Private (Private 1)

She lay there, and Steem stood over her.

“You were great,” he said. Then he shot her in the face. Twice to be sure.

Morbid stepped up beside him over the dead girl. “That was kind of cool. She was great.”

Chapter 38

JASON PILSER—Scylla—wanted to lift his chin and howl. The pain started at his nose, radiated out and along every ne

rve in his body, pounded in his left thigh and right forearm, which was probably broken. If pain could be seen, he would have been blazing like a fucking light show.

But there was justice too. The bitch was dead. Now he was in charge of staging the body.

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 maître 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.”