by step, Hamilton led McGee through his story, Travis's sterility, his being kicked out of his wife's bed, her openly cuckolding him with another man, flaunting the bastard child growing in her belly, and Travis having to swallow every bitter drop of it, cowed by her blackmail threats, all with McGee there as a convenient witness to the defendant's growing rage.

"After Ms. Travis disappeared, did you contact the police?"

"No, sir," McGee admitted, embarrassed.

"Why not?"

"Well sir, where I come from a man doesn't volunteer to snitch on his friends."

"But a woman had been killed. Didn't you think this information might be important?"

A big sigh. "I tried not to think about it. I didn't want to believe that Tom did it, and besides, the police know their job. I figured that if they wanted to talk to me, they would."

"How then did you end up here in court today?"

McGee hung his head, embarrassed, then looked up. "A police detective visited me last Sunday and started asking me questions." He turned to the jury and gave them a sincere stare. "I couldn't lie to him."

"If you know, why did the police finally contact you after all this time?"

"Well sir, someone working for Tom's lawyer, a guy named Steven Janson, contacted the police and asked them about Tom's old friends. My name was mentioned and Mr. Janson talked to me. I guess the cops figured that they'd better find out whatever it was that I told Mr. Janson so they gave me a call. I told the detective the truth and he gave me a subpoena ordering me to court today." McGee pulled out a piece of paper. "I didn't have any choice," he added as if testifying against his old friend was the last thing in the world he wanted to do.

"No more questions, Your Honor."

Clever, Markham thought. Hamilton could have brought out all the dirt about McGee's drug arrest and the supposed bad blood between himself and Travis on direct but he decided to take a chance and let it go. Now, when Markham brought it up, McGee would give the jury his 'Aw Shucks' smile and deny that he was really mad at Tom. Hell, Tom had invited him into his house for a drink, hadn't he? The cops had come to McGee, hadn't they, not the other way around. They had even had to subpoena him just to get him to testify. If Markham tried to make it look like McGee was out to get Travis it would seem like a desperate attempt to discredit an obviously truthful witness.

Markham looked at the clock. Twenty to four.

"Your Honor, as the Court knows, Mr. McGee was added to the Prosecutor's witness list just yesterday morning."

"We've been through this, Mr. Markham."

"Yes, Your Honor. My point is that when a witness is added at the last moment, at the same time that the defense is working night and day to ready its own case, it makes it difficult to properly prepare for a proper cross examination. For that reason, the defense wishes to defer its examination of this witness until the sometime next week during the presentation of the defendant's case. We would ask the court to order Mr. McGee to return to court upon four hours telephone notice from the defense so that we may examine him after we have had sufficient time to properly prepare."

Burris frowned at what he assumed was a lawyer in love with the sound of his own voice. "Mr. McGee, you will come back to this court whenever the defendant's lawyer calls you on the phone and asks you to. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"And Your Honor. . . "

"What now, Mr. Markham?"

"I would request that the Court instruct the jury not to form any opinions based on Mr. McGee's testimony until they've heard the whole story after I have had the opportunity to cross examine him."

"The jury will not form any opinions about this witnesses' testimony or about this case until they have heard all of the evidence. Anything else?"

"No, Your Honor."

"Mr. Hamilton?"

"Your Honor, the Prosecution rests."

Burris glanced at the clock. "We'll adjourn until nine-thirty tomorrow when the defense will begin presentation of its case." The judge's gavel made a loud THWOCK and everyone rose.

"Why didn't you tear him up?" Travis demanded in a terrified whisper.

"I've got to wait until I've got more than just blanks in my gun."

"When's that going to be? We start tomorrow for God's sake!"

"Fear not. The cavalry's on the way."

"What?" Travis asked in disbelief.

"Otherwise known as Steve Janson."

Ignoring Travis's fear and confusion, the deputy clasped handcuffs on Tom's wrists and led him away.

# Chapter Fifty

At nine thirty Friday morning the judge turned to Greg Markham and ordered him to call his first witness.

"Stanley Haupman," Markham's assistant, Brian Wells called out.

"Who's Haupman?" Hamilton whispered to his Number Two followed by a rattle of papers as they leafed through Markham's witness list. They finally found the name near the bottom of the second page: Stanley Haupman, the mailman who had delivered a certified letter to the Travis house a little over a week before the murder.

While Markham pretended to take notes, Wells led Hauptman through his name, address, occupation, place of residence, age, educational background, occupational history, years of service with the Post Office, and every other vaguely relevant question he could think of, all at a measured, leisurely pace. After several objections, which Markham secretly welcomed since each took additional time to argue, Wells worked his way up to the day in question. Hauptman confirmed that he had delivered a certified letter and that the maid, Delfina Angelinez, had signed the form.

No, he hadn't heard any arguments. No, he hadn't seen anyone suspicious on that or any other occasion. Yes, he had pressed a buzzer out on the street and someone inside had released the gate. Finally, Wells could string things out no longer and sat down. Hamilton asked no questions.

"The defense calls Kyle Paulli," Wells announced after a few seconds delay. Paulli, the pizza delivery boy who had visited the house three weeks before the murder, was similarly put through his paces. Then came the pool man. At a quarter to four Markham ran out of what he described to Wells as 'cannon fodder' and noting the lateness of the hour and the impending weekend, requested an early recess. The judge motioned for counsel to approach the bench.

"I know what you are doing, Mr. Markham," Burris began, "and I'm not going to stand for any more of it."

"Your Honor—"

"You are deliberately delaying this trial, wasting the Court's time with pointless witnesses who have no relevant testimony and I've had quite enough of it."

"Your Honor, I assure you that I am merely putting on my case in a way that I think is most advantageous to my client."

"I'm not interested in what is advantageous to your client, or what is advantageous to the Prosecution either, for that matter. I am interested in the proper conduct of this trial and as of now your stalling is over. I'm giving you until Monday morning to start calling real witnesses with real testimony or you will find yourself in contempt of court. Are we clear?"

"Yes, Your Honor. About my request for adjournment. . . ."

Burris frowned. "Step back. . . We're adjourned until nine-thirty Monday morning," Burris announced sourly and slammed his gavel.

That morning Markham's staff together with Janson and the operatives at the Foster agency had swung into high gear. By six o'clock Friday evening Ms. Roberts had been contacted with the details of her court appearance; a declaration of the custodian of the records of the Los Angeles Times want-ad department had been obtained; the locksmith who had installed Travis's security system was subpoenaed; certified copies of the Department Of Motor Vehicles records on the Windstar had been retrieved; the doctor who had treated Sheila Travis was served with a subpoena and ordered to bring her records to court with him, and the forensics experts had completed the disassembly of the cabin of Lorraine Goodwin's black van almost to the last nut and bolt.

In the process they had found dozens of hairs and fibers, all of which had to be tested. Most of the hairs were only shafts with no root tag from which a DNA match might be made. Only six hairs with roots had been recovered and only two of those matched Marian's or Sarah's coloring. The lab was doing a rush DNA test on both of them, and on the other four as well, just in case.

That Friday morning Steve had visited the Sunshine Pool Service and silently cursed Simon Katz for a fool. The company's offices consisted of a double wide trailer at the end of a large, fenced-in asphalt lot filled with service vans, every one of which was white with the words "Sunshine Pool Service" painted on the side in blue script. Steve took digital pictures of the van fleet and obtained a sworn affidavit from the manager that at the time of Marian's disappearance that Sunshine had owned only white vans similar to those in Steve's picture. Steve also served the man with a subpoena in case the D.A. refused to stipulate to the facts contained in his affidavit.

By Friday afternoon Steve and three investigators from the Foster Agency were working their way through every sign shop in the greater Los Angeles area hoping to find the one that McGee had used to make the fake Sunshine Pool Service logo that had been affixed to the side of the black van. Steve had started his search on the theory that if he were smart McGee would have picked a large, busy sign shop in hopes that his transaction soon would be forgotten, lost in the shuffle. He also assumed that McGee would have used a company as far away from his home and his job as possible, maybe even going as far as Orange County or San Diego to avoid detection. Since they couldn't check all of Southern California, they had started with the larger Los Angeles County locations most distant from McGee's haunts, completely without success.

Finally, Steve decided to assume that McGee was an idiot and began checking the smaller outlets close to Barry's apartment. Late on Friday afternoon, worn and sweaty and discouraged, Steve entered the eighth store on the revised list, Alfred's All-Needs Signs on Victory Boulevard out in the Valley. Only seventy-three more to go.

As he entered Steve almost knocked over a stout man in his fifties.

"You here about a sign?" the man asked. Steve looked around. Signs of every description covered the walls. Metal signs: 'Posted - No Trespassing'; plastic signs: 'No Life Guard On Duty'; large signs: 'Big Sale Now'; small signs: 'Do Not Touch'. Signs of every color, material and description. The man looked at Steve expectantly.

"Yes, I'm here about a sign." It seemed a safe answer.

"Because I'm just about to close."

"You're Alfred?"

"Who?"

Next to the cash register was an engraved plastic sign reading: "Make All Checks Payable To 'Alfred's All-Needs Signs'"

"Alfred? Alfred's Signs?"

"Oh, there's no Alfred. I just wanted an 'A.'"

"Excuse me?"

"An 'A,' you know, for the phone book. I could have made it Arthur's but, you know, Alfred comes before Arthur."

"Or you could have made it Abe's."

"Huh?"

Okay, not the sharpest knife in the drawer, Steve decided. Moving on.

"I'm Steve Janson." Steve smiled and held out his hand.

"Everett Yelley."

"Nice to meet you. Do you make those plastic signs, about two feet by three feet with raised letters that you can put on the side of a van or a truck?"

"Two feet by three feet? I don't know if I can make you one that size. Normally, we make them twenty by thirty four." Everett screwed up his face in thought. "I think two feet by three feet would be a special order."

Maybe closer to a spoon than a knife. "Ummm, that's okay, Everett, twenty by thirty four is fine. So you do make those?"

"Oh sure, I make 'em all the time."

"I'm interested in a black one—"

"Black letters? That's what most people want, standard, you know, but we could make them blue or green if you like. How about red? Red stands out real good."

"No, Everett, I'm interested in a black sign with white letters. Sunshine Pool Service."

"Sure, we can do that. What happened to the other guy?"

"The other guy?"

"Did he quit or something, 'cause he was pretty particular about that sign. Knew exactly what he wanted. Of course, a sign's no good if it's got the wrong words on it."

Everett was definitely operating without a net.

"You made another sign for the Sunshine Pool Service?"

"Well, sure. Isn't that why you're here?"

To hell with it, Steve decided. Go with the flow.

"Yes, yes it is. Do you still have the paperwork on that? It would have been around mid-December, year before last."

"Sure, I remember. Black sixty mil with white letters, Verdana font." Everett hurried behind the counter with a rolling gate and pulled out a large green plastic binder. "Yep," he announced happily, "here it is. Verdana, just like I said." He laid the notebook flat on the counter and Steve studied the page. On December 28th a Bill Jackson had purchased a Sunshine Pool Service flexible raised plastic sign, white letters on a black background, twenty by thirty four inches for $92.20, including tax. He paid in cash.

"Do you remember this Bill Jackson?" Steve asked, tapping the page.

"Sure. I knew you weren't him, didn't I?"

"Would you recognize him if you saw him again?"

"Why, is he missing?"

"Sort of. What do you remember about him?"

"Cowboy kind of guy, white, with a funny nose."

"Is this him?" Steve handed Everett a DMV photo of Barry McGee.

"If you've got his picture, why'd you ask me to describe him?"

"Just to be sure. This is Bill Jackson, right?"

"He worked for you, don't you know?"

Steve reminded himself that at least Everett was supporting himself instead living on public assistance.

"Yes, but I need to find out if you know." Steve gave Everett a wink.

Everett thought about that for a heartbeat, then smiled. "Right."

"So, Everett, who is this guy in the picture?"

"That's Bill Jackson," Everett said proudly.

"Did he buy a sign from you, a year ago December?"

"Yes, he did," Everett answered immediately, now getting into the swing of things.

"What was on the sign he bought?"

"Sunshine Pool Service, just like it says here." Everett proudly tapped the invoice.

"Everett, have you ever been a witness in court?"

"No," Everett said uneasily, confused again.

"Congratulations, you're about to get your chance." Steve smiled, shook Everett's hand, then pulled out a pre-issued subpoena and began filling in Everett's name.

# Chapter Fifty-One

On Monday morning, perfectly dressed in a gray pinstripe suit, white shirt and red and black striped tie, Robert Garsen somberly held up his right hand and promised to tell the truth. Markham took five minutes establishing Garsen as a multimillionaire executive and then got down to business.

"Did you know Marian Travis?"

"Yes."

"When and how did you two meet?"

Garsen paused then described talking with Marian at a charity auction to raise money for a battered women's shelter.

"Did you become friends?"

"Yes," Garsen said, his voice tightening.

"At some point did you become more than friends?"

"Yes."

"You and Marian Travis became lovers?"

Garsen's skin turned clammy and he fixed his gaze stolidly straight ahead. "Yes," he admitted in a choked voice. A hush rippled through the courtroom. For a moment, Travis gave Garsen a burning stare, then pointedly looked away.

"At the time of her death, Marian Travis was pregnant. Were you the father of that child?"

There was a long pause and Garsen's answer seemed to stick in his throat, then, in a cracking voice, he said, "I believe so." This time the spectators made a noise like a gust of wind through the trees. Garsen pulled out a clean handkerchief and wiped his brow.

Step by step Markham led Garsen through his relationship with Marian, the places they had gone, the things they had done, their plans for the future.

"Did you and Marian have plans to be together on the New Year's day that she disappeared?"

"Yes, I have a boat at the Marina. Marian, her daughter Sarah and I were going sailing."

"When did those plans change?"

"A couple of days before, I mean the 29th."

"Why?"

"Marian and I had an argument about what we were going to do that night, New Year's Eve, and . . . well the result was the whole day got cancelled."

"Then as of the 27th, Marian . . . you said her daughter Sarah was also coming with you?"

"Yes."

"So, as of the 27th Marian and Sarah were supposed to be out on the water all New Year's Eve day with you?"

"Yes."

"Had she told Mr. Travis of this plan?"

"Yes. He knew we were planning on spending the day together."

"So, Tom Travis knew of your relationship?"

"Yes."

"Did he know that you and Marian had planned to marry as soon as her divorce from him was final?"

"Yes."

"Was she going to ask Mr. Travis for any money as part of the dissolution of their marriage?"

"Not a penny. She was well off in her own right as am I. She was waiving all claims for community property and support."

"Including child support?"

"It was my baby, not his. My responsibility."

"Was Marian angry with Tom?"

"No," Garsen said emphatically.

"As far as you know, was Tom angry with Marian?"

"She said he wasn't."

"Had everything been worked out amicably between the two of them?"

"Marian told me it had."

"Why didn't she divorce him as soon as she got pregnant with your child?"

"She said it would make Tom look bad if she filed right after she got pregnant. She said 'Look what happened to Charlie Sheen.' She decided to wait until after the baby was born to make it easier on Mr. Travis. She didn't want to hurt him. She was going to tell the press that the stress of the new baby together with Tom's career had put strains on the marriage and that the split had been a mutual decision on amicable terms."

"So, Marian was leaving Tom on amicable terms and not asking for even one penny from him?"

"Yes, that's right."

"And she wasn't angry with Tom?"

"No, not at all."

"And he wasn't angry with her?"

"No."

"No more questions."

"Mr. Hamilton?"

The Prosecutor rose slowly and ambled toward the witness stand.

"Have you ever met Tom Travis?"

"No."

"Have you ever talked with him?"

"No."

"Have you ever had any communication with him of any sort at all?"

"No."

"So, of your own personal knowledge, you don't know how he felt about you and his wife, do you?"

"No," Garsen admitted.

"In fact, for all you know, Tom Travis could have been furious with Marian for cuckolding him with you?"

Garsen's cheeks flushed. "Yes, but—"

"The jury is only interested in what you know, not what someone else may have told you. You said that Marian Travis loved you."

"Yes."

"It stands to reason then that she wouldn't want to tell you anything that would upset or hurt you, doesn't it?"

"I suppose."

"Would it have bothered you if you had known that Tom Travis hated her for cheating on him and hated you for sleeping with his wife?"

"Yes, it would."

"How do you feel about what you and Marian did?"

"I'm not sure I understand your question."

"I think you don't want to understand my question, but I'll rephrase it. Mr. Garsen, are you proud of what you did?"

Garsen's cheeks tinged pink and he briefly bowed his head. "No," he said a moment later and looked up at the D.A.

"In your opinion, was your sleeping with a married woman, Marian Travis, right or wrong?"

"Objection. Relevance."

"Overruled."

Hamilton stared at the witness.

"It was wrong," Garsen said in a thin voice.

"I'll ask you again. How do you feel about what you did?"

"I'm ashamed," Garsen admitted, staring at the floor.

"If Marian had cheated on you with another man and had gotten pregnant with his baby while she was married to you, would that have upset you?"

"Objection. Relevance."

"Overruled."

"Well, would it?"

"Yes."

"If she told you that she was going to have the baby and then she was going to divorce you and marry this other man, would that have upset you?"

"Yes."

"Then, tell us, Mr. Garsen, can you truthfully testify under oath that you know that Tom Travis wasn't angry with Marian?"

"No," Garsen admitted reluctantly.

"Can you truthfully testify under oath that everything was all sweetness and light between Tom Travis and his wife?"

"No."

"Isn't it true that all you know is that you loved Marian, she loved you, and that she told you what she knew you wanted to hear?"

"Objection!"

"Sustained."

"Thank you, Mr. Garsen. I'm done with this witness, Your Honor."

# Chapter Fifty-Two

Markham put his electric cord expert on the stand and managed to keep him there for the rest of Monday morning. Hamilton questioned him for only five minutes. The net result of the technician's testimony was that the electric cord found wrapped around Marian Travis's neck might have come from a lamp similar to the one now missing from Tom Travis's living room and it also might have come from any one of a hundred thousand other lamps. The judge recessed for lunch at ten to twelve.

"Any word on the hairs from the DNA lab?" Markham asked as he stacked his files at the now deserted defense table.

"They promised the results by mid-day tomorrow," Steve told him. "That makes it Wednesday for McGee."

Markham shook his head. "That won't work."

"Why not?"

Greg glanced at the now empty courtroom. "Witnesses are excluded but not the press. I've got to put the maid on before McGee and her story about the missing keys will make the papers. I don't want him to know that we know about that. I want him getting on that stand thinking that the only thing I'm going to do is try to discredit his story about Tom's motive for murder. McGee has to go on the same day as Delfina, before her testimony makes the news."

"Can you stall calling her until tomorrow morning?"

"I hope so." Markham put a folder into his case and pressed the lock. "Why don't you call the lab and make sure their tech will be in court Wednesday morning to testify, assuming they have any good news for us."

"Let's keep a good thought."

"From your lips to God's ears."

Steve nodded, checked his watch, and headed for the exit. On the front steps he paused and studied the talking heads. They were lined up like soldiers on parade, making their mid-day reports, each trying to get some recognizable piece of the Courthouse into the background of their shots. Third from the end, between an Hispanic woman from Channel 42 and a stocky blonde stringer for a German TV network, was Cynthia Allard. Steve watched her for a moment. She was perfectly coifed and accessorized, so painfully earnest that Steve imagined her as a little girl dressed-up in mommy's clothes, pretending to be an adult and hoping that no one would find her out. Disgusted, he turned away and headed across the street to Elaine's Coffee Shop where he was sure he wouldn't run into any reporters, correspondents or would-be celebrities.

Steve worked his way to the front of the line and wrote his name on the list.

"You want the counter, Hon?" Margie, a mid-forties woman asked him. Elaine's waitresses all wore uniforms that looked like an old fashioned nurse's outfit dyed beige in the body and chocolate at the collar.

"Counter's fine."

"Okay, take the next seat that opens up," Margie said and disappeared with a carafe of decaf in her left hand.

Steve grunted and turned away and almost knocked over Simon Katz.

"Sorry," he muttered, still angry from Katz's failure to properly follow up on the pool service van. Scowling, Steve retreated to the corner.

Katz looked at Steve sourly. Janson stared back with equal dislike.

"Your boss seems a little desperate," Katz said, his temperature rising. Who does that murdering son-of-a-bitch Janson think he is giving me the evil eye? "Tough fighting a war without any bullets in your gun," Simon said with a smarmy smile. Steve's lips tightened and he looked like he was one step away from punching Katz in the face. "What? No smart answers, Steve? You look like you want to hit me. Do you want to hit me, Steve?"

"Back off, old man," Steve warned in a low, cold voice.

