Sci’s crew of twelve technicians worked in several areas of forensic science: analysis, serology, forensic identification, and print and latent-print identification. Sci’s latest pride and joy was the new holographic-manipulation technology that he used to tease apart cells with a microlaser under a high-powered microscope.
His people had been the first to test real-time use of a satellite, a method called teleforensics. Using a tiny camera, Private’s investigators could bounce streaming images from a crime scene straight back to the lab, saving time and resources, preventing scene contamination.
Justine followed Sci across the vast underground space to his hub of an office and personal control center. Horror movie posters adorned the walls: Shaun of the Dead, Carrie, Hostel, Zombieland.
Sci dragged up a stool for Justine, then dropped into his chair and swiveled around like a little kid in an ice cream store.
“Sorry to take you away from Kit-Kat,” Justine said, smiling, “but I need you to look at what we’ve got before I turn it over to the LAPD in the morning.”
She brought Sci up to date on the details of the crime as she knew them: the location, the mutilation, the cause of death.
She handed him Connie Yu’s backpack. “Found not too far from the crime scene by Emilio. The sonofabitch finally made a mistake… unless he wanted us to find this.”
“You’ve got the victim’s blood and tissue?” Sci asked.
“In the bag, along with her personal items. You’ll see.”
Sci opened the bag. Looked at the articles inside. He’d already started thinking about running the blood, deconstructing the wallet, frisking the phone. If there was anything there, he would have it in time for the staff meeting at nine.
“I’m on it,” he said, and turned up the Sweeney Todd soundtrack to an almost deafening level.
Chapter 8
JUSTINE WALKED ACROSS the vast clipped lawn with its stunning canyon view — a very pretty picture in pearly light and sharp shadow at 5:15 in the goddamn morning.
She stripped down to her bra and panties, then quietly opened the gate to the tennis court.
She picked a racket off the bench and practiced her serve, powering balls over the net, taking out most of her frustration on the lime green hairballs.
Ten minutes into her workout she did a double take. She spun around and saw Bobby’s silhouetted form standing at the fence, his fingers laced into the chain links.
“You okay, Justine? It’s, like, five in the morning. What’s going on, sweetie?”
“I’m working off my aggression so I don’t act out,” she said to Bobby, hauling back, grunting as she tossed up another ball and smacked it hard.
“Put the racket down and come over here. Please.”
Justine did, walking through the gate into Bobby’s arms. He held her for a good long few minutes, the feel of his strong hands on her back almost putting her into a trance.
Then Bobby said, “What would you like? Hot tub, breakfast, or bed?”
“All three — in that order.”
Bobby took off his robe, draped it around Justine’s shoulders, and walked with her toward the lanai. “Did you find anything interesting?”
“Apart from this murder being another freakin’ tragedy?”
“Yes.”
“Nothing I can tell you. Not yet.”
“Let me put it this way, then, Justine. Have you got a new theory? Anything at all? Where are you on the case?”
Justine walked up the teak steps to the hot tub, dropped the robe and her underthings. Then she took Bobby’s hand as she stepped into the steaming water.
She sat down on the seat and leaned back as his arm went around her. She closed her eyes and exhaled, letting the water do its work.
“You must have a theory,” Bobby said.
“Here it is. The killer has multiple personality disorder.” Justine sighed. “And every one of his personalities is psychopathic.”
Chapter 9
MY DREAMS WEREN’T exactly identical, but they were all variations on the same disturbing theme. There was an explosion: sometimes a house blew up, or a car, or a helicopter. I was always carrying someone away from the fire toward safety: Danny Young, or Rick Del Rio, or my father, or my twin brother — or maybe the person in my arms was myself.
I never made it out of the fire zone alive. Not once.
My cell phone vibrating on the night table woke me from this morning’s nightmare, as it had done almost daily for about three years.
Already, I was swamped with dread, that sickening falling sensation that hits you before you even know why.
And then my brain caught up with my gut, and I knew if I didn’t pick up the phone, it would ring again and again until I answered.
This was my real-life nightmare.
I opened the clamshell, put it to my ear.
“You’re dead,” he said.
The voice came through an electronic filter. I called it “he,” but it could have been a she or even an it. Sometimes he called in the morning: a wake-up call. Sometimes he called in the middle of the night, or he might skip a day just to keep me off balance, which he, she, or it did.
Every time my cell phone rang, I was shocked by a fresh jolt of anxiety. When it was my hate caller, I sometimes asked, “What the fuck do you want?” Sometimes I tried reason and said calmly, “Just tell me what you want.”
This morning when the voice said “You’re dead,” I said “Not yet.”
I snapped the phone closed.
I’d narrowed the list of my enemies to about a hundred, maybe a hundred and ten.
Whoever my caller was, he reached me from pay phones. That’s right. Pay phones. They’re still in hotel lobbies and train stations and on just about every block in every city. Each year or so, I’d change my phone number, but I couldn’t keep my cell phone number a secret. My staff, my friends, my clients at Private, all had to be able to reach me. Especially the clients. I was always there for them.
I wondered again who my death threat caller was.
Did I know him? Was he in my inner circle? Or was he one of the crooks or deadbeats I’d brought down in my career as a PI?
I wondered if the threat was even real.
Was he watching me, tailing me, planning to kill me someday? Or was he just laughing his ass off at my expense?
Of course I had called the cops, but they’d lost interest years ago. After all, I’d never been physically attacked, never even seen my tormentor.
And then my thoughts went to Shelby Cushman again.
I imagined the horror of her last moments and pressed my palms to my eyes. I wanted to remember Shelby alive. I’d once dated her. I used to spend late nights in grungy little improv theaters where she did stand-up, then leave with Shelby by the back door. We broke up because I was me — and Shelby was getting closer to forty. She wanted a family and kids. And so did Andy. To hear them tell it, they were in love from their first date.
Now Shelby was dead and Andy was bereft and alone, and soon to be a murder suspect in the eyes of the LAPD.
I sat up in bed. What the hell was this? Where was I?
The sheets were flowered; there was a fluffy rug beside the bed, and the walls were painted a leafy green. Okay, I got it. I was fine.
I was at Colleen Molloy’s house.