Private

He taped the free end of an electric cord to her hand and positioned it over her head; the other end, he tightly knotted around her neck, so it looked as though she had hanged herself.

Gallows humor-and the original plan before Steem had had to shoot her.

If he hadn't been in such agony, it would actually have been pretty damn funny. He took off the bitch's athletic shoes and threw them into the van. His trophy. The shoes were so big, he could probably wear them himself. That would be a hell of a thing, wouldn't it?

He was about to say so as he looked up at Morbid and Steem. Objectively, they were savages. He was sure they killed for the same reason he had. For the unparalleled thrill. It was like a drug. And they were smart enough, disciplined enough, to pull it off in populated areas, like here.

Shit. He'd just killed a woman with traffic racing by on the other side of a fence.

Steemcleena finally spoke. "Scylla. That was a very poor showing, man."

Jason didn't like the expression on Steem's face. Getting injured had cost him points. Hell, she had knocked him down. Jason said, "You're kidding, right? She's some kind of judo expert."

"You guys, get into the van," Steemcleena said. "Scylla, you'll get another shot at this. Maybe next time you'll even win."

Chapter 39

DEL RIO AND CRUZ left the fleet Mercedes with the valet at the Beverly Hills Hotel and headed through the lobby to the Polo Lounge. The maitre d' said that Ms. Rollins was on the patio. Cruz rolled up his jacket sleeves and followed Del Rio out into the bright sunshine.

Cruz thought that Sherry Rollins looked about thirty, although it was getting harder to tell women's ages in this town. She was wearing a floppy hat and a skinny black dress with white detailing; she looked like a young executive at one of the studios.

Both men shook hands with her, said their names, and the blond-haired woman moved her dog from a chair and invited them to sit down.

"Are you hungry?" she asked. "The lobster salad is quite good."

"Something to drink, maybe," Del Rio said.

The waitress trotted over and took an order of beer for Del Rio, tea for Cruz. Then Cruz took the lead.

"Ms. Rollins."

"Sherry," she said.

"Sherry. We're investigating the death of Shelby Cushman. I'm sure you've heard about it."

"A break-in, wasn't it? A burglar broke into the house and shot her."

"Actually, that's not right," Del Rio said. "All the indications are that Shelby Cushman was murdered with premeditation. Nothing was taken. Not a thing."

"That's insane," said the woman. "I'm sure I heard it was a robbery. Why else would someone kill Shelby?"

"How well did you know her?" Cruz asked.

"I've known her a few years," she said. "I wouldn't say I was a close friend."

"But she used to work for you, didn't she? She was one of your escorts."

Sherry Rollins didn't miss a beat. "Not since she got married. Last few months, she was working for someone else. That's what I heard, anyway. I'm sorry-this is very upsetting."

"It would really help if you'd tell us all about it," said Cruz. "And don't leave anything out. Try to hold in your grief."

"I don't know any more than what I've told you."

"You do, Sherry," said Del Rio, his voice all business, no kidding around now. "You know a lot more. And I'll tell you what. Help us out here, and we won't go to the police. We won't tell them why we think you're a suspect in Shelby Cushman's murder."

"Suspect? That is absurd. Why would I want to kill Shelby?"

"I don't know why, but the police might like to question you about that-and any number of other things."

The woman in the hat gave him an icy look, but he had her, and he knew it.

Sometimes Del Rio really liked his job.

So far, he was giving this day five stars.

Chapter 40

AT JUST AFTER FOUR, the sun was a dull white disk glowing in a pewter gray sky. The reservoir was covered with algae, and the trees were large humps, massed like woolly mammoths, making the whole place seem prehistoric.

If you squinted, you couldn't see the city of Los Angeles at all. You could pretend the rush of traffic on Rowena was just a bitter wind.

Justine Smith's heels sank into the ground as she walked down the slope toward the cordon of crime scene tape that stretched from tree to tree, a bright yellow ring in the smog and the gloom.

Lieutenant Nora Cronin lifted the tape for Justine, but instead of making a snarky remark, she just said hi. Something had changed, and Justine had an idea what it might be. Cronin now felt so desperate about the case, she would accept any help.

Even from Private. Even from Justine.

"Chief Fescoe has been looking for you," Cronin said. "He's here."

Justine nodded, then continued on toward the scrum of cops huddled around the body. At six-foot-three, Mickey Fescoe stood a bit above the others. It was rare to see the chief of police at a crime scene, but she guessed that Fescoe too was feeling the heat.