Old man? Barely controlling his anger, Katz moved close and waved a finger under Janson's nose. "What's the matter, Steve? Haven't been able to find the real killer?" Katz taunted. He expected to see frustration and anger cloud Janson's face, emotions he was intimately familiar with after more than thirty years as a cop. But he got something else entirely. Pride. Satisfaction. The anticipation of payback. What the hell? "I asked you a question, Sherlock."

"You're the lead investigator. You're in that courtroom every day. Watch and learn," Steve said with sneer.

"So, did you find the real killer, Columbo?" Katz demanded sarcastically, hoping to goad Janson into revealing what was going on in his head.

"You fucked up, old man. Big time. But not me. Not me."

"What do you think you know, Janson?" Katz snarled.

"I know who—" Steve began, then, with obvious effort, forced his mouth closed. "You're lucky. You messed up but I found what you missed, you arrogant bastard."

"You can't—"

On the verge of losing control, Steve tapped his finger against Katz's chest. "You were so sure that Travis did it you didn't even bother to follow up on your own leads."

"And you did?"

"I did."

"And you found something?"

"I found everything! Everything!" Steve shouted, barely controlling his rage.

"And Tom Travis is innocent?"

"Yes!"

"You can prove this?"

"Yes!" Steve said, smiling in spite of himself.

"And you know who the real killer is?"

Steve opened his mouth to scream Yes! Yes, you old fool, it's . . . and then he noticed the anticipation, the naked desire on Katz's face. Son of a bitch! "Come to court," Steve told him in a hissing whisper. "Come to court and find out the mess you've made of this case. Come to court, old man, and watch me do your job for you because you were so fucking determined to pin this on Travis that you failed to do your job."

"Your seat's ready, Hon," the waitress called.

"You take it," Steve said, glaring at Katz. "I've lost my appetite."

## * * *

"Something's up," Simon told the D.A. just before court resumed.

"What do you mean?"

"I ran in Steve Janson and—"

"I wouldn't put any faith into anything that psychopath tells you."

"He believes that Travis is innocent."

"He can believe whatever he likes."

"He believes that he's got the evidence to prove it and he thinks he knows who really killed Marian Travis."

"Who really killed Marian Travis? We both know who really killed her." Katz stood there, quietly, his face deliberately blank. "You're not saying you believe this crap?"

The words "What if he's right?" escaped Simon's mouth as if some other person had momentarily gained control of his body.

"He can't be right. We have Marian Travis's killer."

"Whatever you think of Janson, he's not stupid. He says he has evidence. What if he does?"

"He can't."

Katz wanted to nod and walk away but couldn't. "I won't knowingly send an innocent man away. I won't!"

Hamilton looked at the detective as if seeing him for the first time. "You can't be talking about Tom Travis."

"I'm just telling you that I don't want just anybody convicted. I want the guy who did it convicted and if it turns out that's not Tom Travis. . . ." Katz didn't need to finish the sentence.

# Chapter Fifty-Three

At one-thirty Monday afternoon Judge Burris gaveled the court into session.

"Call your next witness, Mr. Markham."

Greg looked around the room, making sure that neither McGee nor any of the other witnesses had slipped in. Only the lead police investigators, Katz and Furley, were immune to the witness exclusion rule, and Markham spotted them in the row immediately behind the prosecutor. Greg had spent the last four days trying to figure out how to do this. He may as well get to it. Markham took a deep breath.

"The Defense calls Detective Simon Katz."

Hamilton glanced at Katz as if to ask, Do you know what this is about?

Katz gave his head a little shake and headed for the stand.

"Detective Katz, you are still under oath," the Judge warned him.

"Detective Katz, you have been a police officer for over thirty years, correct?"

"Yes," Katz answered, a hint of pride leaking into his voice.

"And you have been a detective for over sixteen years?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you have been a homicide detective for more than twelve years?"

"Yes."

"You have investigated hundreds of homicides in your career?"

"Yes, I have."

"In fact, you are one of the LAPD's most experienced homicide detectives aren't you?"

"Yes, I am."

"And you believe that Tom Travis murdered his wife?"

The D.A. stared at Markham as if he had lost his mind. Why would he want the jury to hear Katz's opinion that Travis was guilty?

Katz paused a moment, also confused. "Yes, I do," he answered finally.

"And you think he personally killed her?"

The judge looked at Hamilton but if Burris thought the D.A. was going to object, he had another think coming.

"Yes, I do."

"Did you ever seriously think that Tom Travis had paid or conspired with someone else to have them commit the crime?"

Where the hell was Markham going? Hamilton wondered.

"No," Katz admitted.

"Why not?"

Katz was confused but mentally shrugged and began to explain. "If Mr. Travis had arranged for someone else to commit the crime he would have made sure to give himself an alibi for the time of the murder. He would have made sure that the body was found right away and that at the time of death he had witnesses to prove that he was a hundred miles away."

"Out in the desert riding a dune buggy at the time she was killed in Beverly Hills or Marina Del Rey or some other place far away from the desert?"

"Something like that," Katz agreed.

"But in fact, Mr. Travis has no alibi at all because the body was hidden and by the time it was discovered it was impossible to determine the exact time of death."

"Yes."

"Do you believe that she was killed the day she disappeared, December 31st?"

"Yes."

"But you can't be certain?"

"No."

"All right. Is there another reason why you don't believe that Tom Travis conspired with someone else to kill his wife?"

Katz paused but when there was no objection, he forged ahead. "Because the body was discovered in the desert near where Mr. Travis was known to have been on the day in question."

"You're saying that if Tom Travis had used someone else to kill his wife he would have made sure that the body was dumped anyplace other than two miles away from where he was known to be that day?"

"Yes."

"So, to summarize, based on your years of experience as both a police officer and as a homicide detective and your familiarity with this case, either Tom Travis personally killed his wife or he had nothing to do with her death?"

"Objection, misstates the witness's testimony."

Burris gave Markham a long look, then did something that completely surprised the defense attorney.

"Overruled."

Startled by the Judge's ruling in his favor, for an instant Markham just stood there then looked at the witness. "Detective?"

"Yes."

"Yes, what?" Markham asked, pushing it.

"Yes, it's my opinion that either Tom Travis killed his wife himself or he wasn't involved at all."

Hamilton gave Katz a dirty look and bent over his legal pad where he wrote "Idiot" five times.

"Let's talk about the Travis house. You personally investigated that house, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"Good locks?"

"Very good locks."

"In the movies burglars seem to be able to pick locks at will. Could these locks be picked?"

"Not easily."

"And if the locks were picked, would there be evidence of that?"

"Almost certainly."

"Scratches, pick marks?"

"Yes."

"And did you examine the locks on the Travis house for scratches or pick marks?"

"Yes. There were none at all."

What the hell was Markham doing? Hamilton wondered.

"So, if anyone entered the Travis house on the day in question, they almost certainly used a key?"

"Without any doubt."

Markham scratched his head, looked at the jury, and repeated, "Without any doubt. . . Is there a gate across the driveway at the Travis house?"

"Yes, a full steel gate, eight feet high."

"How is it operated?"

"At the sidewalk is a kiosk where you can turn a key which will slide the gate back with electric motors. Inside the wall is a button that closes the gate. The same key operates a door in the fence and also opens the front and back doors to the house itself."

"One key opens both gates and both the front and back doors?"

"Yes. The gate can also be opened and closed with a remote control device like a garage door opener. Other remote control buttons for the gate are mounted inside and outside the front door as well as the one near the gate itself."

"The remote devices you mentioned, I assume, are for the vehicles, so that when Mr. Travis drove home in his Hummer, he would just press a button and the gate would open and once inside, he would press the button again and the gate would close behind him. Correct?"

"Yes."

"And in fact," Markham turned and headed for the defense table where his assistant handed him a sheaf of papers. Markham dropped one copy on the D.A.'s table and then approached the witness. "I have here the official police inventory of Mr. Travis's Hummer. If I may, Your Honor?"

Burris waved his approval and Markham handed the document to the witness.

"On page two, item seventeen — what's that?"

"Gate remote control opening device," Katz read.

"And there was a similar device in Ms. Travis's SUV?"

"I'm sure there was."

"Hmmmm," Markham mumbled and picked up a second set of documents, again handing a copy to the D.A. "Detective Katz, I have here the official police inventory list for Ms. Travis's SUV. It seems very complete, even to the point of listing an empty Diet Coke can found in the back. Is such careful attention to detail standard practice?"

Hamilton's antennae began to vibrate and he hurriedly began leafing through his own copy of the list.

"Yes, it is."

"I thought so. Tell me, then, Detective Katz, why is it that no remote control gate opener is listed as having been found in Ms. Travis's vehicle?" Markham handed Katz the list. Simon scanned the pages rapidly, reached the end, then went back to the beginning. Markham made no effort to hurry him.

Finally, clearly frustrated, Katz looked up from the report. "It's not here."

"No, it's not. Do you think the LAPD was so sloppy that the technicians noted every detail of that vehicle down to an empty soda can and just missed the remote control gate opener?"

"No," Katz said emphatically.

"I agree with you. I don't think the police missed it, especially since they noted a similar device in Mr. Travis's car. Like you, Detective, I think it's not on that list because it was taken from the vehicle."

"Your Honor, counsel is testifying."

"Ask a question, Mr. Markham."

"Ms. Travis's car was found at the Beverly Center mall, correct?"

"Yes."

"Are there surveillance cameras in the parking area of that mall?"

"Yes, but the coverage is incomplete."

"In fact, her Escalade was parked in one of few places in that lot where it cannot be seen by the cameras, correct?"

"Yes," Katz admitted.

"As the investigating detective, do you think that was a coincidence?"

"Cops don't believe in coincidences."

"So, you think the killer deliberately parked her car in that location so that he would not be captured on film?"

"I think that's likely."

"All right. Let's see where we are. You tell me when, in your expert opinion, you disagree. The killer used a key to enter the Travis property." Markham paused and looked at Katz and when Katz made no objection, he continued. "The killer used a key to enter the Travis house." Another pause. "The killer murdered Marian Travis and wanting to divert suspicion and lead the police in the wrong direction, he drove Ms. Travis's SUV to the mall. . . He deliberately parked in an area out of range of the cameras. . . He removed the gate remote control device from her Escalade so that he could easily gain entrance back into the Travis home without having to stop and use the key on the exterior lock. . . He somehow, cab, bus, rental car, bicycle, whatever, got himself back to the Travis house where he pressed the button on the remote control device. The gate opened and he entered the property. . . Then he loaded Marian and her daughter, Sarah, into another vehicle, and drove away. Is that your view of the case, Detective?"

"If the other vehicle is Mr. Travis's Hummer, yes."

"What happened to the remote?"

"I don't understand."

"Mr. Travis's Hummer already had a remote. He no longer needed Marian's if he was the killer. Did you find Marian's remote in the house?"

"No."

"But you searched the house?"

"Yes."

"Thoroughly?"

"Yes, but he could have thrown her remote away."

"Or a killer other than Tom Travis could have used the remote to open the gate for his vehicle when he left with the bodies."

"Objection, Your Honor. Speculation."

"Sustained. Move on."

Markham glanced at his Number Two at the defense table in case he had missed something and got a little head shake back. Greg picked up his pad and scanned his topic list then looked at the clock. It was only three-thirty. Too soon. Markham turned back to Katz and stared, puzzled.

Katz's eyes were unfocused, his stare blank. Had he just had a stroke? The detective's attention seemed a million miles away. Suddenly Katz picked up the SUV report and started flipping the pages.

There it was near the bottom of the last page. Trace of yellow paint on the rear driver's side seat belt anchor bolt. What was it Markham had said — somehow or other the killer had gotten back to the mansion from the mall parking lot. He had mentioned a bicycle. There were no yellow bicycles at the Travis house. But there was . . . Are you crazy? he asked himself. It's not your job to help the defense. But he couldn't get Janson's smug face out of his head. You ignored the evidence, old man, and you let the real killer get away with it. He had never knowingly ignored evidence and never, ever, would he allow a guilty person to go free. Katz looked at Hamilton. Never volunteer, that was the rule. Shit!

"May I see the inventory for the search of Mr. Travis's garage?" Katz asked. Markham hesitated then nodded to his assistant. Katz ignored the D.A.'s angry stare and paged through the report. There it was.

"You asked me something about how the killer got from the mall back to the house?" Katz asked.

It was now Markham's turn to be confused. What was going on here? Well, he needed to find some way to stall . . . "Yes, Detective, do you have an opinion about how the killer got from the mall parking lot back to the Travis house?"

"Yes, I do."

From day one lawyers were taught never to ask a hostile witness a question to which the lawyer didn't already know the answer. Too late now.

"What is that opinion?"

"The lab found traces of yellow paint on a bolt in the back of Ms. Travis's SUV." Katz held out the report and pointed to the entry.

"Yes, I see it. Please continue."

"The report of the search of Mr. Travis's garage lists a yellow dirt bike, a small motorcycle."

"Small enough to fit into the back of Ms. Travis's Escalade?"

"I think so. We'll need to measure it to be sure."

"Your Honor, the defense requests a recess so that Mr. Hamilton and Detective Katz and myself can visit the Travis house, inspect the dirt bike for scratches, measure it, and take a paint sample for comparison by the police crime lab. We can report back tomorrow morning, hopefully with a stipulation as to what was found."

Burris frowned. He didn't like surprises this late in a trial. Still. . . .

"Very well," he said reluctantly, "Court's adjourned until nine-thirty tomorrow morning. Mr. Hamilton, you and Mr. Markham come up with a stipulation on what you find."

Katz walked back to the D.A.'s table.

"Are you out of your mind?" Hamilton demanded. "What the hell did you think you were doing going off on your own like that?"

"You don't get it, Ted. That motorcycle . . . "

"Yeah?"

"It's no good without a key. If the jury believes that the killer rode the bike back to the house, then the only guy who could have done that is the one guy with a key. Tom Travis."

For the first time that afternoon, Ted Hamilton began to relax.

# Chapter Fifty-Four

Greg had investigators from the Foster Agency sitting on Barry McGee to make sure that he didn't decide to skip the state. Steve wasn't worried. He figured McGee couldn't wait to get back on the stand and be the center of attention not to mention having another chance to twist the blade in Tom Travis's heart. Steve's only task tomorrow was getting Delfina to court and making sure she and McGee did not meet. Other than that he was at loose ends. Tonight he drank his beer in front of the TV and watched an old episode of Babylon V.

He had just drained the bottle when a knock sounded on his front door. Steve checked the peephole and pulled it wide. Carlos Arriaga in a black t-shirt and jeans stood nervously in the hall.

"Carlos? Come on in. What's up?" Arriaga fiddled with a scrap of paper then shoved it into his pants. "You want a beer?"

Carlos nervously shook his head. "No thanks. . . I didn't have your phone," he said uneasily, pulling out the scrap of paper again, "just your address from the sign-up sheet." Steve took the easy chair and Carlos settled into the couch. "The league's cancelled Thursday's games, in respect, you know."

"In respect? What do you mean? What's happened?"

"You didn't hear?"

"Hear what?"

Carlos shifted uneasily. "It was Mike," he said and looked away.

"Mike Leahy? What happened?" Instantly Steve wondered if, overcome with alcohol or depression or both, Mike had eaten his gun.

"God damn bastards!" Carlos cursed and glared. "They shot him, they just shot him down like a dog!" His fist made a muffled THUMP against the sagging cushion.

"What happened?"

"It was a routine traffic stop. Mike was driving by and saw that a Chippy had stopped a car full of gangbangers so he pulled over as backup. It wasn't even his collar. Then it all went to shit. Maybe they figured Mike was bringing a warrant or that he had recognized them, who knows what passes through their excuses for brains. Mike got out of his unit and when he was five feet from the bastards one of them pulled out a nine and went Dodge City. Mike's vest stopped most of the slugs but one round caught him in his neck and he bled out right there on the asphalt."

Carlos cleared his throat and looked away. After a few seconds he was able to continue. "The Chippy blew up two of them and the other two hit the deck. The son of a bitch who killed Mike is still sucking air in the jail ward at County. I'd like to go down there," Arriaga said with sudden heat, "and stick my piece up against that bastard's head. . . ." but when he saw the sick look on Steve's face he shut his mouth. "Sorry," Carlos said finally.

"Yeah."

Carlos sat there for another five or ten seconds, staring at his hands, then stood. "Anyway. . . ." he held out his hand. "The service is Saturday at ten at St. Marks."

"The guys won't mind if I . . . "

"You're part of the family," Carlos said, gripping Steve's shoulder. "You took care of business when you had to."

"Don't say that!" Steve almost shouted, pulling back.

"I didn't mean. . . ." Carlos waved his hands.

"You don't know what it's like," Steve muttered, talking to himself as much as to Arriaga. "You think you do, but it's the stuff you don't expect. . . ." He looked up and saw only confusion on Arriaga's face. "You remember things, the sound the bullet makes when it goes through the skull, the smell of hot blood cooking off the lead, the little pieces of brain that stick to your shirt and you want to get rid of them but you don't want to touch them because you know what they are." Suddenly he grabbed Carlos's shoulder. "You think you're ending something, closing a door, but it's just the beginning of something worse. As much as you try to make the memories go away, they won't!"

Carlos looked into Janson's face and took a step back.

"You know the last thing Mike said to me? 'Anger and fear will do terrible things to a man. They'll burn him up from the inside out.'" Steve put his hand back on Arriaga's shoulder. "You've got to let it go, Carlos, before it makes you crazy."

"Yeah, sure," Arriaga said uneasily, stepping away and looking at his watch. "Well, I gotta go. I just wanted to make sure you knew, about Mike."

"Yeah," Steve agreed in a soft voice. "Thanks. Mike was a stand-up guy. . . So, Saturday, St. Marks?"

"Right."

"I can't wear my uniform, you know, after. . . ."

"Yeah, that's okay. Mike won't mind." Awkwardly, they shook hands and a moment later Carlos was gone.

Steve sat on the couch and thought back to the last conversation he had had with Mike Leahy. What was it Mike had said? "Fear does awful things to a man. It makes him do things he shouldn't do and afraid to learn what he needs to know."

Steve glanced at the desk drawer, the repository of rubber bands and cellophane tape and three by five cards and an eight and a half by eleven manila envelope with Lynn's autopsy report inside. And the card Lynn had left for him on that terrible day. It would be so easy to just toss them both in the trash. Or, he could read them. Or, he could continue to do nothing.

What are you afraid of? he heard Mike saying, a tough guy like you.

I'll make you deal, Mike, a little voice inside Steve seemed to say. If we get that bastard who murdered Marian, if we get Sarah back alive, I'll read the damn report and the card both.

Bargaining with a ghost? Steve asked himself. Negotiating with God? Trying to give yourself an excuse to stop living in fear? Or stop living a lie?

He had no clue which, if any of those reasons, were right.

# Chapter Fifty-Five

On Tuesday morning Judge Burris called the court to order and looked expectantly at Greg Markham.

"Your Honor, the People and the Defense have a stipulation."

"Proceed."

"The parties stipulate as follows:

"That Mr. Travis's dirt bike's dimensions are such that it could be fitted into the back of Marian Travis's SUV;

"That the paint inside Marian Travis's vehicle matches the paint on Thomas Travis's dirt bike;

"That there is a corresponding scratch on the bike's fender;

"That if called as a witness, Thomas Travis would testify that to the best of his knowledge the dirt bike was never placed in Marian Travis's SUV and that he never placed it in her vehicle;

"That no fingerprints were found on the controls of the bike;

"That the bike is started with the use of a key;

"And that there are no scratches or other indications that the ignition lock of the bike was picked or that it was hot-wired or started in any other way except with a key."

"Mr. Hamilton," the Judge asked, turning to the Prosecutor, "is that correct?"

"That is the stipulation, Your Honor."

"Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury. You may accept what Mr. Markham has just told you as agreed facts to be considered by you in your deliberations to the extent you think them relevant. . . Mr. Markham, call your next witness."

"The Defense calls Lucas Toomey."

Hamilton flipped through Markham's witness list looking for yet another unrecognized name. Toomey was sworn in and Markham quickly established his residence and occupation. Lucas Toomey was a locksmith.

"Did you install the locks and security system at the Travis home?"

"My company did, yes sir."

"What kind of locks are these?"

"Top-of-the-line deadbolts. The keys are all registered and numbered and cannot be duplicated except through an authorized manufacturer's representative, such as myself."

"So not just anybody can make a copy?"

"Impossible. These are special keys and no one has the blanks other than a small number of licensed dealers."

"You are one of those licensed dealers?"

"I am."

"And if I came to you with such a key, would you copy it for me?"

