Private #1 Suspect (Private 2)

“Then my date was found dead. Later, Billy OD’d. I didn’t tell the police anything. They don’t protect party girls, you understand? Maybe Billy OD’d. Maybe someone did it to him. All I know is what Billy told me. The killer was a driver who worked for Sensational Dates in the summer of 2010. Did you know that? No. If you are a good detective, maybe you can find this driver.”

“I’m going to try.”

“Bueno. Now give me the rest of the money.”

CHAPTER 74

JUSTINE GRABBED AT the ringing phone on her nightstand, fumbled it, dropped it, scrambled for it under the bed.

When her hand was around the phone, she squinted at the caller ID. It said only, “Incoming call,” and she didn’t recognize the caller’s number. She glanced at the clock. It was just after four a.m.

Justine said into the phone, “Hello? Hello?”

She heard sobbing. “Hello, who is this?”

“It’s Danny.”

“Danny. Where are you? What’s wrong?”

The crying continued, and between the sobs, Danny gave Justine an address in Topanga Canyon.

“Please come fast,” he said.

Justine said she’d be there in twenty minutes. She disconnected the line, then called Del Rio. He picked up on the first ring, said he’d meet her at the Topanga Canyon address and that he needed coffee bad.

Justine said, “Get two. Black for me.”

She dressed quickly, got into her Jag, and sped away from her house.

She followed Old Topanga Canyon Road, eventually taking a left onto a small road that fed into even smaller roads, her headlights barely piercing the black of that early moonless morning.

When she found Portage Circle Drive, Justine slowed the car and looked for house numbers until she saw 98 on a mailbox.

She turned at the rutted driveway, her headlights lighting the tree trunks crowding it on both sides until the driveway emptied into a clearing. There was a rustic cabin set back into the wooded lot and a blue Ferrari parked in front.

Justine braked her car and buzzed down the windows. She heard nothing but insects chirping, saw one light shining through the front windows, coming from a room toward the back of the house.

Justine retrieved a flashlight from the door pocket, then got out of her car. She touched the hood of the Ferrari. It was cold. She went up a path of broken stone to the front door, which had been painted a bloodred color and had a brass knocker under a peephole.

Justine knocked, calling Danny’s name.

There was no answer.

She knocked louder and called again, with no response. She was about to walk around to the back of the cabin when a car pulled up to hers and stopped. Rick Del Rio got out.

It was more than a little spooky here, and she was very glad to see him. And his gun.

“What’s going on?” he said.

“Damned if I know,” said Justine. “The car is here, but I don’t think anyone is home.”

CHAPTER 75

DEL RIO SAID to Justine, “Go around back. I’ll meet you there in a minute.”

Del Rio tried the doorknob, which turned easily in his hand. The door swung open, and with his light shining into the house, he crossed the threshold.

He shone his beam around the main room and took stock. The house was one of those magazine-type decorated cabins with Native American rugs on the terra-cotta floor, bright blankets and pillows on the leather couches in front of the fireplace.