Private #1 Suspect (Private 2)

The older woman was making flight arrangements, saying, “I’ve got you two first-class bulkhead seats on the fifteenth, Mr. Oliver.”

Decent cover for an escort service, Del Rio thought.

The two other women just stared back at him.

Burnett was saying, “So, let’s have that CD.”

Del Rio handed it over and went to stand behind Burnett as she brought up the video.

“What am I looking at?”

“May I?” Del Rio asked.

He leaned over Burnett’s shoulder and reversed the CD to the time and date just before the hooker got off the elevator.

He hit “pause” and said, “We have Mr. Maurice Bingham entering room 502 of the Sun at five-thirty-eight last night. He called Phi Beta seven minutes later, at five-forty-five. Call lasted three minutes. Credit card transaction at five-forty-eight for twelve hundred dollars plus tax, payable to Phi Beta Girls.”

“I don’t know that Mr. Bingham was a client,” Burnett said. “Our clients don’t always use their real names.”

“Bingham used his real name and a real MasterCard. We checked. What you’re looking at is the fifth floor at six-thirteen p.m. last night. This is Mr. Bingham’s ‘date,’” Del Rio said, hitting “forward,” showing the girl walking to the room.

“Miss Cutie Patootie was in 502 for two hours on the nose, and now”—he sped up the action—“we see her leaving. Bingham was never seen alive again.”

Del Rio froze the image of the six-hundred-dollar-an-hour escort, then ejected the CD and handed it to Cruz.

Del Rio said, “We need to talk to this girl. If she didn’t do it, you’re done with us.

“I want to remind you that if you don’t help us, we will turn this disk over to the cops. So let’s play nice, okay, Susan? Who is the girl in the blue dress? And how do we find her?”

CHAPTER 26

“PARTY GIRL AT two o’clock,” Cruz said to Del Rio. They were parked illegally on Charles E. Young Drive, right outside the UCLA Geffen School of Medicine.

“You go first,” Del Rio said. “I’ll bring up the rear.”

The escort’s name was Jillian Delaney and she was between classes, coming up a path between the brick buildings and geometric-shaped greens of the campus.

Cruz walked up to the pretty young woman, brunette, slim, walking by herself, books in her arms, knapsack on her back. He showed her his badge and the girl backed up a couple steps, looked around for a way out, but by then Del Rio was behind her, his badge in his hand.

“What’s this about?” she asked.

“Last night. Room 502 at the Beverly Hills Sun,” said Cruz.

“Oh, my God,” she said.

Talk about a deer in the headlights. But, Del Rio thought, here again was where playacting got tricky. You couldn’t say to the girl, “Get into the squad car. Let’s discuss this downtown.” Just had to bluff and hope for the best.

He and Cruz walked Jillian Delaney toward a bench, and Cruz introduced them as “investigators.” They all sat down.

The girl was petite without the five-inch heels and looked much smaller sitting between them than she had on the surveillance tape. She weighed maybe a hundred and ten pounds with her clothes and shoes on.

Cruz said, “Let me hold your books, okay, Jillian?”

The girl looked at him. “Are you arresting me?” When Cruz didn’t answer, she handed them over.

Del Rio said, “Please hold out your hands.”

Jillian did as instructed, and Del Rio checked out her perfect nails, pale pink polish, no chips, no breaks. She turned her hands over, palms up.