"No sir, not unless I personally knew you or you could prove to me that you were the owner of the house where the locks were installed. The company keeps careful records of the name and address where every lock is installed. We take the security of these locks very seriously."

"Yes, I can see you do. But tell me this, couldn't you just pick the lock?"

"Could I pick it?"

"Yes?"

Toomey sat quietly for several seconds considering the question. "Perhaps," he said finally.

"How long do you think it would take you?"

"If I wasn't disturbed, five or ten minutes, if I could to it at all. And the more I think about it, the more I think that I could not pick it."

"Assuming for the sake of argument that you as a master locksmith could pick this lock, could you pick it without leaving any evidence that you had done so, scratches and the like?"

Toomey laughed. "Impossible. No way."

"Impossible. I see. Well, did Mr. Travis ever have you make a new set of keys for his locks?"

"Mr. Travis? No. . . But his wife did." Hamilton's head shot up and Markham smiled. What was that? Did someone on the Titanic just mention icebergs?

"When did you copy the keys?"

Toomey opened a notebook and flipped to a page. "I have my order book here —December a year ago, on the 28th."

"That's three days before Marian Travis went missing?"

"Yes, sir."

I've got your attention now, Ted, don't I? Markham thought.

"How were the new keys ordered?"

"Like I said, the owner has to appear in person."

"Mrs. Marian Travis personally came to your store?"

"Yes, sir. On December 28th. She had called on the phone and I explained that it was our policy that the owner had to appear in person, that it was for her own protection. So, she came."

"Did Mrs. Travis tell you why she wanted another set of keys?"

"Yes, sir. She said the maid had lost hers."

"What was her attitude?"

"Friendly, happy. She was a very nice lady." Toomey paused for a moment. "She did ask that I not tell Mr. Travis."

"Did she say why?"

"She said that she didn't want him to get angry at the maid. She asked me to keep it our little secret."

"Did you?"

Toomey licked his lips and shifted uneasily. "Yes, I did."

"I see. Do you have a list of the keys you copied for Mrs. Travis?"

"Well, let's see." Toomey put on his reading glasses and peered at the invoice. "One house key. That's the deadbolt lock. We also use the same key for the gate and the front and back doors. Okay, one key for Mr. Travis's Humvee. That was a special order from the manufacturer. One key for Mrs. Travis's Escalade, another special order," Toomey said apologetically. "And one key to a 120 CC Kawasaki motorcycle."

"A dirt bike?"

Toomey studied the form. "Yes. I had to get the blank from the Kawasaki dealer's parts department so I needed the model number." Toomey read it off.

"Your Honor, I would ask the people to stipulate that the model number Mr. Toomey has just indicated is identical to the model number of the yellow dirt bike we examined yesterday afternoon."

"So stipulated," Hamilton muttered without looking up.

"Were you able to copy the house key right away?"

"Yes, I had the blanks for that and Mrs. Travis took it with her. The others had to be ordered from the auto manufacturers."

"Do you know why the maid had keys to Mr. and Mrs. Travis's vehicles and to Mr. Travis's dirt bike?"

"That's how Mr. Travis wanted it. He wanted a complete set of keys for himself, for his wife and for the maid. That way, if anyone lost their keys, there'd be two other sets. I think that he figured he might lose his keys and he wanted to be able to take the maid's for himself if that happened."

"When were you able to deliver these new keys?"

Toomey checked the invoice. "As I said, I made the maid a new house key right away. I had to wait for the others from the auto manufacturers. They have a microchip in them that's keyed to the car based on a code number I give them from the original keys. The maid picked up the other three keys on . . . January 6th."

"Mr. Toomey, did you ever tell the police that a set of keys to the Travis house was missing on the day of the murder?"

"No," Toomey said quietly.

"Why not?"

"They never asked me."

"Thank you, Mr. Toomey." Markham tried to hide his smile from the jury as he watched Ted Hamilton approach the witness.

He's like the captain of the Titanic, Markham thought. The radioman has just told him there are icebergs in the vicinity and now a lookout has spotted one in the distance. He's thinking they're a danger, sure, but nothing the Titanic can't handle. The Titanic is unsinkable. But he's starting to worry.

"Mr. Toomey," Hamilton began, "do you know of your own knowledge that the maid actually lost her keys?"

"No sir."

"And if she lost her keys, do you know of your own knowledge what happened to them?"

"No sir."

"For all you know Mr. Travis could have taken her keys himself, correct?"

"Why would he do that?"

"To—"

"Objection. Is there a question pending from the District Attorney?"

"Ask a question, Mr. Hamilton."

The Prosecutor took a deep breath, paused, then turned away. "No further questions, Your Honor."

"Mr. Markham?"

"The Defense calls Detective John Furley."

Completely lost, Hamilton stared quizzically at Furley who merely shrugged.

"Detective Furley, you are one of the primary homicide detectives on this case, correct?"

"Yes."

"Your partner is Detective Katz who was on the stand yesterday?"

"Yes sir."

"Before this trial, were you acquainted with the defendant, Tom Travis?"

Hamilton gave Furley a sharp look which the detective chose to ignore.

"Yes sir."

Hamilton couldn't hide his displeasure.

Oh, Furley didn't tell you about that, did he, Ted?

"You used to go to clubs with Mr. Travis while you were still in uniform?"

"Yes sir," Furley said stoically, staring straight ahead and ignoring the D.A.'s growing anger.

"We've heard testimony in this case from a man named Barry McGee. Did you meet Barry McGee at any time before this trial?"

"Yes sir," Furley said stoically as if assuring the emergency room doc that he could take the pain.

"In fact, you had arrested Barry McGee hadn't you?"

Hamilton came out of his chair, eyes blazing. "Objection. There's no foundation for this."

"I give the court my word of honor that I will absolutely show relevance," Markham said, turning to the judge, a pleading look in his eyes. Burris paused for five full seconds.

"See that you do. Overruled."

"Yes, I arrested him."

"Was your arrest based on a tip you received?"

"Yes."

"From whom?"

"From the defendant, Tom Travis."

Markham shot the judge a quick glance as if to say, I told you I was going someplace with this.

"Please recount the circumstances of that incident."

Hamilton started to rise, got a look at the judge's stern expression, and sat back down.

"Mr. Travis called me because he knew me personally. He said that someone on his movie set was selling drugs. He said that the movie included lots of stunts, car chases, gun fights, explosions, that sort of thing, and that if any of the crew were messed up on drugs that someone could be hurt or killed. He said he was worried about the safety of the other people on the set. He identified the individual selling the drugs as Barry McGee."

"Why didn't he just call the studio and report Mr. McGee?"

"He said he didn't want to be known as a snitch but he couldn't ignore the risk to innocent people."

"So he asked you to investigate?"

"Yes."

"Did you go out to the movie set to check this out?"

"Yes with a Sheriff's Department Investigator, Robert Chiappari. We observed Mr. McGee's behavior and believed that he was distributing narcotics. We arrested Mr. McGee and discovered a substantial quantity of methamphetamine on his person and in his gym bag."

"When you arrested Mr. McGee, did he say anything that indicated that he knew who had turned him in?"

"He started shouting that Tom Travis had turned him in, that Mr. Travis was the one who was behind his arrest."

"What was his tone when he said this, calm, sad, upset . . . ?"

"He was screaming at the top of his lungs that it was all Travis's fault."

"Would the word 'angry' be an understatement?"

"Yes, I would say so."

"As one of the arresting officers, did you follow up on the case?"

"Yes."

"Did Mr. McGee end up pleading guilty to something?"

"Yes."

"What?"

"Offering methamphetamine to a minor."

"Is that charge a 'strike' for the purposes of the three strikes law?"

"Yes, it is."

"Did you determine if Mr. McGee had any other strikes?"

"Objection. Relevance."

"I think Your Honor sees the relevance," Markham said, silently praying.

"Overruled," Burris snapped. Markham glanced at the bench and saw something in the Judge's face he had not expected, curiosity, interest, perhaps even suspicion. The Old Man was hooked. He wanted to find out what had really happened. Who would have thought?

"Yes, he did."

"What for?"

"Arson."

"Arson? Where was this?"

"In Colorado."

"So, with this drug conviction, Mr. McGee had two strikes?"

"Yes."

"If Mr. McGee were to have one more conviction for any serious charge, a third strike, a burglary, for example," Markham said, loudly emphasizing the word, "what would have happened to him?"

Furley paused, waiting for Hamilton to object but the D.A. knew that that horse was already out that barn.

"A third strike would get him a minimum of twenty-five years in prison," Furley said finally.

"Twenty-five years," Markham repeated looking at the jury. "What was Mr. McGee's sentence on the drug charge?"

"One year in the county jail."

"When did he get out?"

"October or November over a year ago."

"Only a month or two before Marian Travis disappeared?"

"Yes."

That iceberg's getting bigger, isn't it, Ted, Markham thought to himself.

"No more questions."

"Detective," Hamilton began, "is it common for people to be upset when they're arrested?"

"Yes sir."

"Is it common that they shout and say all sorts of wild things?"

"Yes sir."

"And do they usually calm down after a day or two?"

"Yes sir."

"Did you take anything Mr. McGee said at the time of his arrest seriously?"

"No sir. Like you said, that sort of thing is common."

"You heard Mr. McGee's testimony?"

"Yes sir."

"Did it appear to you that he had gotten over his irritation with Mr. Travis?"

"Objection. Speculation."

"Sustained," the judge said, giving Hamilton a 'you know better than that' look.

"No further questions."

Burris looked at the clock, a little after eleven. "Mr. Markham, would you like a recess before you call your next witness?"

"No, Your Honor. I'd like to keep going."

Burris gave Markham a long deep stare. What a difference a day makes. "Very well. Call your next witness."

"The Defense calls Eleanor Roberts."

Who the hell is she and where the hell are these people coming from? Hamilton asked himself.

Wearing a Harry Winston diamond necklace and a blue silk dress chosen to match her Bentley, Eleanor Roberts marched regally to the stand.

She quickly gave her name and address and listed her occupation as philanthropist which got a raised eyebrow from the D.A.

"Your house is almost across the street from Mr. Travis's home?"

"Yes, across and three houses down."

"Is he a good neighbor?"

"A lovely man." Eleanor favored Travis with a warm smile.

"Do you raise flowers in your front yard?"

"Yes, I do."

"Do you spend a fair amount of time in your front yard, attending to your plants?"

"They take a lot of care."

"Turning your attention to the day we believe Marian Travis was killed, December 31st a year ago, were you in your front yard that morning around eleven a.m.?"

"Yes, I was."

"Did you see any strange vehicles on your street that morning?"

"Yes, a black van. It had a plastic sign on the side that said Sunshine Pools."

"Did you tell this to the police?"

"Yes, I did."

"Your Honor, I have here a copy of the Field Interview Report of Detective Hutchenson memorializing his interview with Mrs. Roberts. I would ask that it be admitted into evidence."

"I'm sure the People have no objection, do they, Mr. Hamilton?"

Technically it was hearsay but the way things were going Hamilton didn't know what Hutchinson was going to say if Markham put him on the stand so maybe it was safer to just stick with the written report. He could always call the Detective as a rebuttal witness if he needed to.

"No, Your Honor."

"Ms. Roberts, did you observe anything else about this black van?"

"Yes, it had a dent in the front bumper on the driver's side."

"Did you tell this to Detective Hutchenson?"

"No. He didn't ask me what else I saw. He seemed to be in a hurry and, quite frankly, he didn't seem to think much of me."

"In what way?"

"He treated me like I was a senile old busybody who was wasting his time."

"Clearly, he was wrong," Markham said, looking at the jury. "How's your eyesight?"

"I can see things far away perfectly. Up close, I need glasses. Do you want to hold up a sign at the back of the court room and have me read it for you?"

"That won't be necessary." Markham walked to the defense table and accepted two manila envelopes from his assistant. One he handed to Ted Hamilton. The contents of the second one he handed to the clerk. "Please mark these for identification only." A moment later she handed them back, numbered, and he slowly approached the witness. Hamilton shook out his own set of four 8 X 10 color photos.

Here's your iceberg, Ted.

"I am handing you Defense's eighteen through twenty-one for identification. They appear to be photographs of a black van. Will you look at them please?" Markham handed her the pictures.

"Your Honor . . . " Hamilton began, rising to his feet.

"All in good time, Mr. Hamilton."

Markham ignored the interruption. "Ms. Roberts," Markham said, his voice slowly rising, "I ask you, do you recognize the black van depicted in these photographs?"

"Yes, I do."

"Why do you recognize it?"

"That is the same black van I saw on my street on the day that Mrs. Travis went missing."

"The same van," Markham said, staring at the jury. "Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. There's the dent in the front bumper, just like I testified."

"What about the sign?"

"Obviously, it's been removed. It was only one of those stick-on plastic signs. You see them on trucks all the time."

"Thank you, Ms. Roberts. No further questions."

That shudder you just felt, Ted, was your case hitting the iceberg, Markham thought to himself. In the audience Simon Katz's face went bone white. He too had felt the collision.

"Mrs. Roberts," Hamilton began in a rush. "Whose van is that?"

"I have no idea."

"You don't know?"

"Isn't that what I just said?"

"How did Mr. Markham get these pictures?"

"However would I know that? You need to ask him."

"Who else knew about the dent in the front bumper?"

"No one."

"You didn't tell Mr. Markham or one of his associates?"

Mrs. Roberts laughed. "Mr. Janson was just as surprised as you were when I pointed it out to him last week. Until I pointed to it in that picture, Mr. Janson didn't have a clue."

At the mention of Janson's discovery of the black van a river of acid poured into Katz's stomach.

"Do you—," Hamilton began, then stopped. "No further questions. However, the People object to the Defense failing to inform the people of the discovery of this van last week."

"Your Honor—"

"We'll discuss this outside of the presence of the jury. It being almost noon. . . ."

"If the court please. The defense has one very short witness who's been waiting all morning. I can have him on and off the stand in five minutes. Then the jury can go to lunch and we can deal with the People's discovery concerns."

Burris gave Markham a penetrating stare. The defense lawyer was flushed and sweating, frightened or desperate. "All right," Burris said reluctantly, looking at the clock.

"The Defense calls Frank DiFrancisco."

"Who the hell is he?" Hamilton barked at his assistant. Upset, she tore through Markham's witness list. "The Defense added him right after we added Barry McGee. He's the manager for Sunshine Pools," she said a moment later.

"Shit!" Hamilton hissed under his breath.

"Mr. DiFrancisco, you were the manager of the Sunset Pool Service on December 31st when Ms. Marian Travis went missing?"

"Yes, I was."

"Did the Sunset Pool Service have a fleet of vans that it used at that time?"

"Yes."

"Did it have a service call scheduled for the vicinity of Mr. Travis's home in the seven hundred block of North Rexford Drive, Beverly Hills, on that day?"

"Yes, we did."

"So a Sunshine Pool Service van was in Mr. Travis's neighborhood on that day?"

"Yes."

"About what time?"

DiFrancisco opened a file and checked an invoice. "Between twelve-thirty and one-fifteen."

"Not at eleven o'clock?"

Another look at the folder. "No sir."

"On that date, what color were the Sunshine Pool Service vans."

"White with blue script lettering."

Katz felt as if his heart had just been removed leaving a hollow cavity in his chest.

"By 'lettering' you mean the name 'Sunset Pool Service' and the phone number?"

"Yes."

"Was the company name glued to the side of the vans on a plastic sign?"

"No, it was painted on in blue script letters."

"Did you have any black vans at that time?"

"Not then, not now."

Markham had a photo marked and showed it to DiFrancisco.

"Is this a fair and accurate picture of what your service vans looked like when Ms. Travis disappeared?"

DiFrancisco glanced at the picture and nodded. "That's typical of our vans."

"How about this one, showing you Defense 19 for identification."

"It's black," the witness said.

"It's not one of yours?"

"No way. We don't use black vans. Never have. Never will." DiFrancisco handed the picture back as if it were tainted.

"I'm done," Markham announced.

"Mr. Hamilton?"

"No questions," the D.A. said in a feigned bored voice.

Judge Burris looked at the clock. "Since it is now five minutes after twelve," he said pointedly, "we will adjourn until one-thirty. Counsel will meet in my chambers to discuss discovery issues." Burris thwocked his gavel leaving Ted Hamilton to ponder what further surprises Markham had up his sleeve.

# Chapter Fifty-Six

Steve checked the benches lining the hallway outside the courtroom and spotted Barry McGee who gave him an evil smile and a wave. Obviously McGee didn't know they were on to him. Steve made sure that Delfina was seated at the other end of the hall. At one thirty-five on Tuesday afternoon the Bailiff opened the door and called out: "Delfina Angelinez."

Delfina swallowed hard and looked like she was going to faint. Steve helped her to her feet and whispered that everything would be fine. A few moments later she placed a trembling hand on the bible and squeaked out a tiny "I do."

Smarting from a tongue-lashing and two thousand dollar fine for failing to immediately disclose the discovery of the black van to the Prosecution, Markham turned toward the witness.

"Ms. Angelinez, how long have you worked for Tom Travis?"

"Diaz, uhhh, ten years."

"Did Mr. Travis give you a set of keys to the house?"

"Yes," she answered in a voice barely above a whisper.

"Please speak up, Ms. Angelinez," Burris instructed Delfina, frightening her even more.

"Was this a key ring?"

"What?"

"Did Mr. Travis give you keys to the house on a key ring?"

"Yes," she said, her eyes wide and terrified.

"What keys were on the ring?"

"Mr. Tom's car. Missy Marian's car. The house key and some other key."

"Was this other key a key to Mr. Travis's motorcycle?"

"I don't know. I never used that key," she said, obviously terrified that she had made a mistake.

" Ms. Angelinez, please relax. No one here is going to yell at you. Everything will be fine. Just relax and tell us what you know. All right?"

"Yes," Delfina said, her voice still trembling.

Markham poured water into a paper cup and she gulped it down.

"Better?"

"Yes, a little."

"Okay, let's go back to the keys. Did the house key that you were give open both the front and back doors?"

"Yes," Delfina said with a weak smile, relieved she had been asked a question to which she knew the answer.

"And could you open the driveway gate and the people gate in the wall with this key?"

"Yes, if you didn't have the clicker thing from the car."

"Where did you normally keep your set of keys?"

"In the door."

"In the door?"

"The lock, it was funny." Delfina paused, lost someplace between English and Spanish. "It was locked all the time. Even when you were inside."

"It was a deadbolt?" Markham suggested. "Even when you were inside, if it was locked you couldn't get out without the key?"

"Yes, yes, you could not get out without the key when it was locked."

"Did Mr. Travis keep the doors locked all the time?"

"Yes, he was very . . . strong . . . on that. 'Delfina, don't leave that door open!' he would tell me. 'A crazy person could jump over the wall and then where will we be.' Mr. Tom was very worried about crazy people like what happened to Mr. John Lennon."

"So you kept the doors locked all the time?"

"Oh, yes."

"And when the door was locked, you couldn't open it from the inside without a key?"

"Yes, yes."

"So, you kept your key in the lock? So you could go outside whenever you needed to?"

"Yes. That way I always know where the key is."

"Did you always take your keys with you when you left the house?"

"When I was alone, always. If I don't then I have to ask Mr. Tom to let me in. He would not like that."

"What if you weren't alone?"

"If I go out with Missy Marian, then she take her keys and I leave mine in the back door."

"Did you lose your keys a few days before Ms. Travis disappeared?"

"Yes," Delfina said, then thinking about Marian Travis, she began to sob and hid her face in her hands. Markham handed her a tissue. "I'm sorry, Mr. Tom," she said turning to Travis then wiping away the tears.

"That's all right. You were saying that you lost your keys. When was that?"

"Two days after Christmas. I look everywhere for them."

"What were you doing just before you lost them?"

"I took the garbage out to the trash can in back and when I came in I lock the door and I leave the keys in the lock, like always."

"What happened next?"

"Missy Marian and I go to the Beverly Center. Christmas bargain shopping." A quick, sad smile.

"You left your keys in the back door lock because you were going with Ms. Travis and she had her keys?"

"Yes."

"When did you notice your keys were missing?"

"After dinner that night. I looked at the back door and the keys were not there. I looked everywhere!" Delfina insisted.

"Was there anyone else in the house that afternoon except you and Mr. and Ms. Travis?"

"Sarah was over at her little friend's house."

"Was anyone else there?"

"No, nobody, except for Mr. Tom's friend."

"Mr. Tom's friend?" Markham repeated loudly and staring meaningfully at the jury.

"He come in when we go out. Missy say hello to him and then we leave."

"Were you there when Mr. Travis introduced this friend to Ms. Travis?"

