Private (Private 1)

I kept my gun, a custom Kimber .45, drawn as I went through the airy rooms to the master bedroom in its own wing in back.

I felt for the switches by the doorway and threw on the lights. Andy was sitting on the side of the bed, hunched over, holding his head in bloodstained hands.

Jesus Christ! What had happened here?

Unlike the living room, the bedroom looked as though it had been tossed by a tornado. Lamps and picture frames were smashed. The television had been ripped from the wall, but the cord was still plugged in.

Shelby’s clothes, shoes, and underwear had been flung haphazardly around the room. Oh, Jesus. Jesus Christ!

Shelby was lying naked and very dead, face-up, in the center of the bed.

I tried to take it all in, but it was impossible to comprehend. Shelby had been shot through the forehead. From where her blood had pooled on the pale satin sheets, it looked like she’d taken a second shot in the chest.

Shock made my knees weak. I fought my impulse to go to Andy, to go to Shelby. I couldn’t, mustn’t do that. Stepping foot into that room would contaminate the crime scene.

So I called out to my friend, “Andy. What happened here?”

Andy looked up at me, his round face pasty white, his eyes bloodshot, his wire glasses askew. His face and hands were bloody. His voice was tremulous when he said, “Someone killed Shelby. Shot her just like that. You’ve got to find out who did this, Jack. You’ve got to find the bastard who killed Shelby.”

With that, my best friend broke down and cried like a little boy. The tough thing—I’d seen Andy cry as a little boy too.

Chapter 3

I FELT THE floor shifting under me, but I knew Andy was counting on me to think straight for both of us. Having a clear head in an emergency, that was supposed to be my calling card. I was Jack Morgan, right?

I told Andy to stay put, made my way back out to the car, and returned with an MD 80, the best camera ever made for shooting crime scenes. It had night vision, GPS, and spoke in a dozen languages—should I ever need to be told I’d left my lens cap on in Farsi or Mandarin.

I snapped off a dozen shots from the bedroom doorway, captured every detail I could think to cover.

While I took the photos, I tried to imagine what could have gone on here during the actual murder.

Apart from the blood on the bed and on Shelby, there was no other obvious trace around: no spray or prints on the walls, or drag marks or drips on the floor. She had almost definitely been killed in her bed. I pictured Shelby cowering against the headboard as the intruder busted up the room. He’d forced her to lie still, hadn’t he? Then he shot her twice—in the chest and forehead. She had bled profusely from the terrible wounds, and then she had died.

Whatever the intruder’s twisted motive, it clearly couldn’t have been robbery. Shelby was still wearing her engagement ring, and an even bigger diamond was hanging from a chain around her neck. Her Hermès handbag was on the dresser, clipped shut.

So if this wasn’t a burglary, what was it?

A thought occurred to me, the same one a homicide detective would have. Had Andy killed his wife? Was that why he had called me here? Because I was probably the best person in LA to handle this, to make it go away.

I talked calmly to my friend, telling him how sorry I was and how shocked. Then I asked him to leave Shelby where she was and come with me.

“We have to talk this through, Andy. We need to do it right now.”

He came to the doorway, moaned, and sagged against me.

I held Andy up as I guided him to a chair in the living room. I took a seat on the sofa, separating myself from Andy on purpose. The next ten minutes or so were going to be bad—for both of us.

I asked the easy questions first. “Did you call nine one one?”

“I—I didn’t want the cops here until I called you. No, I didn’t call the police.”

“Andy, do you own a gun? Do you have a gun in the house?”

He shook his head. “No. And I never have. Guns scare the crap out of me. You know that.”

“Okay. Good. Did you notice—was anything taken?”

“The safe is in my study. I came in through the garage. I’d been at the office, and I put my briefcase in the study before I went into the bedroom…. Everything looked okay. I don’t know, Jack. I wasn’t thinking about a robbery. I can’t concentrate right now….”