Private #1 Suspect (Private 2)

“Dr. Smith, I might as well tell you, this wasn’t the first time I lost track of myself. My life’s kinda unreal, you know? I was just a kid when I came out here. A normal kid. Here there’s too much of everything and my time isn’t my own. Half the time it feels like someone else is running my life and I have no control over what happens to me.”

Justine said, “All I want to do is help you so that things don’t get worse, so that you can get through your trial without any more bad press. Do you want me to advise you?”

“Yes. Hell, yes. Tell me what you want me to do.”

Justine thought, Oh, crap. Danny was likable and now she was responsible for keeping him clean and celibate so he could make the hundred-million-dollar blockbuster.

She handed Whitman two cards, saying, “Here’s how to reach me and Scotty. It’s really simple. Don’t go out with girls at all. That way there will be no pictures, no headlines. Don’t spend the night out with anyone. Go to work, go home alone, keep your phone on, and stay in touch with us.”

“Done deal.”

“Whose number is on your hand?” Justine asked.

“I don’t know. This is what I’m talking about. Look. It’s gone,” Whitman said, spitting on his hand, wiping it against the leg of his jeans.

“Okay,” Justine said. “Starting now, pretend you’re a monk. And we’ll dig up what we can on Katie Blackwell.”

CHAPTER 43

THE STAIRCASE AT Private was a wide, winding spiral, five stories wrapping around the core of the reception entrance on the ground floor. The stairs were inspired by the cross section of a nautilus shell. And by a stone staircase I once walked down at the Vatican.

I was going up the stairs to my office when Sci loped up the steps, caught up with me on four, and said, “Hold on, Jack.” He had a sad look on his face.

My guts took the down elevator.

“What is it, Sci?”

“You’re looking at the bad-news messenger,” he said. “Bruno just called.”

Bruno was Sci’s friend, the high-level tech at the city lab, the one with cop connections who hoped that Sci would one day bring him over to Private.

We walked past Cody into my office.

Sci dropped into a chair, put his feet up on the edge of my desk, and said, “Between us, okay? Or else we’re going to have to hire Bruno. Lose a good contact at the lab.”

“Go ahead. No, wait. I want Justine to hear this.”

“Are you sure?” said Sci.

“Absolutely.”

I got Justine on the interoffice line. She said she’d be right up, and in a minute she came into my office, barely looking at me. She took the chair next to Sci.

Sci said, “The LA crime lab found semen in Colleen’s body. The DNA is consistent with yours.”

“Come on,” I said.

Justine didn’t say it, but I could read it in her face—Why am I not surprised?

Sci went on, “And apparently the cops have a timeline for the murder. Here’s what I’ve been told. On the day it happened, Colleen used her credit card to buy gas and a few random purchases at the Sunoco on La Cienega. She had lunch alone at the Newsroom Café on North Robertson, and her car was just found at the adjacent parking garage.”

I was seeing it as Sci laid it out. I tried to block out the issue of the semen in Colleen’s body.

“Cops have dumped your phone records, Jack,” said Sci. “Your landline was used during the time period when Colleen was killed, and you say you weren’t home.”

“The killer used my phone?”

“Yeah. Seems like he used it to call a number that was answered and then disconnected after two seconds. That call was to Tommy’s cell.”