"Yes."

"Did Ms. Travis tell this person that you were leaving for the Beverly Center?"

Delfina paused a moment, replaying the conversation. "Yes, she told him Christmas bargains at the Beverly Center and laughed."

"So the keys were in the back door lock when you left?"

"Yes."

"And when you got back, that evening you noticed they were gone?"

"Yes."

"And the only other person who was in the house that day was Mr. Travis's friend who arrived just as you were leaving?"

"Yes."

"Do you know the name of this friend?"

"No, I don't remember."

"What did he look like?"

"He had curly hair," Delfina touched her head, "and jeans and cowboy boots."

"Anything else?"

"He had a big nose, crooked."

Hamilton turned around and stared angrily at Simon Katz. Katz ignored him. He was too concerned with the ball of acid that had just exploded inside his chest.

Markham picked up two photos from his assistant. One went to the D.A., the other to the Clerk.

"Defendant's Twenty Three for Identification," she recited for the record.

Markham handed the picture to the witness.

"Is this a picture of Mr. Travis's friend, the man who was in the Travis house just before your keys disappeared?" he asked in loud voice.

"Yes, this is him!" Delfina said instantly.

"Are you sure?"

"Oh, yes. This is the man."

"This is the man," Markham repeated, waving the picture at the jury. "Your Honor," Markham said in a ringing voice, "let the record show that the witness has just identified a photograph of Mr. Barry McGee."

You can feel it tilting now, can't you, Ted. You can feel your case sliding sideways, getting ready for the deep six as the ocean pours into the lower decks. Man the lifeboats, Ted, women and children first.

# Chapter Fifty-Seven

"It's show time," Markham whispered in Travis's ear. "Hold on to your ass with both hands at all times."

"Mr. Markham?"

"The Defense calls Barry McGee," Markham announced in clear voice. When the doors opened and the deputy ushered McGee inside a sound like the ripple of an errant breeze just before a storm arrives swept through the courtroom. All eyes followed McGee as he walked down the central aisle. Noting the attention, Barry smiled, pleased that he, rather than Tom Travis, was the star.

"You are still under oath, Mr. McGee," the Judge warned him.

Markham smiled and ambled toward the stand.

"Mr. McGee, thank you for coming back here today. As I recall your testimony from last week, you've known Tom Travis quite a long time."

"Yes sir, about ten years." If anything McGee's twang was even folksier than before.

"I suppose that over all those years and all those movies you've taken quite a few falls for Mr. Travis."

"Yes, I guess I have."

"When he played the hero who was shot out of the saddle, you fell off the horse for him?"

"I done that a time or two," McGee said with a smile.

"When his car was racing away from the bad guys, you were the one who was in it when it crashed?"

"That too."

"That adds up to a lot of bumps and bruises, I'd expect."

"I took my share."

"Were you ever hurt taking the falls for Tom? Broken leg . . . ?"

McGee laughed. "A broken leg. A broken arm. Two sprained ankles. Sprained wrist. Three or four concussions. That's the business."

"I bet Tom was pretty grateful that it was you taking those lumps instead of him."

"I suppose," McGee said, his voice growing cold.

"Did he ever give you little presents, thank-you gifts after a tough role or maybe one of those broken legs?"

"Not so you'd notice."

"Well, maybe he made up for that at Christmas. What kind of Christmas gifts did Tom give you?"

McGee shot a sour look at the defense table and turned away. "I don't recall any Christmas gifts from Tom. Must of slipped his mind."

"So after all these years of bumps and bruises and broken bones, Tom Travis never even bothered to so much as give you a bottle of whiskey at Christmas?"

"I guess he figured the studio paid me for my work and that was enough," McGee said in a flat tone.

"That's got to hurt. Did he ever help you out any other way? Maybe with a loan when your cash ran short?"

"Not likely."

"Well, did you ever ask Tom for a loan?"

"Once."

"What did he say?"

"That he didn't loan money and that the bank didn't make movies."

"Ouch! In other words, he turned you down flat?"

"He said I didn't have enough collateral so that he could be sure he'd ever get paid back."

"What were you going to use the money for?"

"Objection, Your Honor. I don't see—"

"I do, Mr. Hamilton. Overruled."

"I had the chance to buy into a movie prop rental business. Figured I'd get out of stunt work before I broke something permanent-like."

"That seems reasonable. How much did you ask to borrow?"

"Fifty thousand dollars. I offered to put up the business as security."

"That doesn't sound like much to a man as wealthy as Tom Travis. Are you telling me that in spite of everything you had done for him, Tom turned you down?"

McGee gave Markham a lopsided smile. "It's his money. He can spend it any way he likes."

"Is that why you started selling drugs to the crew on his movie?" Markham asked in a solicitous voice.

"What?"

"We've heard about your arrest for drug dealing. Were you doing that to get the money to buy into that business?"

"I wasn't thinking very straight when I did that," McGee said apologetically. "It was a big mistake."

"We've heard that you believed that Tom Travis is the one who turned you in to the police. Is that true?"

"I thought he did. I can't prove it."

"No, you're right. Tom is the one who turned you in." McGee gave Travis a glare of pure hate which didn't escape the jury's notice. "You spent a year in jail for that, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"You got out not long before you and Tom had that drink you testified about last week, correct?"

"Sometime around then." McGee glanced around the room and forced a smile. "But, hey, what's done is done. Nobody's got a time machine, right?"

"So, when you called Tom and told him you needed help getting a job, you needed the help because you had just gotten out of jail, right?"

"Yeah, that's right."

"Considering the fact that Tom's the one who put you in jail in the first place, it seems like he should have been willing to help you get back on your feet, wouldn't you say?"

"You'd think so."

"So, like an old friend, water under the bridge, you went over to Tom's house, at his invitation, on December 27th, correct?"

"That's what I said last week."

"That's quite a house he's got, isn't it?"

"A little rich for my blood."

"Mine too," Markham said with a smile. "Did Tom show you around, give you the tour?"

"Yeah, he showed her off."

"He showed you his flat screen TV and his indoor fountain and all the fancy furniture and paintings?"

"Old Tom's done all right for himself."

"Did he show you his diamond cuff links and that fancy Patek Philippe watch of his?"

"I'd seen them before."

"How about his Hummer and his dune buggy and his dirt bike?"

"Yeah, he gave me the grand tour."

"Did you meet his wife?"

"Like I said last week, she was going out when I was coming in. She seemed real nice."

"Where was she going?"

"Shopping someplace."

"You probably don't remember where."

"It was the Beverly Center," McGee said with a 'so there' smile.

"Did the maid go with her?"

"Some Mexican woman went with her. It could have been the maid."

"So, just you and Tom were left in the house?"

"That's what I said."

"Yes, you did. So, then they left and you sat down and Tom fixed you a drink."

"Tom Travis never fixed me a drink in his life."

"You're kidding."

"You want a drink in Tom's house either the maid or somebody fixes it or you get it yourself. Tom's don't never do nothin' for nobody."

"You had to fix your own drink?"

McGee smiled. "I know how to pour whiskey."

"Okay, Tom's in the family room and he sends you to the kitchen to grab a couple of glasses and pour both of you a drink?"

"No, it wasn't like that."

"You tell me."

"Tom, he already had his own drink. He told me there was a bottle on the kitchen table and to help myself to whatever I wanted." McGee shrugged. "I went to the kitchen, got a glass, ice, and that was that."

"After you got your drink you chatted about Marian and his marital problems?"

"Like I said last week."

"Did you talk about anything else? Did he brag about his new dune buggy?"

"Tom liked his toys."

"Did he invite you to go with him when he broke it in?"

"No."

"He sat there, bragging about his new dune buggy, told you he was going to take her out for her maiden run, and then he didn't even ask you if you'd like to come along?"

"It seemed like once I asked him to loan me money, that was the end of us," McGee said sourly.

"Considering everything you did for Tom and everything he did to you, did you ever think about, you know, finding some way to get compensated for what he owed you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, with all that jewelry and his fancy watches and paintings and stuff in his house, did you ever think about maybe coming back some day and taking something to cover the year of your life he took away when he got you sent to jail?"

"I'm no thief."

"I'm not talking about stealing. I'm talking about getting what you deserved."

"How the heck was I supposed to do that?"

"All you'd need was to get in there when no one was at home. Right?"

"Tom always locked his doors."

"What about the maid's keys? They were right there in the lock in the kitchen back door. You pour yourself a drink, slip the keys in your pocket, who would know?"

"I didn't steal no keys."

"You're not a thief?"

"That's right."

"Except for that drug thing that you've already explained, you've been a law abiding person?"

"My daddy raised me right."

Markham nodded and backed away. "Okay. Let's talk about that. Last week you said you left home in Colorado so that you could get into the movies, correct?"

"That's what I said."

"Didn't you leave your parents home because of a terrible tragedy?"

"I don't like to talk about that."

"Your parents home burned down, didn't it? Is that how your father died?"

"What do you have to bring that up for?"

"I agree. Objection, relevance."

"If Your Honor would give me just a little latitude."

"Overruled, but subject to a motion to strike. Connect this up and get on with it."

"Mr. McGee, the Judge is right. Let's move on. It is true, isn't it, that after your house burned down you stayed in Colorado for almost five years, correct?"

"I was just a kid when the fire happened."

"While you were still in Colorado, did you get into a dispute with the manager of the auto parts store where you worked?"

"He was cheatin' us on our overtime and I called him on it."

"He filed a criminal complaint with the police, didn't he?"

"Your Honor, I have to object. This is not proper impeachment."

"I'm not asking for the purpose of impeachment."

"You're right on the edge, Mr. Markham. . . Overruled, for now."

"Mr. McGee?"

"He made that stuff up to get even with me. They dropped the case. It was nothin'."

"Didn't they drop the case when a mysterious fire burned up all the store's records concerning the missing merchandise?"

"The whole thing was bogus."

"Moving on," Markham said, glancing at the Judge, "you had another problem with the police in Colorado, didn't you?"

"They had it in for me."

"Did you plead guilty to burning up the car of a man who claimed you beat him up?"

"That was a put up job."

"But you did plead guilty to arson, correct?"

"The lawyer told me that was the fastest way to get the whole thing over with. I did nine months in county and got the hell out of Colorado."

"So when you said last week that you left Colorado to fulfill your dream get into the movies, that wasn't completely true was it? You left Colorado after at least two criminal charges and a conviction for arson."

"I always wanted to be in the movies."

"Let's see, your parents' house burns down. Then the evidence of theft against you burns up. Then the car of the man who accused you of beating him with a baseball bat burns up. I'm sensing a pattern here."

"Objection, Your Honor."

"You've made your point, Mr. Markham. Sustained. Move on."

Markham walked to the defense table and Brian handed him a report. After giving the D.A. a copy and having it marked, he approached the witness.

"Mr. McGee, let me turn your attention to page four of the forensic report on the investigation of Tom Travis's living room. The place where I've marked in yellow. Please read that aloud."

McGee stared at the page, frowned, then haltingly read: "Hydrocarbon residue found on living-room carpet at the location marked J on illustration 14 in a narrow line 10.4 inches long." McGee looked up in confusion and handed the paper back. "What's that mean?"

Markham retrieved a duffle bag from beneath the defense table and removed a red and yellow one-gallon gas can and a ruler.

"Mr. McGee, it turns out that the edge of this gas can is exactly ten and a half inches long and if any gas had dripped down the side of a can like this and that can was placed on a rug, it would leave a thin line of gasoline about ten and a half inches long on the rug, just like the line of gasoline the police found on Tom Travis's living room rug."

"Objection!"

"I don't know anything about something like that."

"Sustained."

"Did you enter the Travis house on December 31st with the plan to steal what you could carry off and then burn the house down to get even with Tom Travis for how he'd mistreated you?"

"No way."

"Objection!"

"Sustained. Put your props away and move on, Mr. Markham."

"What kind of car did you drive when Ms. Travis disappeared?"

"A red '92 Camaro."

"A classic car."

"I like it."

"Did you ever own a van?"

"Never," McGee sneered.

"At the time Marian Travis disappeared did any of your friends or relatives own a van?"

"Not as far as I know," McGee said in a more restrained voice.

"I believe you said your father was dead. What was his name?"

"Walter."

"What's your mother's name?"

McGee paused. "Sheila," he said uneasily as if admitting a sin.

"Hmmm," Markham mumbled as if confused, and picked up a sheet of papers from the defense table.

"According to the Department of Motor Vehicles on the date Marian Travis disappeared Sheila McGee owned a Ford Windstar van," Markham said, handing McGee a certified copy of the DMV registration report.

That shudder you just felt, Ted, was your case beginning to capsize.

McGee's eyes went wide and Markham moved toward the jury so that they could see the witness's expression. In the audience Simon Katz felt as if someone had twisted a knife in his guts. He could guess who Sheila McGee was and her connection to the black van in the photographs. He tried to sit up straight and felt as if he had lost the ability to breathe.

"What color was your mother's van?"

"I don't remember?"

"You don't remember the color of your own mother's vehicle? Try."

"Black or blue," McGee admitted after rubbing his temples in a theatrical attempt to prod his memory.

"Did you ever drive her van around the time that Ms. Travis disappeared?"

"I had my Camaro. I didn't need her van."

"So she was the only one driving it?"

"As far as I know."

"How's your mother's health?"

"Not good. She had a stroke."

"Serious?"

"Pretty bad."

"When?"

"I don't remember."

"Hmmmm. Most sons would remember when their mother had a stroke. Would it refresh your memory if I told you that she had her stroke in September, about three months before Ms. Travis disappeared?"

"I suppose."

"She wasn't driving her black van right after a serious stroke, was she?"

"I don't know."

"You had a set of keys to the van, didn't you?"

"I don't remember."

"What happened to her van?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know. Do you remember putting a want-ad to sell her van in the LA Times in January, right after Marian Travis disappeared?"

"I don't remember."

Markham handed McGee and the Prosecutor a sheaf of papers. "Mr. McGee, I'm handing you a copy of the business records subpoenaed from the Los Angeles Times showing that you placed an ad to sell that van on January 12th and that you paid by personal check. Does that refresh your memory?"

McGee made a show of leafing through the pages. "Yeah, I guess I helped my mom out. What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing at all. You found a buyer for the van, didn't you?"

"Yeah."

"That would be a . . . " Markham consulted his pad, "Lorraine Goodwin?"

"That sounds right."

"In fact, she paid you by certified check." Markham handed McGee a copy of the check before he could answer.

"Yeah," McGee said sourly.

"Is that a copy of the check?"

McGee made a show of examining the page. "Yeah."

"That check is made payable directly to you?"

"Yes."

A moment later it went into evidence.

"Before Ms. Goodwin bought the van, she drove it didn't she?"

"I guess."

"And when she paid you, you must have given her the keys."

"Sure."

"So you had a set of keys to the van, right?"

"I guess so."

"Please take a look at the DMV record form, specifically the license number of your mother's van." Markham handed the page back to McGee. "Now, please take a look at this photograph, Defense twenty for identification." Markham handed McGee one of the photos of the van. "Does the license number on the DMV record for your mother's van match the license place in this photograph?"

McGee stared back and forth at the two documents for fifteen or twenty seconds. "I guess so," he finally admitted.

"So, based on the matching license numbers, the black van in this picture is your mother's van?"

"Sure, so what?"

Markham ignored the question. "Did you ever have a sign made that said 'Sunshine Pool Service'?"

"Why would I do that?"

"Did you?"

"Hell no."

"Think carefully. Are you absolutely sure?"

"It's not the sort of thing you'd forget."

"No, it isn't," Markham said, glancing at the jury, then he nodded to one of his assistants who hurried from the room. "Your Honor, if the Court would indulge me for a moment." The doors and opened every eye fastened on Everett Yelley's portly form. Brian marched Yelley up to the bar separating the spectators from the attorneys.

"Mr. McGee that gentleman is Mr. Everett Yelley. He operates Alfred's All-Needs Signs. Do you recognize him?"

"No!" McGee almost shouted.

"Do you see that notebook in Mr. Yelley's hand?"

"Yes."

"Those are his business records for the months immediately before Marian Travis disappeared. Would it refresh your memory if I told you that Mr. Yelley has identified you as the person who purchased a plastic stick-on sign bearing the name 'Sunshine Pool Service'?"

"I don't know what you're talking about!" McGee snapped.

"In due time Mr. Yelley will give his own testimony." Markham nodded and Brian led a confused Everett Yelley from the room.

"Mr. McGee, it's undisputed that your mother owned a black van. It's undisputed that you had the keys to the van. It's undisputed that your mother's van was seen on Tom Travis's street the morning his wife disappeared. It's undisputed that the van had a Sunshine Pool Service sign on it. Mr. Yelley will testify that you purchased such a sign. Look around you, Mr. McGee. Look at the jury. Look at the judge. Even the D.A. knows you were driving that van that day."

McGee's head swiveled like a cornered rat searching for a way out. Sweat began to trickle down his back. After a quick look at the Prosecutor's frowning gaze his shoulders slumped. "All right," McGee said in a whisper.

"All right what?"

"All right, I was in the van, okay? I drove by Tom's house in the van. I was going to rob the place, okay? He owed me!" McGee shouted, looking at Travis.

"So, you—"

"But I chickened out."

"What?"

"I did everything you said but when I got there I chickened out. I saw some old biddy watching me and I didn't have the remote thing to get past the gate. I figured that if I just parked there and fooled with the lock she'd be able to identify me, so I just drove on by and went home." McGee gave Markham and the jury an embarrassed look but Greg caught a feral glint in the stuntman's eyes. Son of a bitch!

"You never drove your van through the gate?" Markham asked.

"Like I said, I didn't have the remote thing."

"What remote thing?"

"The one that operates the gate."

"How do you know there was such a thing?"

"How else would the people who live there get in and out?"

"Where were you. . . ." Markham began, then paused at the sound of the courtroom doors opening behind him. He glanced back and saw Janson approaching the defense table with an envelope in his hand. "Your Honor, may I have a moment to consult with my associate?"

"A very short moment, Mr. Markham."

Without a word Steve spilled out a set of color pages covered with tables and graphs.

"What the hell does all this say?" Markham whispered.

"Nothing on Marian," Steve said calmly, "but," Steve tapped the second set, "this one's a match to Sarah," he said unable to conceal a wide smile. "Her hair puts her in McGee's van!" Markham made sure that his body screened Steve's joyful expression.

When asked later to describe what he felt at that instant Markham was lost for words. The most recognizable emotion, he decided, was the absence of an emotion — fear. In that one moment the terror that he might see an innocent client convicted slipped away. Taking an extra second or two to compose himself he finally turned back to McGee.

"I'm sorry for the interruption, Mr. McGee. Was that December 31st the only time you drove your mother's van anywhere around the Travis house?"

"Yeah, sure."

"And on that one occasion, you just drove on by the house?"

"Yes."

"You didn't so much as enter the driveway?"

"That's what I said."

"So Marian Travis was never in your mother's van?"

"No."

"And Sarah, Marian's daughter, she was never in your mother's van?"

"No," Travis said with a little snort.

"Do you know what DNA is?" Markham asked in a suddenly challenging tone.

Ted Hamilton's head snapped up and in Markham' imagination the judge's eyes seemed to emit a peculiar glow.

McGee paused then muttered, "Something that's used to identify people."

"Yes. Did you know that a person's DNA can be identified from only a single strand of hair?"

"Whatever you say."

"I hold in my hand," Markham said, raising the gaily colored pages, "a DNA report on a strand of hair recovered from your mother's van."

Every eye in the room was instantly riveted on the pages, straining to read their secrets.

"What's that got to do with me? That Goodwin lady's had the thing for more than a year."

"I will tell you what it has to do with you, Mr. McGee," Markham said in a ringing voice, then he paused for several seconds to let the suspense build. "This strand of hair found in your black van," he almost shouted, "belongs to Sarah Travis!"

An involuntary gasp echoed through the courtroom and in the first row, a young woman began to cry. Simon Katz sat back in his seat and covered his face with his hands.

"It—"

"Don't speak! I know everything."

"I just—"

"I know everything!" Markham shouted. The forensic team had also found blue fibers in the van.

"You couldn't bring yourself to kill Sarah so you bound her with silver duct tape and wrapped her in a blue blanket. Do you remember the blue blanket?"

"I don't know—"

"Stop lying!" Markham ordered. "I know everything." Mentally crossing his fingers and praying that Janson's psychic wasn't a raving lunatic, Markham glanced at Steve, took a deep breath, then leaned forward on railing in front of the witness stand.

"I know that you wrapped up Sarah in a blue blanket and put her in the back of your van. I know that you drove her down to Mexico. You were terrified when you crossed the border that someone would find her, but they never searched the van. I know," Markham began, mentally crossing his fingers and toes, "about Jorge!"

