Private #1 Suspect (Private 2)

Sci took Colleen’s and my fingerprints with an electronic reader while Mo-bot ran a latent-print reader over hard surfaces in the room. No fingerprint powder required.

Justine asked, “When did you last see Colleen alive?”

I told her that I’d had lunch with her last Wednesday, before I left for the airport.

“Just lunch?”

“Yes. We just had lunch.”

A shadow crossed Justine’s eyes, like clouds rolling in before a thunderstorm. She didn’t believe me. And I didn’t have the energy to persuade her. I was overtired, scared, heartsick, and nauseated. I wanted to wake up. Find myself still on the plane.

Sci was talking to Mo. He took scrapings from under Colleen’s nails, and Mo sealed the bags. When Sci lifted Colleen’s skirt, swab in hand, I turned away.

I talked to Justine, told her where Colleen and I had eaten lunch on Wednesday, that Colleen had been in good spirits.

“She said she had a boyfriend in Dublin. She said she was falling in love.”

I had a new thought. I spun around and shouted, “Anyone see her purse?”

“No purse, Jack.”

“She was brought here,” I said to Justine. “Someone had her gate key.”

Justine said, “Good thought. Any reason or anyone you can think of who could have done this?”

“Someone hated her. Or hated me. Or hated us both.”

Justine nodded. “Sci? Mo? We have to get out of here. Will you be all right, Jack?”

“I’m not sure,” I said.

“You’re in shock. We all are. Just tell the cops what you know,” she said as Sci and Mo packed up their kits.

“Say you took a very long shower,” Sci said, putting his hand on my shoulder. “Make that a long bath and then a shower. That should soak up some of the timeline.”

“Okay.”

“The only prints I found were yours,” said Mo-bot.

“It’s my house.”

“I know that, Jack. There were no prints other than yours. Check the entry card reader,” she said. “I would do it, but we should leave.”

“Okay. Thanks, Mo.”

Justine squeezed my hand, said she’d call me later, and then, as if I had dreamed them up, they were gone and I was alone with Colleen.

CHAPTER 6

THE BEVERLY HILLS Sun was one of three exclusive hotels in the chain of Poole Hotels. Located on South Santa Monica Boulevard, a mile from Rodeo Drive, the Sun was five stories of glamour, each room with a name and an individual look.

The Olympic-sized eternity pool on the rooftop was flanked with white canvas cabanas, upholstered seating, and ergonomic lounge chairs—and then there was the open-air bar.

Hot and cool young people in the entertainment business were drawn like gazelles to this oasis, one of the best settings under and above the Sun.

At nine that evening, Jared Knowles, the Sun’s night manager, was standing in front of the Bergman Suite on the fifth floor with one of the housekeepers.

He said to her, “I’ve got it, Maria. Thank you.”