“Yes, he called, even asked for our murder books.”

His voice was neutral, at best. She could imagine how the LAPD folk felt about the sheriffs’ detectives. She said, “I spoke to Supervisor Elman and he thinks a meeting with all concerned detectives would be fine and dandy. Not his exact words.” She grinned at him. “I told him to consider it sort of like an orchestra that’s never played together, and I’m the visiting conductor.”

“My idea of fun. Hope there won’t be too much carnage. Just in case—are you armed?”

Cam laughed. “It’s odd, Agent Savich said the same thing.”

“Savich? I’ve heard of him, he’s the husband of Agent Sherlock of JFK fame, right?”

She nodded. “That’s her. And my Glock’s loaded, no worries.”

“Always smart to be prepared. You never know what could happen with a Fed in the mix. Couldn’t be worse than the navy and the army meeting to plan a mission, could it?” He shot her a look that didn’t seem very full of confidence in her abilities.

She only smiled. “Probably not, but I think it’s worth a try, whatever happens. Now, tell me more about Constance Morrissey.”

Daniel raised an eyebrow, knowing she probably already knew all about her, down to the woman’s birthmark behind her left knee. “Her life was ended on May third and I’ve got nothing, zip, zero. She was twenty-five, divorced going on three years from a real loser—and yes, we checked on the ex-husband, called himself Bravo Morrissey. She kept his name. He was in Chicago on the night she was murdered, playing in an illegal poker game, verified by the seven guys playing with him. She was from Fort Lauderdale, Florida.

“She didn’t have a steady boyfriend, lived in the Colony going on a year. She could afford living there because Markham rented it to her, charged her only $200 a month. I was told the going rent would be at least seven thousand a month—if a cottage like that even came up for rent in the Colony. So it makes sense they were more than friends.”

“Did any of her friends, relatives, or Markham have any ideas about what was on her laptop or cell?”

Daniel turned onto Pacific Coast Highway, not three blocks from the ocean at this point, past a Subway, anchoring a small shopping center. “Nothing of relevance so far. We’re coming up on the Colony—it’s the hoity-toitiest spot to own a home in Malibu. It’s been around—”

“Since the 1920s, when it was called the Malibu Motion Picture Colony. All the early film stars built homes here, like Bing Crosby, Ronald Colman, Gary Cooper, Gloria Swanson, to name an illustrious few. They came to play in privacy.” She gave him a fat smile.

“So you read a guidebook on the plane out here?”

“Nah, my folks live in the Colony. They’re both actors. I was raised here. After we look through Connie Morrissey’s house, we’ll drop by, see what they have to tell us, okay? Trust me, they know a lot.”

He eyed her, then said slowly, “I wondered why a local L.A. Field Office agent wasn’t assigned to take over. So, the powers that be in Fed-Land think because you were born into this in-crowd, you’d be the best bet.”

“That was second-biggest reason I was sent rather than an agent from the L.A. Field Office.”

“What’s the biggest reason?”

“I’m that good,” she said, and stuck her head out the open window, breathed in deep, and let the ocean wind whip through her hair.

14

* * *

THE COLONY

MALIBU, CALIFORNIA

Daniel had met Chet Brubaker once before, the buff twenty-three-year-old surfer dude who manned the kiosk that monitored the cars entering and leaving the Colony. Not that it had done Constance Morrissey any good.

Cam sang out as they pulled alongside the kiosk window. “Hi, Chet, let us in, okay?”

Chet peered at her, then grinned. “Hey, I remember you, you’re Lisabeth’s daughter, right? Camilla? Cammie?”

“Plain Cam’s good. Yes, and I’m FBI.” She flipped open her creds. “You know Detective Montoya?”

“Oh, yes. Hi, Detective. You must be here about Connie, right? Listen, everyone’s still torn up about her, still scared, you know, still can’t believe it happened here. Everyone’s supposed to be safe in the Colony, but they’re not. I’ve told the company they have to completely block access from the state park into the Colony, you know, put in a real fence that goes all the way down under the sand, not that lame excuse for a barrier that’s been here since year one. Any yahoo can duck under it easy enough. Maybe they should make it electric, you know?” Chet paused, pushed his long blond hair out of his eyes, beamed at them. “And you know what? They’re going to do something, finally. Lots of bureaucratic-state red tape since it’s a state park next door, but it might happen now.”

“I’d say you did good then, Chet,” Montonya said.

Chet saluted him, then stepped back, raised the bar, gave them a little wave.

Cam said as they drove through, “Most residents agree with Chet, including my parents, given the abundance of millionaires and celebrities in this very small area, many of whom could attract the wrong kind of attention. There’s the kiosk at the entrance, but no protection from anyone who wants to bend over and walk beneath that fence at the eastern end of the beach. It’s been a political football since I can remember.”

“And that’s why I don’t think it’s going to happen before my kids graduate college,” Daniel said. “Since the Morrissey murder, we’ve seen more private security, more video cameras. They call you Cammie?”

“Sometimes Cammie, on rare occasion, Camilla.”

“You want to know what those two names bring to mind?”

“Yeah. What?”

Daniel gave her a sideways look as he drove slowly down Malibu Colony Road. “I’d say Cammie braids her hair and wears patent leather shoes. Camilla lies on a chaise longue in a flowing robe and holds a flower on her chest.”

She laughed. “Good enough. And Cam?”

“That one wears boots, has an attitude, and carries a Glock.”

That sounded good to Cam. She waved her hand. “It seems frozen in time, only a remodeled house now and then.”

Malibu Colony Road took them down to the ocean and swept past a long line of houses on both sides, ranging from palatial glass mansions to small wooden cottages, some dating back to the forties.