McGee looked as if he had been slapped in the face.

"I know everything! I know how you sold little Sarah to Jorge," Markham screamed in McGee's face.

McGee flinched and his eyes had the look of a hunted animal.

"How do you suppose I know all this? How could I know?" Markham demanded.

McGee stared dumbly.

"There's only one way I could know. Think! We know because we found Jorge, and he told us everything!"

Markham struggled to remember everything Steve had reported about his interview with the psychic.

McGee seemed to collapse in on himself and wedged himself into the back of the witness chair.

"Jorge gave you up. He told us everything. Do you remember that Jorge asked you if she was healthy and you said that she was perfect, that you guaranteed it? Do you remember what Jorge said to you next? Do you? How he looked at little Sarah and then he looked at you and then he said. . . ." Markham raised his pad and in a loud, clear voice pretended to read: "'I don't take no broken merchandise.'"

A gasp swept through the courtroom.

Hiding his face, McGee bent over and huddled in the chair and feared that he would cry.

"You didn't mean to kill Marian, did you?" Markham suggested. "You're not a monster. You're not a cold blooded killer. How did it happen? It was an accident, wasn't it?" Markham insisted. "Wasn't it?" He turned to face the jury, afraid that he would not be able to hide the fear and desperation welling up inside him.

A second passed, two, three. Greg held his breath and prayed. Finally, just as he was about to turn and try again, in the softest of whispers he heard McGee say, "I didn't mean to do it," then, louder, "It was an accident."

Tom Travis gasped aloud then laid his head on the defense table to hide his tears. Slowly, Greg turned back to the witness stand.

"You just went there to get what Tom owed you, didn't you?"

"Yes. I didn't mean to hurt anybody," McGee sobbed.

"Tom had told you he would be out riding his dune buggy and that Marian was going out on a boat with her boyfriend."

"Yes."

"You thought the house would be empty. How could you know that Marian and her boyfriend had had a fight and that she and Sarah stayed home?"

"No one was supposed to be there!"

"Did Marian shout at you? Threaten you?"

"She said she was going to call the cops. I begged her but she starting fighting and kicking and I tried to quiet her down and . . . things got out of hand and the next thing I knew she was dead. I didn't mean to do it. You have to believe me!"

"Then you found Sarah, but you couldn't hurt her."

"She was just a little kid. I'm not a monster."

"So you took her to Jorge in Mexico. What's Jorge's last name?"

"Padillo," McGee said without thinking. "He finds good homes in the States for kids. Rich people who want to adopt. I wouldn't hurt a kid."

In the audience Katz grabbed his pad and started writing.

"I know. What did you do with Marian's body after you left the house?"

"I rent a freezer for venison, for when I go hunting. I put her in there after I left Tom's house. Nobody saw me. Then, when the news came out about where he was out with his dune buggy, I took her out there. I figured it would look like Tom did it if they ever found her."

"What did you do with the lamp the cord came from?"

"I gave it to the Goodwill over on Reseda."

"What about the remote for the gate and the maid's keys?"

"I buried them in the bushes behind the carport at my apartment house."

"If only Marian hadn't attacked you."

"I just lost it. I'm sorry."

"What's the name of Jorge's town again?"

"Pillarcitos."

"Calle . . . ?"

"Esquella."

Katz stumbled to his feet and in spite of his bad knee sprinted from the room. McGee never even noticed him leave. Head bowed, tears running down his cheeks, he twisted his calloused hands.

Markham looked at the sobbing wreck and a hundred questions raced through his mind, then he shook his head and turned to the judge.

"No more questions, Your Honor," he said quietly.

Burris stared at Greg then turned to the DA.

"Mr. Hamilton?"

"Yes, Your Honor?"

"You have a motion?"

Hamilton looked at the papers strewn across his desk, at McGee, at a red-eyed Tom Travis, and sighed.

"The People move for the dismissal of all charges against Thomas Travis."

"The case against Thomas Travis is dismissed. Detective Furley!" Burris shouted, catching Jack's eye among the spectators.

Furley hurried to the bench.

"Yes, Your Honor?"

"I order you to arrest this man on a charge of first degree murder," Burris commanded in a ringing voice.

Furley pulled McGee to his feet and spun him around.

"Hook him up!" Burris shouted, his voice beginning to break as he remembered his own murdered daughter. Furley's cuffs made a CLACK-CLACK sound as they slipped over McGee's wrist.

"Get him out of here!" Burris ordered in a shrill voice. "Get him the hell out of my courtroom!"

Markham's most vivid memory of that day was of Jack Furley leading a sobbing Barry McGee away in chains.

# Chapter Fifty-Eight

Three days later Elaine Barrington listed her copy of Cosmo from her coffee table and idly leafed through the pages. From the little closet next to the kitchen she heard a muffled thump. She ignored it and turned the page. A moment later another thump. Elaine frowned then stopped herself. Frowning caused wrinkles. Thump. That horrible child! Ever since Ralph had left she did nothing but make a pest of herself. Elaine hated to admit that Ralph was right about anything but it was now clear that they should have gotten rid of the little monster.

She had tried to be a good mother. She had hired a perfectly nice nanny, what a fortune she had cost, but the girl was just plain willful. Another thump. Clearly she had not learned her lesson. Elaine put down the magazine. There was no help for it but to let Ralph have his way and send her back to wherever she came from. Thump.

Elaine frowned in spite of herself and walked deliberately to the breakfront across the room. She removed the belt in the bottom drawer. I'll teach you to kick my door you little monster. Turning she slapped the leather against the palm of her hand. Children must be taught to obey. As she passed the picture window three men in black Kevlar suits raced across the front lawn, the letters "FBI" in white printed across their chests. Still favoring his bad knee, Simon Katz limped along behind.

Elaine slapped the belt a second time and reached for the lock on the closet door. Let the little monster be somebody else's problem, Elaine decided. She had just begun to turn the knob when her front door exploded and four men with assault rifles and bulletproof vests ran screaming into the room.

"FBI! Search Warrant! FBI! DOWN! DOWN! DOWN!"

What in heaven's name . . . ? Elaine turned and approached the shattered front door. "What is this—"

A two hundred pound man came flying out of nowhere and smashed into her, crushing her to the floor. Elaine's arms were yanked behind her and cold steel bit into her wrists. Around her echoed the sounds of running feet and splintering doors.

"I've got her!" a man's voice shouted from the back of the house. "She's tied up. Get the medic!"

Elaine was yanked painfully to her feet. Through blurry eyes she saw a woman, dressed in black Kevlar just like the men, carrying the brat away, crying, as usual.

"What do you think—" Elaine demanded when a huge man with some kind of a machine gun marched up to her and began to shout at her, reading from a wrinkled piece of paper: "Elaine Barrington, you are under arrest for kidnapping, conspiracy to commit kidnapping and transportation of a human being across state lines for illegal purposes. You have the right to remain silent. If you choose to give up that right. . . ." The rest of the man's words disappeared in a whirling blur of noise.

This is impossible, Elaine thought even as they dragged her away. This can't be happening to me. That dreadful child!

"Do you understand the rights I have just read to you?" he demanded.

"Whaaaaat?"

# Chapter Fifty-Nine

So much had changed in just a week. Steve had become accustomed to the riot of boxes cluttering his home and now the apartment seemed empty without them. Instead of files and crime-scene reports scattered all over his carpet there was only a single document on the end table, untouched since Steve had finished reading it half an hour before.

The first page began with the usual medical jargon, "The subject is a well nourished Caucasian female, approximately thirty-one years of age. . . ." and continued to relate greater and greater horrors blandly phrased. Somehow he made it to the end. Lynn had not been pregnant. There had been no baby.

Such a short document, Steve thought, to have taken him two years to read. Had there ever been a bigger coward or a bigger fool? Carefully, he replaced the report in its manila envelope and re-sealed the flap.

Next to it on the table Lynn's card still lay unopened. With hands that seemed to belong to another man he tore open the seal.

Dear Steve,

In case you get home before me, I just want to say that I'm sorry about the fight and how things ended between us this morning. I know you love me and I love you and I know that we will work this all out.

I'll be home soon.

All my love,

Lynn

The thought I'm the stupidest man on earth, raced through his head and numbly he stared down at the card that had terrified him all this time. Finally, he collapsed on the couch and closed his eyes. Now what? He had no idea. Tomorrow, he decided, would answer its own questions.

Blinking against the light he idly grabbed the remote and the TV sprang to life. As if he were the object of some cosmic joke, Cynthia Allard's face coalesced on the screen.

" . . . been quite a week, Cynthia."

"It certainly has, Bob. Today, LA County District Attorney, Mark Halliday, announced that his office would seek the death penalty for confessed killer, Barry McGee. And in a related story, Tom Travis and Gerard Fontaine, the father of Travis's murdered wife, Marian Fontaine Travis, issued a joint press release in which they stated that Tom would adopt Marian's orphaned daughter, Sarah, and that he and Mr. Fontaine would share custody. 'Sarah will have both a grandfather and a father,' Travis announced, 'and I will raise her and love as my own child.'"

"A happy ending to a terrible tragedy, Cynthia. Any word about a new love interest in Tom's life now that the trial is behind him?"

"Nothing definite, Bob, but there have been rumors that Tom and his former girlfriend, Kaitlen Berdue, may get back together."

"Even after she helped the police try to convict him?"

Cynthia cocked her head and smiled. "Well, this is Hollywood, Bob. Everybody here likes a happy ending."

Steve studied Cynthia's vapid face and wondered how he ever could have thought she was even close to the same league as Lynn. With a click her image flickered and faded to gray. For a moment longer Steve stared at the empty screen. Had he only seen Cynthia's broadcast he would have been willing to bet anything that Travis was adopting Sarah merely as a cynical ploy to rejuvenate his tarnished image, that Tom Travis loved no one and nothing except himself. And, Steve knew, he would have been completely and thoroughly wrong.

Greg Markham had been there when the FBI brought Sarah back to Travis's mansion on Rexford Drive. He told Steve that when the police had let Sarah out of their car that she took one look at Travis and shouted "Daddy!" and ran into his arms and that Travis had grabbed her and broken into shrieking tears and had cried like baby. Sometimes people will surprise you, Steve decided.

Was there any food in the house? Not that he was hungry. Not that he felt much of anything right now, other than relief and the absence of pain. Take out? His musing was interrupted by a knock on the door. If some reporter had tracked him down . . . But it was a uniformed deliveryman.

"Steven Janson?"

"Yes?"

"I have a package for you." He pointed to a cardboard box about two feet by three feet and four inches thick. "Please sign here."

Steve stared at the box, then, distracted, signed the form. In an instant the man was gone. What the hell. . . ?

Steve found a knife in the kitchen and carefully cut the cardboard away. An oil painting slid out, upside down. Steve righted it, set it on the couch and stood back.

It showed a laborer, tired, sweating, leaning on a short-handled hoe. In his left hand he held a cheap straw hat. His face and bare arms were scorched from countless days in the fields. In the background was an expanse of lush plants with tiny red and yellow flowers while off to one side the farm boss frowned as he leaned against the door of a sixties-era white Cadillac. But it was the foreground that clutched at Steve's soul.

To the left of the laborer was a four or five year-old little girl, clothed in a tattered red dress and worn-down shoes. Her two hands were raised in front of her, clutching a frosted glass of lemonade which she held out to her father. But unlike him she was not tired or sad. Her lips were split in a beatific smile and her face bore the unmistakable likeness of Sarah Fontaine Travis.

A small yellow note was taped to the top of the frame: "Steve, Thanks for everything- Tom." and in the picture's lower right corner, very faint in dull maroon paint, was the scrawled legend: 'T. Travis.'

Steve stared at the painting for several minutes then found a hammer and at the back of the kitchen drawer. There was only one other painting in the room, Lynn's picture from their honeymoon trip to the South of France. Steve tapped the nail in just below it and hung Travis's picture, then stepped back.

The new painting was magnificent, but Steve found his eyes wandering upward, back to the last really beautiful physical link he had to Lynn. For the longest time Steve stood there, lost in thought, staring at his wife's favorite painting, and remembering her and how much she had loved him.

— End Of A Death In Beverly Hills —

#  About The Author

David Grace has written sixteen novels. To see a list of his other books and to read free excerpts from them, visit his website, DavidGraceAuthor.Com, by CLICKING OR TAPPING HERE.

Here is an excerpt from David Grace's novel, Death Never Sleeps

# DEATH NEVER SLEEPS

# CHAPTER ONE

Detective James Timothy "Big Jim" Donegan leaned forward and peered into the wood chipper. His flashlight penetrated about three feet down the chute and stopped at the point where the victim's thighs disappeared into the blades.

"Never was built to do a load like this," the Parks & Rec guy muttered, shaking his head at the misuse of his equipment. A piece of masking tape with the inked name, "Woody," was pasted to his hard-hat's brim. "See, this is a model 900. She's only supposed to be used for brush and branches and stuff like that. This lady," Woody waved idly at the torso protruding from the hopper, "she would need at least a model 1200 to, you know . . . ." Woody shrugged and looked back at Big Jim.

"To completely grind her up?" Big Jim suggested. Woody gave him an uneasy nod.

"Yeah, well, you know, the right tool for the right job," Woody muttered and stuck his head down into the chute. After a brief pause he frowned and turned back to Big Jim. "Boy, she's stuck in there real good."

"How hard is it going to be for us to get her out once the Coroner is finished?"

Woody tilted his head to one side then glanced over at his toolbox.

"I can try putting this guy in reverse. If that doesn't work I'm gonna have to disconnect the belt." Woody reached for the start button but Big Jim grabbed his wrist.

"The Coroner has to examine the body first. He'll give you the go-ahead when he's ready."

Woody looked anxiously around. "Which one is him? I got a crew waiting on this guy." Woody patted the chipper's sheet metal side and elicited a dull thump.

"He's on his way. Take a break and I'll let you know when he gets here."

Woody gave the protruding torso a final, nervous glance then wandered back to his truck.

Big Jim gazed past the milling uniforms and spectators stretched out behind the yellow tape. The sycamores at the edge of the park had begun to bud out with pale green shoots. The jacarandas were even farther along though it would be a couple of months before they gowned themselves with purple blossoms. A raven, scenting fresh meat, cawed at the cops from high in an old black oak.

Needing to find some distraction from the awful scene, Big Jim imagined flowers and flapping leaves and children at play, and smiled. Life was too short, he reminded himself, to abandon beauty, even on a day like this. Especially on a day like this.

"We're going to need a crew to sift the remains." Big Jim snapped back to the present and saw his partner pointing at the mound of chopped meat and bone in front of the chipper. "If the killer had any sense he sent her purse through the blades ahead of her."

"What's your take on this, Chris?" Big Jim asked.

Chris Hunter knew that the question was a test. Everything Big Jim did was intended to teach him something. Sometimes it was about being a cop. More often it was about life in general, a subject that Chris found perpetually confusing. Guns, forensics, computers, software, forms, reports, laws, rules — all of those things he could master without breaking a sweat. He was comfortable with rules and regulations. More than comfortable. The truth was that he required them for the world to make any sense to him. It was people who confused him. Why they did what they did was a mystery that Chris Hunter feared he would never solve.

He looked again at the body, the gray skin, the eyes so clouded that their color was almost gone.

"Prostitute," Chris began, answering Big Jim's question, "early to mid-twenties, former heroin addict, not speed, central or eastern European ancestry, possibly Romanian, maybe a little farther east. She's been in the U.S. less than three years so I'd guess that she's maybe twenty-two or so. Strangled to death before he put her into the machine."

Big Jim cocked his head a little to one side and Chris realized that he had surprised his mentor.

"Run it down for me," Big Jim ordered.

Chris couldn't completely stop himself from giving Big Jim a brief smile.

"The marks on her throat and the petechial hemorrhaging say 'strangulation' loud and clear. A ligature of some kind. We'll have to wait until the bruises fully develop to get a better idea of the size and type.

"The tracks on her arms say 'smack' but they're three to six months old so it looks like she'd recently gotten herself clean. The teeth don't show any signs of meth. The hair is auburn and her eyes were gray, so that pretty much rules out Hispanic. She's got high cheekbones and facial dimensions that are typical of Slavic ancestry. She's cut the tips out of her bra so her nipples show through her blouse so, again, hooker. When I looked in her mouth I saw Eastern-European dental work on one of the back molars. Most of the pimps around here keep their girls hooked so they're easier to control but this one looks like she was in pretty decent shape so she hasn't been in the trade for more than a year or two."

"Why do you figure she was in her early twenties?"

"The eyes," Chris said, glancing at the corpse. "The skin is still smooth and tight. The Life ages a woman real fast. By twenty-seven or eight they're already developing crow's feet and bags, which she doesn't have."

"What if she didn't get into the business until she was in her mid-twenties and she's been a working girl for only a couple of years?"

"No," Chris said, shaking his head, "they won't bring over anyone older than twenty or so. Fresh girls are the moneymakers. If you start with someone in their mid-twenties they've only got a year or two of good earning power left before the Life wears them out so much that they get sent down to second string. It's like the NFL not wanting a quarterback over thirty-five." Chris froze when he saw Big Jim's frown. Had he said the wrong thing, again? Chris replayed it over in his head and tried to figure out where he had made his mistake. Did football teams hire quarterbacks who were over thirty-five? How old was Drew Breeze?

"Good job, Chris," Big Jim said after a little pause and gave his partner an encouraging nod. Chris instantly smiled back, pleased that he had not let Big Jim down after all. "So, Chris, any idea who she worked for?"

"According to Vice, Johnny-Boy Watkins is running the girls from here down to just this side of The Beach." Big Jim's face clouded upon hearing Johnny-Boy's name.

"She looks a little rich for Johnny-Boy and the word is that he gets most of his girls out of Thailand via the Philippines. I would figure Gregor Rostov for someone like her."

"No, his girls mostly work out-call in Montclair, Ardenwood and High Oak. They usually don't get this far south in The Valley."

"She could have been grabbed up in High Oak and brought down here to be dumped," Big Jim said, half-seriously, half to make Chris lay out the steps in his logic.

"She was strangled before he put her into the chipper and it rained two days ago. If he'd driven her over the lawn we would have seen tire tracks. That means he either carried her or she walked. If he was big enough to carry her then her weight added to his would have left impressions in the grass and there aren't any, so she walked in and he killed her here."

"He still could have grabbed her up in High Oak or maybe Hidden Valley and driven her down here, couldn't he?"

Chris frowned, struggling to put his thoughts into words. "We're a fifteen minute drive from High Oak. She's been on the job for a couple of years and if she got into a John's car up there and he tried to drive her all the way down here she would've been kicking and screaming most of the way."

"Maybe she was."

Chris shook his head. "Her nails weren't broken and there's no bruising on her wrists and no tape residue. She didn't put up a fight and she wasn't tied up. She met him here in the park. That means she was either freelancing or she was one of Johnny-Boy's girls." Chris looked at Big Jim expectantly.

"I can't argue with that," Big Jim said, giving Chris a little smile. "So, OK, what's our next move?"

"We have the uniforms canvas the area, and after the Coroner finishes with the body we have a talk with Johnny-Boy Watkins."

"Did you put some pictures of her on your phone?"

"First thing."

"All right, we'll interview Johnny-Boy after lunch. Otherwise he'll piss me off so much it'll ruin my appetite. . . . There's the Coroner. Broken nails or no broken nails, make sure he bags her hands. I'll tell Woody that we're almost ready to get her out of that contraption."

After one last glance at what used to be a young woman and now was only a drugged, brutalized, exploited and murdered corpse, Big Jim ambled toward the Parks' Department truck and tried to think happier thoughts.

# CHAPTER TWO

The Department had switched from Crown Vics to Chevy Malibus and, as usual, Chris drove so that Big Jim could scan the sidewalks for gang-bangers, druggies, hookers, pimps, lookouts, dealers, parolees and other persons of interest, not so much to bust them as to keep up on who was doing what to whom.

"See that kid with the red hair?" Big Jim pointed to a beefy guy in his early twenties carrying a bag of groceries. Chris took his eyes off the traffic for a quick glance.

"Who's he?"

"He used to boost cars for a bunch of crooks operating out of a warehouse near the Port. Now he's the cook at Salciccio's."

"The bar on Western?"

"They serve food too. He's studying to become a pastry chef. He makes one hell of an Alsatian apple pie."

Chris didn't know what to say. Big Jim was always coming up with stuff like that, oddball comments out of the blue. Chris knew that Big Jim was getting at something but he didn't know what. It wouldn't do him any good to ask. He knew that Big Jim wanted him to figure it out on his own. Half the time Chris felt as if he was a contestant in a game-show with Big Jim tallying the score.

