She sat down and looked around, fully aware the other detectives in the room were eyeing her, knowing who she was, because there are no secrets in a police station or in a sheriff’s station. Montoya said thank you and punched off his cell. He took the final bite of his bagel, wiped his hands on a paper napkin, and continued to type on his laptop. The dab of cream cheese was still on his lip.

Cam said, “I admire a multitasker. You nearly have that email to your mom finished?”

He didn’t look up. “Been a busy morning, lots to tell her.”

“It’s only eight thirty in the morning, Detective Montoya. You sure don’t look Latin to me. Where’d you get the Spanish name?”

“You could ask where I get the gringo first name—Daniel.”

“Nah, Daniel’s biblical, way back before Latin America was invented. He got tossed into a lions’ den and lived to brag about it. I bet you’ve never even seen a lion.”

“Yes, I have. I was six years old, down in the San Diego Zoo.”

“Are you through?”

“Just one more sentence to Mom, telling her how I miss her chicken pot pie—two crusts. There. All done.” He closed the laptop and slowly rose, eyed her up and down when she stood to face him. “You’re the Fed?” Incredulous voice. Then, under his breath, but not quite low enough, “Oh, joy.”

Cam was closing in on five foot ten in her boots, but came only to the middle of this guy’s nose. “Yeah, I’m the Fed. Big dude, aren’t you?”

“You ain’t no midget yourself.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Detective Daniel Montoya, as you already know.”

“I’m Special Agent Cam Wittier.”

They shook hands. He looked pissed for a moment, then she watched his face change as he reminded himself to accept the inevitable and settled on resigned. “Okay, the sheriff told me you were coming to take over the case.”

“True. But right now, I’m here to meet to you, see what you think.”

“And then kiss me off because I’m a worthless yahoo without a sentient brain?”

“Depends on the ideas you have about this Serial. Then I’ll assess if you’re worthless. Or not.”

13

* * *

Daniel looked at her short wavy blond hair and into her blue-gray eyes, no, there was hazel in there as well—and a jaw that looked more stubborn than his older sister’s, and that was saying something. She was a looker and wasn’t that a kick in the gut? He had to laugh. Of course he’d been expecting a dark suit, skinny tie, wing tips, a stone-cold face, and a sense of humor like a stick. “I’ll try, Agent Wittier, to make myself both worthy and useful.”

“Hey, that’s the recipe for a decent husband. Well, that and a flat stomach. I was going to buy you breakfast, but you already chowed down on that bagel. You’ve still got some cream cheese on your lip.” She watched him dab the rest of his breakfast away. “There, all presentable again. Like a real grown-up. You ready to talk?”

“We can do that while I drive you to the Morrissey crime scene. What about all the other crime scenes?”

“We’ll begin with Constance Morrissey.”

He nodded. “If we’re going to spend some time there and make it to the Parker Center on time in the L.A. traffic, we should get started. How about I tell you what I think and you tell me if I pass muster on the way over? Oh and by the way, my dad’s still got a flat gut.”

Daniel guided her out of the bullpen, all eyes following their every step, past Dreyfus’s office and outside into the morning sunshine. He led her to a row of Crown Vics parked beside the station, pointed to one that looked as tired as the others. “I haven’t been to the crime scene in over a week. But I agree you should see it even though it’s cleaned up.”

“Forensics came up with nothing?”

“Not a thing, as I’m sure you already know. The killer was careful. All the fingerprints were identified, including the housekeeper’s. When I interviewed her, she told me she liked Morrissey, said she was a sweet, clean girl.”

“So she was one of those women who clean before the housekeeper arrives?”

“I hope that’s what she meant. Most of the fingerprints other than the victim’s belonged to the house owner, Theodore Markham, a big-shot Hollywood producer.”

“You said in your report you believe Markham was more than the owner of that house, that he and Connie Morrissey were probably lovers.”

“That’s the working theory.”

“You interviewed Markham. I read your report, but tell me what you thought about him, stuff that isn’t in your report.”

“I was allowed to speak to Markham one time, his lawyer sitting at his right hand, measuring me for a coffin. The lawyer claimed Mr. Markham was distraught, but Markham reminded me of my grade school principal, Old Stone Face. When the lawyer finally allowed Markham to speak, he insisted he’d picked Morrissey because of her great talent; he’d wanted to nurture her, he said, take away her money worries so she could focus on her career. Markham claimed he wasn’t sleeping with Morrissey, no way. He’s allegedly happily married to his second wife, has two sons with her, both studying computers at UCLA. He was alibied up to his tonsils, at a party at his house when Morrissey was murdered, with his wife and fifty guests. Toward the end, he looked put out at the inconvenience of having to deal with a lowly cop. As I wrote in the report, he could have snuck out of the party because alcohol was flowing freely and some of the guests were frolicking in the swimming pool. Naturally, everyone who attended the party was sure he’d been there every second.”

“From your report I gathered you believe Markham to be a pompous, ruthless jerk. Well, not in those exact terms, but it came through loud and clear. You think he could have killed her?”

“He could have. Say they were lovers and she no longer wanted him—rejection didn’t happen to someone of his stature, so in a rage he killed her. But that would make him the Serial, and I can’t see that.” Daniel shrugged. “You know, of course the Serial took both her laptop and her cell phone, as he always does. We don’t know why yet, but that’s made it harder to track down Morrissey’s personal information.”

Cam nodded. When Montoya turned onto Bleaker Road, she lowered the window and breathed in the soft breeze off the Pacific. “You can smell the ocean from here. I’ve missed that. Now, as for the big powwow at LAPD headquarters, I understand you didn’t have a meeting with the LAPD but Supervisor Elman called you and the detectives at the San Dimas Sheriff’s Department.”