"How do you know him?" Chris asked.

"His name's Terry Connelly. I collared him sliding a Slim Jim into a 500S over in Ardenwood. I was visiting a lady friend and practically tripped over him on the way back to my car. He could've run but he didn't. He just looked at my tin and held up his hands. He could've taken a swing at me with the Slim Jim and maybe done some damage. I sure as hell didn't have any backup. As I was busting him I was thinking, 'Hey, Jim, what are you getting yourself into here?'"

"But, he just gave up?"

"It didn't take me long to figure it out."

"Figure what out?"

"That he wanted it to be over. I could tell that he didn't want to be a thief anymore."

"You could just tell? How?"

Big Jim knew that Chris wanted a set of clear, simple rules, some mechanism that could be used to disassemble events into their component parts, neat and clean — 'This means this. That means that.' But people aren't black and white. They aren't Star Trek's Mr. Spock running some emotionless computer program behind their eyes. Big Jim sighed and tried to figure out how to put what he knew into words that Chris could understand.

"Just for a second I saw it on his face," Big Jim began, "surrender, like a guy who gets up every morning expecting to be collared and is relieved when it finally happens, when the running and hiding is finally over. As soon as I flashed my badge the kid slouched. His shoulders slumped. He let his arms hang loose and he dropped the Slim Jim without me having to tell him to. You watch a guy's hands and you'll always know if he's going to fight you. A man's face can lie but not his shoulders or his hands, or his feet for that matter. That's when I knew that some part of the kid had been waiting for an excuse to get out of that life."

"And you were that excuse?" Chris asked, glancing briefly at Big Jim before pulling a left on Congress Avenue.

"I knew I could be that reason, if I handled it right."

"I don't understand."

"Here's the thing, Chris. People who are doing what they want to be doing are competitors. Businessmen, car thieves, politicians, it doesn't matter. They're going to fight back against anyone who tries to stop them. You can't give those people an inch or they'll run right over you. But when a guy wants to give it up, that's when you've got a chance to turn him around. Some cops will tell you that the way to do that is to crush him into the dirt and then you'll own him."

"Some cops like Teddy Joy you mean."

"I'm not mentioning any names but, yeah, assholes like Teddy Joy. Let me tell you something, Chris — people will always do more for you out of love than out of fear. You see a guy who's down, who you can really help — I don't mean some scumbag loser who wants you to give him a free ride, but somebody who can still be saved — you do what you can for him and he'll remember that and, maybe, someday he'll help you. What goes around, comes around. People will surprise you. They will."

That was one of Big Jim's favorite sayings: People will surprise you. Chris had heard it a hundred times and he still didn't really understand it. People always surprised him. Practically everything people did was a surprise to him. They were illogical and irrational, ruled by their emotions and their self-destructive needs and obsessions. But saying that wasn't going to get him any closer to figuring out the lesson that Big Jim was trying to teach him.

"So, you helped this Terry Connelly? How? Did you let him go?"

"What would he have learned if I had done that?" Big Jim almost laughed. "People never value stuff they get for free. They have to earn it for themselves for it to mean anything. So, no, I didn't let him go. I locked him up."

Then what was the lesson? Chris wondered. Don't give a criminal a free pass? No, he was pretty sure that wasn't it. Chris stayed silent and after a moment, Big Jim continued on his own.

"I thought about turning him, making him my CI, but I didn't think the kid's heart was in it anymore. He would have screwed it up and maybe gotten himself shot or dead. Anyway, I went to the arraignment the next morning and I asked the Deputy D.A. to let him out on an OR, then I bought him a hamburger and talked to him. I just asked him what he would do with his life if he got the chance to change things."

"And he told you he wanted to be a pastry chef?"

"No, he told me that he liked to cook. I asked Sonny Salciccio to give Terry a job in his kitchen and see if he had any talent. It turned out that he was pretty good at it." Big Jim turned back to the window and studied the faces drifting past. "He's a good kid, Terry. He just needed a chance to turn his life around, to do the right thing. It's always the right time to do the right thing," Big Jim said, recalling a famous quote from Martin Luther King.

Big Jim was silent and for thirty seconds Chris tried to figure out the point of the story, the lesson that Big Jim was trying to teach him. He evaluated and discarded two or three theories before settling on one — You need to have a generous heart. He wanted to ask Big Jim if that was it, but Big Jim wouldn't have answered. It didn't work that way. Chris knew that he had to figure it out on his own as best he could.

Chris turned onto Speedway and approached the Naughty Lady bar where Johnny-Boy Watkins ran his string of girls. Big Jim watched the street but if he could have read Chris' mind he would have smiled, pleased that his partner had figured out the point of the story after all.

# CHAPTER THREE

When the Naughty Lady's front door opened Johnny-Boy Watkins squinted into the glare, then frowned. Johnny-Boy didn't like cops, any cops, and he especially didn't like Irish cops, and most of all he disliked this particular Irish cop, Big Jim Donegan. Big Jim. What the hell kind of name was that? The guy was only five feet eleven, though he did look like he had a barrel stuffed inside his chest and he had long arms and hands like catcher's mitts. With a thatch of gray hair going white, pink skin, and pale blue eyes, to Johnny-Boy Big Jim looked like Teddy Kennedy's long-lost brother.

Johnny-Boy took a long sip from the Venti his bottom girl had just brought him and stared a hole through Donegan and his punk-ass partner. Crap, the guy looked like some motorcycle cop just off the Highway Patrol. Could he be any more white-bread?

"Hi, Johnny-Boy. Mind if we sit down?" Big Jim said, already sliding into the booth. Chris Hunter pulled a chair from a nearby table. Johnny-Boy waved his hand as if giving permission for what Big Jim had already done.

"Deeeetective. What can I do for you this fine day?" Johnny-Boy drawled.

"We're here about one of your girls, Johnny," Big Jim said.

"Which one? There are so many fine ladies who want to spend time with me I can't hardly keep track of them all."

"The one you're missing," Big Jim told him.

"Missing? How can you tell? Women don't punch no time clock. They come. They go." Johnny-Boy shrugged as if talking about the weather.

"The one who went out last night and didn't come back," Chris snapped. "Reddish-brown hair, gray eyes, Romanian, Albanian, Polish." Johnny-Boy pursed his lips as if deep in thought then gave his head a little shake.

"That's OK, Johnny. We'll just bring the wagon down here and pick up all your girls and take them down to the station for questioning. Sooner or later one of them will give us a name. Of course, you're going to lose a day's production, but you've got plenty of money, don't you? Losing a day's business is no problem for you, right?"

Johnny-Boy pretended to be lost in thought, then suddenly smiled. "Oh, maybe you mean, oh, what's her name, Darja? Yeah, that's it, Darja Novoriska, or Novorska or Nov-something-ska. Pretty girl. She's crazy about me. She calls me Daddy Sugar, 'cause I'm so sweet to her."

Big Jim struggled to keep his face blank but Johnny-Boy was pleased to see the detective's cheeks pink up. Fuck you, cop! he thought.

"Yeah, that Darja, she just can't get enough of me. 'Course, she's got to wait her turn. There's only so much of me to go around, if you know what I'm saying."

"When—" Chris began but Johnny Boy cut him off.

"You had me confused there for a minute with that stuff about Albania. She ain't from anywhere around there. She's from, oh what's that place, Rus-something? No, Belarus, that's it. Belarus. Anyway, what about her? Did she do something wrong?" Johnny-Boy tried to look worried but was unable to keep a smile off his face.

"Yeah, she did something wrong," Chris snapped. "She got herself dead."

"Dead? What are you talking about?"

"When's the last time you saw Ms. Novoriska, Johnny-Boy?"

"Why are you asking me? Why would I kill her?"

"Off the top of my head I can think of at least five reasons," Chris replied, leaning forward. "Maybe she held out part of the take. Maybe she tried to quit the business. Maybe she disrespected you. Maybe she got so sick she couldn't work anymore. Maybe she started talking to one of your competitors. There are lots of reasons why a man like you would kill a girl like her. Maybe you just got so drugged up you flipped out and killed her for the fun of it."

"That's crazy! A man don't kill the goose that's laying them golden eggs." Johnny-Boy licked his lips and turned back to Big Jim. "You know I'm just a businessman. These girls, they need a job. The economy's in the toilet. They can't find no work and I put bread on their table. I don't kill them. I help them."

"I stopped believing in fairy tales a long time ago, Johnny, so give it a rest and tell me when was the last time you saw her."

Johnny-Boy closed his eyes then opened them and blinked. "Last night, right around eight or so. I cruised on by her spot and she was right there, doing her thing."

"What spot?"

"On Grandy, near the corner, just down from the Chicken King. Guys get off work and stop in there for dinner and then they maybe want a little something, something before they go home."

"And that was it, eight o'clock? You didn't check back on her? You didn't count her take at the end of the night?"

"I was busy last night. I got done checking on the girls and then I went over to Freddie's. He had some suckers there who liked to mix blow and poker. I took three grand off 'em. I gave Freddie his cut and then I went home."

"What time was that?"

"Two-thirty, three. Hey, I barely got here before you all showed up. I was fixin' to check the receipts after I got me some breakfast."

"You're a trusting guy, Johnny," Big Jim said.

"What's that supposed to mean?

"It means that most pimps watch their girls real close," Chris broke in. "They strip them down at the end of the night to make sure that they haven't held out a twenty here or there, maybe slipped a bill into their boots or someplace more intimate. And you're telling us that you just let them all finish their shifts and go on home? This is the first time I've heard of a pimp operating on the Honor System."

"Yeah, well, that's just the kind of guy I am. I trust my ladies." Johnny-Boy thrust out his chin. "That's why they love me so much."

"Yeah, we'll keep that in mind. Where'd Darja live?" Big Jim demanded.

Johnny-Boy paused for a moment then noticed Big Jim's shoulders starting to bunch up and said: "420 Wilsonia, top floor, number 509. Her and another girl."

Chris made a note of the address then stood when Big Jim slid out of the booth.

"Aren't you gonna tell me not to leave town?" Johnny-Boy taunted.

"If you killed her you'd better leave town because you won't like how this is going to go down if I come for you."

"Hey, I'm no killer!"

"We both know that's a lie, Johnny," Big Jim said in a quiet voice.

"You ain't got no right to talk that way to me!"

"Meli Orencia." Johnny pulled back as if struck. "You remember her. She did something to piss you off and you cut her. You cut her so bad that she bled to death. You murdered her."

"Somebody cut her. It wasn't me. And she wasn't murdered. She had that disease, hemo—something, from all them drugs she was taking so her bleeding to death wasn't no murder. It was an accident."

"It was murder as far as I'm concerned," Big Jim said, leaning over until his face was five inches from Johnny-Boy's nose.

"If you think I killed her, then why don't you arrest me?"

"I haven't arrested you, Johnny, because, so far, I don't have enough evidence to make it stick." Johnny-Boy smirked. "And," Big Jim continued, "because I'm still controlling myself. You'd better hope I don't decide that you killed Darja too because if I do then my self-control might just snap, and if that happens, you won't need to worry about me arresting you. They'll find you in an alley someplace all cut up and bled out just like Meli, another terrible accident."

"You can't fucking scare me."

"You should be scared of me after what I saw happened to Darja."

"What's that supposed to mean? What happened to her?"

"Oh, now you care? Now you want to know how she died?"

"Sure I want to know. She was one of my girls."

"Wood chipper." Big Jim said it like a curse.

"Wood chipper? What's that mean? You sayin' somebody put her in a wood chipper?"

"After they strangled her. You know anything about that? You got any experience with wood chippers, Johnny?"

"Shit, no! I don't know nothing about no wood chippers. What do I look like, a lumberjack?"

"That's interesting because our killer, he didn't know anything about them either. He screwed it all up. That's why we've still got half her body down in the morgue."

"Half her body? Jesus!"

Big Jim headed for the door and Chris trailed behind. Just before leaving Chris took a last look at Johnny-Boy and tried to figure out if he was really surprised about what had happened to Darja or if he was just faking it. Could he have actually strangled one of his girls and shoved her body into a wood chipper? Hell, yes, Chris decided.

# CHAPTER FOUR

Wilsonia Avenue was populated with a hodgepodge of brick and stone-faced buildings four to ten stories tall, scarred, slumping and stained with age. Most had been built between the advent of the electric light and the beginning of World War II and none had aged well. Big Jim felt as if he was looking at the architectural equivalent of an old folk's home, the inhabitants forgotten, tired, and sagging, but still not yet quite ready to let go of life.

"There it is, on the right," Big Jim said and Chris pulled the Malibu in behind a dented Civic that seemed as weary as the building in front of which it was parked. At one time the entrance might have had a lock but those days were long gone and the front door opened with only a rattling squeak.

"509," Big Jim said, checking his notes.

"I remember. We'll get our exercise today." Chris headed for the stairs just beyond a vandalized bank of mailboxes. "Before 1952 the building code didn't require elevators in apartment houses under six stories," Chris said, half over his shoulder. Big Jim followed behind and secretly prayed that he wouldn't have to ask Chris to stop halfway up so that he could catch his breath. "That's why so many of the buildings around here are five stories high." Big Jim ignored Chris and concentrated on the stairs in front of him. As they passed the third floor Big Jim began to breathe through his mouth.

"How do you suppose they get a refrigerator up to the top floor?" Chris asked, if anything seeming to accelerate his pace. "In Amsterdam, they have piers sticking out from the roofs with a block and tackle on the end so that they can hoist furniture up to the top floor. There's nothing like that in this building."

With his heart pounding, Big Jim sucked in a lung-full of air and, head down, half-staggered into the fifth-floor hallway.

"You OK, Jim?" Chris asked. Normally a pale pink, from the neck up the skin on Big Jim's face now looked like he had spent the last half hour exposed to the desert sun.

"I'm fine," Big Jim rasped, his voice tired and thin.

Chris started to speak, then stopped himself. One of the things Chris had learned from Big Jim was that what he thought he said and what other people heard him say were often, usually, two different things. Like planning a chess match three moves ahead, Big Jim had taught Chris to think through his comments before speaking.

Do you need to rest? No, that might sound as if Chris thought Big Jim was too frail to do his job. You should exercise more — No, that sounded as if he thought that Big Jim needed his advice about how to live his life. That would be presumptuous and wrong. In fact, it was Chris who, daily, required Big Jim's advice.

Big Jim took a few more deep breaths, then shrugged and gave Chris a little smile.

"Not used to all those stairs," Big Jim wheezed then walked past Chris on rubber legs.

Number 509 was halfway down the scuffed hall. The smell of overcooked peppers and garlic and stale cigarettes clung to the walls. Big Jim knocked politely, not the way most cops did, pounding with the meat of their fists and shouting, "Metro Police! Open up!" but more like the pizza guy, almost softly, hoping that the other tenants wouldn't hear him, peek through their doors and then rob him on his way down the stairs.

The peephole went momentarily dark and Big Jim held up his badge. "Darja's been in an accident," Big Jim said. "I need to talk with you for a couple of minutes. Please open the door."

The silence lasted about three seconds then the peephole brightened and they heard the clatter of the lock being turned. The door opened four inches on a chain and a small, brown face peered through the gap. Big Jim opened the flap on his case and held out his picture ID.

"Ma'am," Big Jim began, "I'm Detective James Donegan and this is my partner, Detective Christopher Hunter." Chris held up his own ID as Big Jim had taught him on their first day as partners. Big Jim looked at the strip of face and tried to work up an encouraging smile. "May we please come in so that we can talk with you about your friend?"

The single brown eye oscillated from Big Jim's face to his badge and then back again. Finally, she closed the door, and after a second's pause, removed the chain. The girl stood back against the wall and watched them enter her living room then quickly pushed the door shut and re-set the lock.

The walls were a faded gray and studded with scratches and holes. Posters of bands, none of whom either detective recognized, covered half the space. Picasso Shark? Aztecka Blue? A white-plastic crucifix with gold trim was nailed to the strip of wall between two grimy windows. A stuffed black and white dog with button eyes and a lolling, red tongue guarded one end of the orange couch.

"May we sit down?"

The girl nodded and then sat at the couch's far end, the dog clutched protectively to her chest. She was brown and small and could have been any age between sixteen and twenty-five depending on how she dressed and the depth of her makeup. Chris figured that the pervs preferred the sixteen-year-old version.

"May I ask your name?"

The girl stared at Big Jim for a second then spoke.

"Fatima Contal."

"Darja Novoriska is your roommate?"

"Novorska," Fatima corrected him. Chris made a note in his pad.

"How long have you and Ms. Novorska been roommates?"

Fatima shrugged. "Six months?" She said it as a question more than an answer.

"Do you both work for Johnny-Boy Watkins."

Fatima tensed up and looked away.

"We're not from Vice. We don't care about your job. We just need your help about Darja."

"Why? Are you going to arrest her? Is that what this is all about?"

"No, we're not going to arrest her. I'm sorry to have to tell you that Ms. Novorska is dead. She—"

Fatima's mouth opened in a little "O" then she buried her head and began to sob into the stuffed-dog's fur. They waited a few seconds and Chris looked at Big Jim for guidance. He knew that in situations like this they were supposed to give a person a moment but he never knew how long. Big Jim just sat there until Fatima finally sniffled and looked up on her own. Big Jim pulled a tissue from his jacket pocket and handed it to her.

"Someone hurt Darja, Ms. Contal, and it's our duty to find that person and make them pay for what they did to her. Will you help us?"

"I don't know anything about it. What do you expect me to do?"

"Who were Darja's friends? Who knew her? We think that whoever hurt Darja may have known her." Chris looked up from his pad. What? The evidence pointed to some freak John, or Johnny-Boy, not some boyfriend or whatever. Obviously, Big Jim was lying in the hope that they might learn something useful. Chris wasn't comfortable with lying. Lies weren't single things but rather were a part of a larger story, a component in a web of facts. When you shoved a lie into that web it warped everything else, sometimes a little, sometimes a lot, and the more you lied the harder it became to hide the distortions.

Fatima tightened her stranglehold on the cloth dog and looked nervously around the room.

"Me, I was her friend, nobody else. Most of the time she worked. We have to pay our debt. The only people Darja knew were Johnny-Boy and her clients."

Clients, Chris thought, but said nothing aloud.

"Were any of her clients giving her a hard time? Were any of them rough with her?"

"No, she didn't go in for that. If a guy got rough she would tell Johnny-Boy and he would make them stop."

"Take a moment and see if you can think of anyone who liked Darja too much. Maybe somebody who was obsessed with her or followed her but couldn't afford to pay her."

Fatima looked forlornly around the room and Chris followed her eyes. The furniture was cheap and well-worn but the apartment was clean, no dishes in the sink, no clothes on the floor. A small vase in the center of the kitchen table held three red, cloth roses on plastic stems. Fatima wore a clean, pink Hello Kitty t-shirt with short sleeves. Her arms had old track marks, like Darja's, but nothing fresher than six months or so.

Fatima looked back at Big Jim and shook her head. "No, everybody liked Darja. She was a good person." Chris couldn't tell if she was lying or not.

"What about Johnny-Boy? He told us that the last time he saw Darja was around eight last night, that she was on her corner. Do you know if that's right? Could he have seen her after that?"

Fatima blinked and for a moment seemed deep in thought, then shook her head. Jim was sure that something was off here but he couldn't tell what.

"Did Darja have any problems with Johnny-Boy? Is there any reason that Johnny-Boy might have wanted to hurt her?"

"What happened to Darja? You said that she was in an accident. How did she die?"

Chris started to open his mouth but a quick glance from Big Jim silenced him and the words "wood chipper" died in his throat. An instant later Chris' face reddened when he realized how stupid a response that would have been. I should stick to dealing with computers, Chris thought. They don't have feelings.

"She was strangled," Big Jim told Fatima in a soft voice.

"Someone choked her?"

"No. We think he used a rope or something like that."

Fatima's eyes lost their focus and she stared blindly past Big Jim's head.

"It wasn't Johnny-Boy," she said a moment later, pursing her lips.

"Why not?"

"When Johnny-Boy wants to hurt one of us he uses a knife. He likes to cut." Fatima pulled up the hem of her t-shirt halfway to her breasts and displayed a six-inch scar. "He said that this was because I was holding out on him and that he had to teach me a lesson."

Big Jim stared at the scar and his face hardened. Gone were the twinkling blue eyes and merry smile, replaced in an instant with a soldier's glare.

"It wasn't true. That's just what Johnny-Boy told people. He really cut me because I got Darja off the junk. I had stopped shooting up before we got together and I helped Darja get clean too. Johnny-Boy didn't like that. Drugs are one of the ways he hangs on to us. He knew that if Darja got clean that she might get ideas about leaving."

"But you got her clean anyway," Big Jim said.

Fatima nodded then, silently, began to cry.

"Was Darja going to leave Johnny-Boy?" Big Jim asked softly.

Fatima sniffled and dried her cheeks with another of Big Jim's tissues.

"We both were," she said at last. "Darja talked to a counselor at the Freedom Woman's Center. We were saving up so that we could get a place together where Johnny-Boy couldn't find us. Fay, that's the counselor, said we could stay at the Center for two weeks while we looked for another place, that they would help us find one and get moved in and help us get regular jobs. We were almost there!" Fatima said in a sob and Big Jim handed her another tissue. "Two more weeks, only two more weeks and we would have been gone!"

"Did Johnny-Boy know you were leaving?" Big Jim asked almost in a whisper.

Fatima shook her head. "No, no one knew, just Fay."

Big Jim looked past Chris at the tiny kitchen then through the open doorway to the primly made double bed, then back to Fatima.

"Pack your stuff," he ordered. "You're leaving. Right now. We'll take you to the Woman's Center."

"I can't go alone, not without Darja."

"You have to, for your own safety."

Fatima sat frozen on the couch, the little dog crushed against her chest.

"What time are you supposed to show up for work?"

"I've got to be on my corner by six, to get the guys on their way home from work."

Big Jim looked at his watch. "It's two-thirty. We've got plenty of time. Start packing."

"I, I can't."

"You can and you will," Big Jim ordered and took hold of her shoulders and pulled her to her feet. "I'm not going to have another dead girl on my hands. You're done with Johnny-Boy! Get in there and start packing!"

Fatima slowly pulled her gaze from Big Jim's pink face, then nodded and headed for the bedroom.

"How much money do you have?" Big Jim asked Chris.

Hunter leafed through his wallet. "One-hundred sixty-three dollars and, oh . . . ."

"Forget the change. Give me a hundred." Big Jim pulled out his own money clip and peeled off 10 twenties.

"Do you know where this Freedom Woman's Center is?" Chris asked.

"I wish I didn't."

"Why? Is it a scam or something?"

"We had a case there, my old partner Frank Pignataro and me, a counselor, Pamalee Rhoades. She had a husband and two kids. We found her naked, in a ditch, half a mile from her house, shot eight times — feet, knees, vagina, elbows, and head, in that order. Whoever did it wanted her to suffer. We could tell from the blood pools that he took his time and let her bleed out. The head shot was to make sure she was never going home. The rest he did for fun."

"Did you get the guy?"

Big Jim shook his head. "We were sure it was some husband or pimp getting even for Pamalee helping a woman get away from him, but we could never nail it down. There were a dozen guys who looked good for it, but we couldn't tie it to any of them. My partner, he never got over it. For him, catching that case was like getting cancer."

At the thunk of two suitcases hitting the floor Big Jim and Chris turned toward the bedroom. Fatima stood in the doorway dwarfed between two large bags.

"I'm taking Darja's clothes. They won't fit me but . . . but it doesn't feel right to just leave them here, like she never existed."

"Sure," Chris said. "That's OK. We'll carry them."

Big Jim stared at the huge bags and suddenly remembered the five flights of stairs. Clutching her purse and the cloth dog, Fatima followed them out.

## * * *

After they parked at the Woman's Center Chris glanced at Big Jim's drawn face and pulled both the bags from the trunk. Jim walked Fatima to the front door.

"Here's three hundred dollars," he said, stuffing the bills into her hand. "And my card. I may need to talk with you again about Darja. I'm going to need you to call us before you move out of the Center so that we'll know where you are. Will you do that?"

"Will you tell me if you find him, the man who killed her?"

"You still think it wasn't Johnny-Boy?"

"No, he would have cut her. It gets him off. He likes to watch women bleed."

Big Jim frowned and wondered if she was right about Johnny-Boy not being the murderer. Killers change their weapons all the time. The one constant is that they continue to kill.

"I'll let you know when we find him."

"Thank you."

"You know not to let anyone who knows Johnny-Boy see you?"

"You're telling me not to get high because if I do the dealers will turn me in to him."

"Yeah, that's what I'm telling you."

"Don't worry. If I did that, then all this, Darja, me, everything, would all be for nothing. I can't let it be for nothing." Fatima turned toward the door, then paused and turned back to Big Jim. "I didn't tell you everything," she whispered and looked around as if afraid someone might overhear.

"That's all right. You can tell me now."

"Johnny-Boy lied to you, about Darja working a corner," Fatima said nervously. "He's got a computer in the back of the bar, a website thing. He ran Darja's dates from there."

"Johnny-Boy was running some kind of an Internet escort service? Darja was a call girl?"

"She was so pretty," Fatima whispered, on the verge of tears. "Johnny-Boy said it would be a waste to put her out on the street with the fifty-dollar whores . . . like me."

"If I could get my hands on Johnny-Boy's computer, would it have a list of all her . . . clients?" Big Jim asked, thinking aloud.

"You don't have to." Fatima pulled a small, black notebook from her purse and held it out. "She kept a list of her dates in here." For a moment she held it tightly then, reluctantly, let go. "I was keeping it because . . . ." Fatima looked down at her empty hands.

Because you thought we were going to abandon you to Johnny-Boy's hellish life, Big Jim realized and wondered what would have happened if he had not shown his humanity by giving her that little pile of rumpled twenties.

That trick-book, for a little while at least, would have meant Fatima's survival without Johnny-Boy. Set up in a new apartment she could have called the men on that list and offered her body directly. She knew she wasn't as pretty as Darja. She was no longer "fresh," but men were men. If only half of them became regular customers, clients, she could have made enough money not to have to walk the street like a common whore. To Fatima this was not a simple address book. It was Freedom. It was priceless. And she had given it to Big Jim, trusting him to keep his promise, to use it to find Darja's murderer. Like a passenger on a foundering ship, Fatima had handed Big Jim her life preserver and now she faced the menacing sea naked and alone.

With a sagging smile, Fatima suddenly turned and ran inside, passing Chris on his way out. Hunter gave Big Jim a questioning look.

"I ran out of Kleenex," Big Jim said and headed for the car.

— End Of Death Never Sleeps Excerpt —

To check out the Death Never Sleeps page on David Grace's website, TAP OR CLICK HERE.

Here is an excerpt from Detective Chris Hunter's next case, the sequel to Death Never Sleeps:

# DEATH DOESN'T CARE

# Chapter One

THREE YEARS AGO

The Early Bird Café was on West Slawson just past the Port District line and over into the Flats. The sergeant had units at both ends of the block, flickering islands of red and blue amidst the scattered puddles of light escaping from Fred's Lounge, the Three Brothers Bodega and The Early Bird Café itself.

Morrie Epstein threw the Crown Vic into "Park" and hurried after his partner. Four uniforms were working the canvas but Epstein didn't expect anyone to admit hearing or seeing anything. The Flats-District Watch Commander stopped the detectives barely five feet inside the crime-scene tape.

"Cantrell and Epstein, Gang Unit," Wes Cantrell said, extending his hand. "What've we got?"

"Lieutenant Marty Fields. I'm afraid this is probably going to end up belonging to you two. Eight dead, flat out executions. The night manager is an ex-banger, Los Cincos. This is their territory all the way down to 9th but lately we've been hearing that the BG8s are trying to push in."

Fields paused, expecting some confirmation from Cantrell. Wes just stared past him at the far side of the street as if the answer was hiding someplace in the shadows between their patch of sidewalk and the Pacific Ocean a mile to the west. It was Morrie Epstein who finally broke the silence.

"Word is that the BG8s have a new source of meth, high quality stuff, and they're looking for new customers anywhere they can find them. We're seeing corner boys being taken down all over the west side. Were the Los Cincos dealing out of the diner? Do you think the manager wasn't as 'ex' a gang member as he claimed?"

Fields frowned and shrugged. "I don't know. That's why we called you. Maybe he was dealing for the LCs and the BG8s took him out because they wanted to send a message that they're taking over the street. Maybe he needed money and the BG8s gave him the franchise and this was the LCs way of dealing with his treason. Or maybe the LCs were pissed that he tried to quit the gang. Or they were jumping in some new members and this was the recruits' coming-out party. Christ, I don't know. The only thing I can say is that one way or another this sure as hell looks like a gang deal. You don't blow away eight people for pocket change, a bunch of cell phones and ninety bucks in the register. Somebody's sending a message here and I'm thinking you're the guys who'll have the best chance of figuring out who it's coming from and who it's going to."

A hint of a smile crossed Cantrell's lips. He gave Fields a nod and turned toward the café. "OK, let's get to it then."

Epstein and Cantrell each wrote down the time and their badge numbers then signed the log. The uniform on the door handed them paper booties and pairs of latex gloves. The room strobed with flashes from the Crime-Scene techs working a grid pattern, photographing everything from the front door to the back.

Cantrell and Epstein walked a snaking, single-file route that dodged around slumped bodies and puddles of blood. Five feet in, Epstein pulled on Cantrell's sleeve and turned to the nearest tech.

"Before we go any farther have you guys done your footprint voodoo?" The CSI looked like a kid barely out of college.

"Don't sweat it, Detective," he said and turned away.

"Hey, kid!" Cantrell snapped and grabbed the tech's shoulder. "My partner asked you a question. Did you lift any shoe prints off this floor?"

The tech looked from Cantrell's hand back to the detective's face. For a moment he seemed to be planning a wiseass reply but he changed his mind when Cantrell started to squeeze.

"We can't lift any usable prints in a place like this. There's too much foot traffic, prints on prints on prints, just one big mess unless somebody stepped in the blood."

"Did you find any prints in the blood?" Cantrell asked, finally letting go.

"Not so far. If you see any let me know and I'll document them."

Cantrell stared, trying to figure out if the kid was mouthing off, then decided he wasn't and headed back toward the far end of the room.

The Early Bird was maybe twenty-five feet wide and fifty feet deep. Eptstein calculated that at full capacity it could seat twenty-five to thirty people at the tables and another eight at the counter, but he doubted that The Early Bird had been filled to the brim at any time since Clinton was President.

A young Hispanic couple lay slumped over a window table to the right of the front door. The man had taken a round in the back of his head. The woman got one in the heart. A body in a worn, black suit-coat over a striped shirt and black, dress pants lay in a pool of his own blood opposite the nearest end of the counter. The remains of a BLT and fries were scattered over his legs. A little farther in, three more bodies clogged the aisle between the tables and the counter — a face-down waitress shot in the back and two men, one after the other as if caught while trying to make a run for the restrooms and the back-alley door.

The first male, in his twenties, wearing jeans, a yellow t-shirt and a black nylon jacket, took one bullet to the spine and a second one in the back of his head. The next guy was older, mid to late forties, dark slacks, and a long-sleeved blue shirt under some kind of a sweater-coat. Epstein could see brain matter where two slugs, ten millimeters or .45s, had slammed into the back of his skull. The last obvious victim was an Hispanic male in his mid to late thirties lying flat on his back, the soles of his pointed-up shoes facing the door.

"Manager or cook," Morrie guessed, nodding toward the stained, white apron covering the victim's pants.

"Gang tat," Cantrell added, pointing to the ink running up the corpse's neck. Just barely visible above the right collar was the top leg of a five-pointed star. "Five points, Los Cincos," Morrie said then reached down and pulled the collar back with the tip of a capped ball-point pen. Two strands of intertwined barbed wire circled the base of the manager's throat. "He's done hard time and he knells before no man," Cantrell translated. On the side of the neck opposite the star was a capital "L" superimposed over a "C", the L's lower bar bisecting the C's arc.

"He was still wearing the ink," Morrie said. "He wouldn't have lived long in LC territory if he had left the gang without paying the ransom."

"Yeah, well these animals make up the rules as they go along. Maybe somebody decided that he was back in again and he didn't get with the program."

Morrie stifled a frown and turned to the female tech shooting the bottoms of the manager's shoes.

"I count seven bodies. Where's number eight?"

"Fry cook," she said glancing up. "Back there." She waved at the pass-through window in the wall behind the manager's station. "We haven't processed the kitchen yet."

Morrie went to the end of the bar and peeked around the corner. A tall, skinny Asian guy with a bloody mess where his white apron should have been lay curled on the floor in front of the stove. When Epstein turned around the woman was back on her knees photographing the floor around the manager's open right hand. Out in the street the brakes on the coroner's van squealed as it pulled to the curb.

"Maybe we should pull back and give the M.E. some room," Morrie said but his partner had retreated to some different world. "Wes, the M.E.'s here," Epstein repeated.

"I heard you the first time. Fuck." Cantrell stared angrily at the bodies littering the café. "These people are fucking animals. Jesus, not even wolves would do something like this to their own kind. You know who's behind this, don't you?"

"We don't even have IDs on the vics yet. Let's just—"

"Fucking Jorge Metranga. This shit has his fingerprints all over it."

"Let's take this one step at a time, Wes."

"Step one," Cantrell half-shouted, "the BG8s are moving into this block. Step two, this guy," Cantrell pointed at the dead manager, "was or is a member of Los Cincos so he's fair game. Step three, this wasn't a robbery. It was a massacre, pure and simple, a god-damn message to Los Cincos that BG8 is coming for them. Step four, Jorge Metranga is a subhuman right down to the EWMN, Evil, Wicked, Mean and Nasty, tattooed on the fingers of his right hand. This is exactly his kind of play."

Epstein didn't bother responding. Cantrell wasn't asking for his opinion. He was telling Morrie how he planned that this case was going to go down.

"I'll sketch the scene and the positions of the bodies," Epstein volunteered. "You want to check with the uniforms and see if they got anything off their canvas?"

"Yeah, sure, you draw your little pictures," Cantrell said, "but tomorrow we're going to pay Jorge Metranga a visit, with a warrant." Epstein said nothing. His partner hadn't asked a question after all. He'd just told him how it was going to be. Morrie pulled out his pad and began marking where each table, chair and body had come to rest.

# Chapter Two

STILL THREE YEARS AGO

His name was Caesar Oskar Sinvenostros but everyone in the LCs called him "Rana" — "The Frog." He ran the corner boys west to east from 9th to 14th and north to south between Marisco Avenue and Platt Road. A black and white found him sleeping in a Lexus parked in the alley across from Chavez Park. It was three in the morning and most of the junkies and hookers had begun their slow crawl back to their squats, but the graveyard-shift cops still shined their spots on the alleys and shadowed doorways in search of lingering trannies and bleeding Johns. The black ES350 hadn't been there two hours before and the plate reader popped it up as a stolen out of the Beach District.

The patrol officers, Gary Delahante and Eugene Moss, called it in then made a cautious circuit of the car. Moss spotted the flattened, rear-passenger tire and gave it a quick brush with his light. Delahante nodded and then both men made a slow approach up the opposite sides of the vehicle. They found Sinvenostros slumped in the front passenger seat, leaking saliva on the leather upholstery.

"Police! Show me your hands!" Moss shouted and centered his Glock on Sinvenostros' chest. Rana came awake with a start, practically bouncing out of his seat. Instinctively his hands flew up to his face, trying to screen out the glare from Moss's light.

"Interlock your fingers on the top of your head!" Moss shouted. He thought about repeating the command in Spanish but Rana seemed to have gotten the message. Delahante swung around to cover the suspect while Moss opened the door and threw Rana face-down to the pavement.

"Manos a la espalda!" Moss ordered and then slapped on the cuffs while Delahante kept his weapon pointed at the center of Rana's back. Together they pulled him to his feet and, mindful of the possibility of needles and knives, carefully patted him down. Delahante frowned when he found a twenty-five caliber baby automatic in Rana's boot.

"I was just sleeping," Rana said when they pushed him back against the car.

"Do you always sleep with a gun in your boot?" Delahante asked, holding up the .25.

"This is a dangerous neighborhood. You got to have a little protection," Rana answered in almost a whine.

"Is this your car?" Rana twisted around and looked at the Lexus as if it had just now magically appeared behind him. "Well, is it?" Moss demanded.

"No. I just saw it here and decided to take nap."

"You hear that partner? He just saw it here and decided to take a nap." Delahante laughed out loud.

"So, this is not your car, right?"

Rana hesitated a moment then gave his head a quick shake. "It's not my car."

"So, you don't care if we search it then?"

"Do whatever you want. Like I said, it's not my car." Rana tried to shrug but the cuffs didn't let him get very far.

Moss pulled Rana out of the way and Delahante flashed his light around inside. On the floor behind the passenger seat the beam picked up a small, black, nylon bag. Delahante dropped it on top of the trunk and opened it up.

"Hey, partner, look at this."

Moss pulled Rana to the back of the car and both men peered down at the pouches of off-white powder at the bottom of the bag.

"I think this could be drugs. How about it, sir, are these your drugs?"

"I don't know nothin' about that stuff. It's not my car."

"Sure. It's not your car. You just happened to be carrying a gun and sleeping in a stolen car with a bag full of illegal drugs. Happens all the time. You're under arrest."

"I can't afford to go away again," Rana whined. "I can't."

"I guess you should have thought of that before you stole this car and used it to make your drug run. Bad luck about the flat tire."

Rana looked nervously around. "Look, I can help you out but we gotta do it before anybody sees me with you."

"You can help us? How are you going to do that? We've got drug dealers coming out of our ears."

"No, bigger than that. A lot bigger."

"Good for you." Moss started to drag Rana back toward their unit. "You can tell us all about it at the station."

"No, wait!" Rana pleaded and dug in his heels. "I know who did those killings at that café."

Moss glanced at his partner and then looked back at Rana.

"The Early Bird Café? Those killings?"

"Yeah."

"So what?" Moss almost laughed. "Everybody knows it was Jorge Metranga but knowing it and proving it are two different things. You got any proof?" Rana shook his head and started to speak but Moss cut him off. "There you go then."

"No, I mean it wasn't Metranga. It was . . . , it was somebody else. He told me so himself. And I know where he hid the gun."

Moss and Delahante exchanged a look.

"The shooter admitted it to you? Are you saying that you'd be willing to testify to that?" Delahante asked.

Rana looked back toward the street then gulped a breath and nodded.

"You get me and my family into witness protection and I'll tell you where the gun is and I'll testify. But this," Rana nodded toward the bag of dope, "all has to go away." Rana looked over his shoulder. "But it ain't gonna work if you don't get me out of here right now. If anybody sees me talking to you I'm a dead man and you won't have nothin'."

"Not so fast. We need to see some good faith here. If it wasn't your boy, Metranga, who was it?"

"Hey, I ain't no fucking BG8. I'm LC, man, all the way."

"You're Los Cincos?"

"Fucking straight."

"So, who's the shooter? Some low-life punk you've got a beef with?"

Rana glanced nervously left and right then looked Moss dead in the eyes. "You gotta understand man, I got a wife and kid and another one on the way. I can't go back inside. I can't lose my family. I'd rather die than do that."

"Yeah, you're father of the year. So, who did it?"

"It was Guavo, man. Guavo capped them."

"Guavo Hernandez? The leader of Los Cincos?"

"He had to do something. That café guy, Jaime Oscalante, he was dealing speed for the BG8s in our territory, disrespecting us. Everybody had to know that you can't do that stuff. Guavo, man, he had to send a message loud and clear."

"Let me get this straight," Moss said, taking a step closer to Rana. "Your boss, the leader of your gang, the Los Cincos, Ernesto "Guavo" Hernandez, personally told you that he killed all those people at the Early Bird Café?"

"That's what I'm telling you."

"And you know where he hid the gun?"

"Yeah."

"And you'll testify to that in court?"

"If you get me and my family into witness protection, yeah, I will."

"I'm not buying it. I thought Los Cincos was your family."

"You married, man? You got a wife and a son? You got a little baby on the way, all of them depending on you to take care of them?" Moss paused, then gave Rana a tiny nod. "Then you know, man, you know that you gotta do what you gotta do for them. If that means Guavo's gotta go, then, well, he's gotta go. It's like you guys are always telling us, 'If you can't do the time don't do the crime.' Guavo, man, he killed those people, so I guess it's all on him."

Moss looked at his partner on the far side of the trunk.

"Gary, what do you think?"

"We can't use the radio. I've got Cantrell's number on my cell. . . . We'd better get this guy out of here."

They made Rana crouch down on floor of the cruiser's back seat all the way to the meet with Wes Cantrell.

# Chapter Three

STILL THREE YEARS AGO

When he became a detective Wes Cantrell initially held his off-the-books meetings at the Bellevue Motel on Decker, a run-down dump of a place frequented by junkies, hookers and drowning citizens one short step away from living in a cardboard box. It didn't take him long to figure out that the people he didn't want to know he was turning someone into a snitch were probably living in the room next door. Now he had a deal with the manager of the Super 8 at 15th and Wabash to use one of the empty rooms for ten bucks an hour and the thanks of the Metro Police Department.

The uniforms met Cantrell behind a deserted strip-mall a couple of blocks down Wabash and transferred their handcuffed prisoner into the back seat of Cantrell's personal Chevy Traverse.

"You want us to back you up detective?" Delahante asked.

"You search him?"

Delahante held up a ziplock bag containing Rana's gun.

"I can handle him. Hang onto that in case this doesn't work out." Cantrell glanced at the prisoner and said, "You ride in the back. If you make any trouble I'm going to shoot you."

Rana looked at the flat expression on the detective's face and figured that he meant it. Five minutes later Cantrell closed the deadbolt in Super 8 room 22.

"You wanna take these off?" Rana asked, holding up his cuffed wrists.

"No." Cantrell put a small tape recorder on the dresser, clicked the button and recited the date and time then continued, "This is Detective Wesley Cantrell. I'm with Mr. Caesar Sinvenostros. Mr. Sinvenostros you have the right to remain silent. . . ." Cantrell read the rest of the Miranda warning from a card then looked up at Rana. "Tell me what you know about the killings at the Early Bird Café."

Rana stared at the recorder as if it was a snake about to bite him in the face.

"Hey, man what about my deal? I want immunity and witness protection for me and my family."

"If your information leads to the arrest of the people who did the Early Bird killings and if you testify truthfully in any prosecution then you'll get immunity and witness protection."

Rana cocked his head to one side. "You can do that? Don't we need a D.A.?"

"Relax. I'm authorized." Rana still looked concerned. "What's the problem?"

"Shouldn't there be papers or something? What if I tell you what you want to know and then you screw me out of my deal?"

"What are you worried about? It's all on tape." Cantrell pointed to the red light on the recorder. "Or, those cops can book you for possession for sale. That will be your third strike won't it? That's twenty-five years. Your call." Rana stared at the wall for three seconds then shrugged.

"Yeah, OK. It was Guavo who killed those people."

"Start from the beginning and don't leave anything out."

Rana slumped back in his chair and repeated the story he had given Delahante and Moss: The BG8s were pushing into LC territory and they had recruited ex-LC member Jaime Oscalante, the night manager of the Early Bird Café, to deal product out of the diner. This was not only a violation of LC's territorial rights but it was also treason by a former member that the gang had been nice enough to let out for only $25,000 instead of the usual $35K because his cousin Rodolfo was the priest at Saint Amelia's and he had made a personal request to Guavo to let Jaime buy his freedom.

"A big fucking message had to be sent. That's what Guavo said."

"Eight people murdered. Some message." Rana shrugged. "Who else was there when Guavo said this?"

"It was just me and Puppet."

"Puppet was there?"

"Yeah. You know Puppet? You guys busted him, right?"

"Yeah, I know Puppet."

"OK, he was there."

"Puppet's dead," Cantrell snapped.

"Yeah, well, that's The Life sometimes."

Cantrell frowned, then moved on.

"You said that Guavo admitted the killings. Tell me about that."

"Man, he went all cowboy on them." Rana smiled. "He had two pieces — a .45 and a ten. He got a couple of those things from the spy movies, those silencer things, so that people wouldn't be running out the back door before he could finish them off. He said he went in there shooting, you know, BLAM, BLAM, BLAM," Rana pointed his index fingers like guns firing, "except that, you know, it was real quiet like because of the silencer things. I guess it was more like POP, POP, POP."

Cantrell made a face like he had swallowed a bug.

"Where'd he tell you this?"

"At his old lady's crib man, the next day, well, night."

"So, all I've got is your word?"

"My word and one of the guns. You can match that up, right?"

"You're saying that Guavo kept one of the guns he used to do the killings?"

"The .45 man. Hey, that's a sick gun, like all chrome plated or something and with that silencer thing it's just like POP, you're dead, POP, you're dead. Guavo, he said he had a real hard time getting that silencer made for the .45 so he didn't want to just throw it away."

"And you know where he keeps it?"

"I got my deal, right?"

"Yeah, you got your deal. Immunity and witness protection."

"That's what I want to hear," Rana said and smiled. "OK. He keeps it at his baby-mama's house. She's got like a desk or something in her bedroom that has a big drawer on the bottom that she can lock. That's where she keeps her money and pills and stuff so her kids can't get at them. That's where Guavo showed it to us, Puppet and me, then he put it in the bottom of the drawer under some papers and stuff and locked it up. He's got a key and she's got a key."

"We'll have to bust him at her house, to prove he had access to the gun."

"You can get him there easy. Monday nights, man. He fucks her every Monday night."

## * * *

"That's not my gun!" Guavo repeated for the third time.

"It was in your girlfriend's house."

"I'm not responsible for what's in other people's houses."

"You had a key to the drawer."

"Because I put money in there for her."

"Ten thousand dollars."

"I'm a generous guy." Cantrell just stared. "I wouldn't have no fucking chrome-plated forty-five! That's a fucking pimp's gun."

"You're saying that it's not your gun because it's too pretty? That's your story?"

"You planted it!" Guavo half shouted.

"How could I have planted one of the guns used in the Early Bird Café shootings?"

"What?" Guavo snapped, his mouth hanging open.

"When the ballistics come back they're going to prove that this is one of the guns used to kill all those people at the Early Bird Café."

"No, that's bogus. I didn't have nothing to do with that shit."

"The word is that Jaime Oscalante was dealing speed out of there for the BG8s. You couldn't let him get away with that. You had to make a statement. And you did." Cantrell held up the evidence bag containing the .45.

"This is all bullshit! Nobody was selling product out of there and that's not my gun."

"I wonder if the jury will believe you."

Guavo stared at Cantrell for half a second then shouted, "Where's my fucking lawyer? I want my lawyer."

"Good luck with that," Cantrell said and left Guavo to stew. A minute later Cantrell joined Morrie Epstein in the electronics room.

"Did you see the look on his face?" Cantrell asked with a grin. "That's not my gun!" Cantrell laughed out loud. "Case closed on you, asshole!" he shouted at the monitor, then he noticed Epstein's sour expression. "What's the matter with you?"

"It doesn't make any sense to me," Morrie said, not taking his eyes off Guavo's image on the screen.

"What doesn't make any sense?"

Epstein turned away from the TV and looked at his partner.

"None of it. If he wanted those people dead he'd never have done it himself. He'd have sent in two or three of his soldiers and they'd have shot the shit out of the place, Wyatt Earp at the OK corral. Guavo personally going into that diner with a gun in each hand blazing away with silencers?"

"He was showing people he still has his balls."

"And he kept one of the guns?"

"Maybe he wanted a souvenir, and it was a fancy gun. Just the kind of toy those animals like."

"He didn't get to be boss of the LCs by being stupid enough to keep the gun after a hit like that."

"He admitted doing it. We've got a witness," Cantrell shot back.

"A witness who parks a stolen car full of drugs along our patrol route and then waits for one of our units to roust him? And then he gives up his own man, Guavo, before he's even booked? That stinks."

"As far as I'm concerned, partner, it's the sweet smell of success. Case closed. Animal off the street. This is a win-win in my book."

"What if he didn't do it? What if this is all a set up? That means whoever really killed those people is going to get away with it."

Cantrell reached out as if to grab Epstein's throat then growled and turned away.

"What the fuck is the matter with you? We've got this asshole."

"What if he's the wrong asshole?"

Cantrell took a deep breath and struggled to keep his voice below a scream.

"The ballistics are going to tell the story. If the slugs match then Guavo's our guy."

"Unless Rana planted the gun," Epstein replied.

"Will you listen to yourself! Who are you, Johnny Fucking Cochran? And where the fuck would a two-bit banger like Caesar Sinvenostros get one of the actual murder weapons?"

"That's the million dollar question, isn't it?"

"No, the million dollar question is: 'Have you lost your fucking mind!'"

"I'm just—"

"Shut it!"

"All I'm saying—"

"I told you to shut it," Cantrell said in a soft, dangerous voice. "We've got a witness who heard Guavo admit to the killings. We've got the murder weapon in a locked drawer to which Guavo had a key. We've got a solid motive. We have a guy who would kill you as soon as look at you, and has! He's skated on at least five murders that we know about, but not this time. He is fucking going away for this. This is happening and if you do one little, tiny thing to fuck up this case I will destroy you. Do you read me? I promise you Morrie, I will fucking destroy you. . . . Now, are you on board with this or not?"

"I don't like this, Wes."

"You don't have to like it. You just have to live with it. Are you going to become a problem or not?" Cantrell demanded, his face flushed, his neck pink and bulging against his collar.

Morrie stared at his partner for a long heartbeat then slumped and turned away. "It's your show, Wes. It's all on you."

"You just remember that, Morrie. It's my show. Don't fuck with it."

Epstein left without saying another word.

It took the jury less than four hours to convict Ernesto Guavo Hernandez of eight counts of first degree murder. Though he was sentenced to death, given the state of California's justice system he would die in his cell of old age before he ever got within a hundred yards of the execution chamber. Two months after his conviction Wesley Cantrell was promoted to Lieutenant and made second-in-command of the Gang Unit. Caesar "Rana" Sinvenostros received a new identity and disappeared.

# Chapter Four

TWO AND A HALF YEARS AGO

Six months after Guavo's arrest Morrie Epstein parked his Crown Vic in front of Ready Storage Unit number 237. Epstein winced as he strained to roll up the door. Lately it seemed that every day brought a new twinge or ache. I'm only 58, Morrie thought as he raised the panel the last few feet, but that didn't ease the pain someplace below and behind his right kidney.

The five by fifteen foot unit was about three-quarters full. Epstein peered into the shadows, looking for a few square feet of open space. God, do I really need this stuff? Joanie had ragged on him for months that they had to buy a new couch. Two-thousand dollars it had cost him and then when he and Joanie split up she didn't want it. She said it wouldn't go with her new place. Fuck it! He'd be damned if he would just throw it away now. So, here it sat.

Morrie scanned the detritus of his married life, the cartons of books that he would never read, the motorcycle he'd bought amidst the hurricane of Joanie's threats and dire warnings, the old computer from his home-office, a now obsolete Pentium that he doubted he could even get to boot up.

Was this stuff worth a hundred-thirty-seven dollars a month? he asked himself for the hundredth time, but he already knew the answer. This was all that was left of a life that had once meant something to him — a wife, a home, some shadow of his now-fled youth. Throwing it away would be, if not killing a piece of himself, then at least admitting that that piece was already dead.

Morrie spotted a flat spot on top of the compact fridge that he'd kept next to the computer so that he didn't have to shlep to the kitchen past Joanie's accusing eyes every time he wanted a brew. Yeah, the top of the fridge should do. Morrie popped the trunk on the Crown Vic and grabbed the first box.

"Detectives four-one. What's your location?"

Four-one. That was Hardesty and Lakin. Morrie looked at his watch. Half past twelve. Three to one they were in line at the taco truck on Smithington and Brand. Their names should be Extra Hot Sauce and Hold The Cheese.

Ignoring the ache in his back Morrie grabbed the first box and worked his way through the locker. He set it on top of the fridge then jammed it up against the back wall. The second banker's box joined it a minute later. He had labeled them "Early Bird Café — 1" and "Early Bird Café — 2" in black Magic Marker.

Morrie stood outside the door for a moment and stared at the cartons through the gloom. As soon as I get some time off, I'll get to work on it, he promised himself. He just needed a bigger apartment, one with an extra bedroom where he could set up an office like he used to have at home, at what used to be his home, and then he could retrieve the files and get to work. The Early Bird Café. The Early Bird Massacre more like, he thought sourly.

"Detective Two-Eight-B. Call the station," the radio ordered. Morrie had turned off his phone because he hadn't wanted to explain where he was or what he was doing. As soon as he powered it up the screen showed three missed calls, all from his partner, Wes Canrell.

Jesus, can't the prick leave me alone for one fucking hour? Morrie was about hit the speed dial when the display lit up with an "Incoming Call" message then changed to "Detective Wesley Cantrell, Metro PD."

"Where are you?" Cantrell demanded before Morrie could even say "Hello."

"Personal business," Morrie said in a voice that sounded more like a question than an answer.

"Well, wipe your ass and get back here. You took the unit for Christ's sake and I want to get Garcia's statement before it's siesta time."

Epstein counted silently to three then said, "On my way" and hung up. Five seconds later the phone rang again. Morrie tapped the "decline" button and turned back to the locker.

It had taken him hours to copy all the Early Bird Café files without Cantrell finding out and now there they were, shoved into the repository of his dead-end life. But not for long or at least not forever. One of these days he was going to pull them out and really solve the case. Eight people had been murdered in cold blood and no matter what fucking Wes Cantrell said Morrie didn't think the guy they'd grabbed for it had done it. That meant the bastard or bastards who'd killed those people were still walking around free in spite of the gold star Cantrell got for closing the file. Morrie Epstein knew that he might not be the best detective in the world but God damn it, Wes Cantrell or no Wes Cantrell, he also knew that the guilty had to be made to pay and that's what he was going to do. Someday. Someday.

Morrie Epstein reached up and felt another deeper, sharper pain lance through his back as he pulled down on the steel door.

# Chapter Five

PRESENT DAY

". . . and then we can either put the whole collection on eBay or sell the stamps or coins or whatever they are one-by-one, depending on how rare they are," Steven concluded.

Chris Hunter had already heard Steven's plan twice, the first time when Steven picked the locker off the storage company's website and the second at dinner last night when he explained the scheme to his guardian, Wendy Onorato, "Aunt Wendy." Chris resisted the urge to remind Steven that he had heard this all before. That forbearance was another of the many lessons Chris had learned from his mentor, Big Jim Donegan. When they had first become partners Chris had complained about Charlie Graham endlessly repeating his war stories. Big Jim had told Chris to let it go.

"But how will he know he's repeating himself all the time if someone doesn't tell him he's doing it?" Chris had asked. Big Jim gave Hunter one of his "Life doesn't work that way" looks.

"Chris, there's little enough joy in this world so if someone is happy and they're not hurting anyone don't make it your job to rain on their parade."

As they neared the storage facility Chris flicked his turn signal and told Steven, "Well, let's not get ahead of ourselves. First we need to have the winning bid."

Steven smiled and peered at the oversize numbers on the ends of the storage buildings.

"114, it's down there," he said pointing at the first row of tan, stucco structures. He had already reached the front of the car before Chris was out of the driver's seat. Steven gave Chris a quick smile and took off while Hunter limped along after him. Boyish enthusiasm, Chris thought and wondered if he had ever felt such carefree excitement, then he answered his own question — the first Dodgers game Big Jim had taken him to. The Dodgers had won, 6 to 4. He had been about Steven's age.

Chris awkwardly turned the corner on his cast-bound ankle and spotted Steven at the edge of a small crowd clustered around a man holding a clipboard.

"Do you have the money?" Steven asked for the second time that morning. Chris just nodded and patted his hip pocket. Clipboard Guy looked both ways, checked his watch then took a step back.

"All right, let's get started. This is the nine-fifteen auction for storage unit 114. The rent for unit 114 has not been paid and the amount owing, including interest and penalties, is $517. The contents of unit 114 are being auctioned as unclaimed property under the provisions of the California Civil Code. The winning bid is payable immediately in cash or by cashier's check. All bids are final.

"The Ready Storage Company makes no warranties or representations as to the nature, title or value of the contents of this unit. It will be the responsibility of the winning bidder to remove the contents no later than five p.m. today. If they are not so removed then the winning bid will first be applied to unpaid rent and auction costs. The remainder of the winning bid, if any, will then be applied to future rental charges until the items are removed. Upon the exhaustion of the winning bid the contents of unit 114 will be re-auctioned to a new buyer. All liability for the removal of any toxic or hazardous materials will be on the winning bidder. Who wants to start the bidding at $517?"

Steven began to raise his arm but Chris waved him off. Steven frowned but stuck his hand back in his pocket. A fat man in a wrinkled white shirt nodded to Clipboard Guy.

"I have $517. Do I hear $550?"

A black woman with short-cut hair pointed a finger like aiming a gun. Steven looked anxiously at Chris.

"Do I hear $575?"

Chris raised his hand. The boy seemed to vibrate with excitement but it didn't last. It soon became clear that Steven wasn't the only person who had decided that unit 114 held some kind of collectibles. In only a minute the bid rose to $700. Though Steven's father had been a wealthy man all of his money was in a blocked account administered by Chris Hunter and a court-appointed lawyer. Last night Steven and Chris had agreed that the maximum that they would bid would be $750.

"Do I hear $750?"

Chris gave Clipboard Guy a wave.

"I have $750. Do I hear $800?"

The fat man loosened his collar and nodded.

"Chris, can we . . . ." Steven whispered then stopped when he saw Chris shake his head.

"That's how people get into trouble at auctions," Chris told him. "Let's stick to the plan."

Two minutes later it was over. The black woman took it for $1,150. Chris looked at Steven and raised his palms in sort of a shrug.

"Can we bid on the other one?" Steven asked.

The other one. Chris knew what that meant, the unit with the pile of old furniture, dog-eared books, sagging cardboard boxes and a motorcycle.

"You know the odds are that it doesn't even run?"

"I know, but it would be fun to fix it up."

"You won't be able to ride it for at least two years."

"If we fix it up it would be easy to sell. We could make a good profit if we got it working."

If we fixed it up. If we got it running, Chris thought. Well, why not? It was something they could do together. That was the important thing.

"All right, let's see how it goes."

Five minutes later Clipboard Guy had finished the paperwork on unit 114 and he headed for the middle of the second row. Having missed out on the potential stamp and coin collections most of the original bidders drifted back to their cars.

When they reached the second and last unit up for auction that morning the crowd had shrunk to Clipboard Guy, Chris, Steven, Fat Man and a mid-twenties Asian guy wearing an orange t-shirt with green lightning bolts across the back and the words "Time City Attack" on the front. What it meant Chris had no idea.

Clipboard Guy glanced around and then began the process again. "This is the nine-thirty auction for storage unit 237. The rent for unit 237 has not been paid and the amount owing including interest and penalties is $453." When he got to the end of his spiel and called for bids Time-City T-shirt Guy raised his hand but soon frowned and slouched away when the Fat Man pushed the bid up to $600.

"I have $600. Do I hear $650?" Steven looked anxiously up at Chris.

"$675," Chris called out, jumping the bid while looking at the Fat Man. They locked eyes for a moment then Fat Man scowled and stomped away.

"$675 it is," the manager said and shoved the clipboard into Chris's hand. "Sign here." Chris scratched his name, handed over the cash and received a receipt. He gave Steven the key and the boy popped the lock like he was opening a Christmas present. A moment later the contents of unit 237 looked as bad as Chris had expected. Steven quickly wormed his way over to the cycle while Chris hobbled inside on his sprained ankle. He had little hope of finding a handful of diamonds buried in this mountain of rocks.

"It's a Honda CM450A," Steven shouted. "I'm going to look it up on my phone."

Chris picked up a few of the books. Old novels, some cookbooks, a coffee table book about French Impressionists. God, were books worth anything any more? he wondered. He spotted a mini-fridge that looked at least ten years old. They'd be lucky if they didn't have to pay to dispose of it. Chris played his flashlight across one of the cardboard boxes.

"Early Bird Café — 2"? The Early Bird Café? Chris remembered the case. It had gone down near the end of his first year on the Murder Police. Eight people had been slaughtered for no apparent reason. Ninety bucks had been taken from the till plus whatever the customers and employees had on them. It had been labeled a gang killing. Big Jim had known one of the victims. Chris remembered that Big Jim hadn't bought the gang-banger theory but the Gang Unit got the case anyway.

Chris opened the box and saw that it was crammed with Metro Police files. Behind it was a second container marked "Early Bird Café — 1" and inside it were more folders and three large binders, the Early Bird Café Murder Books. What the hell were they doing here?

". . . eighteen hundred dollars."

"What?" Chris called back.

"If we fix it up, if it's in really good condition, it's worth $1,800," Steven shouted. Chris looked at the boy's excited face and suddenly he didn't care that he'd have to hire movers and rent a truck to haul all this junk away, that he'd probably even have to pay the dump to take it. The smile on Steven's face, the excitement in his voice made it worth whatever it cost. Chris figured that he owed the boy a debt that could never be fully paid in that Steven's father had been a double murderer and that Detective Chris Hunter had been the cop who had killed him.

— End Of Death Doesn't Care Excerpt —

To check out the Death Doesn't Care page on David Grace's website, TAP OR CLICK HERE.

#  — End Of Document —

