“The FBI has set up a private, encrypted server for our use. On the back of these cards I’m going to give you, you’ll see how to access it and the log-in procedures. We’ve already uploaded your murder books. This site is for all of us to use as our shared worksite. After today, I’d like you to use it for all your records in this case. Tell us what you’re doing, all your ongoing efforts, what you’ve managed to eliminate, whatever you’re thinking that the rest of us might use.

“I know you feel like you’re swimming in mud right now, since the possibilities seem endless. That’s why we need each other. Call me day or night, folks. And talk to each other. I’ll be working directly with Detective Montoya out of Calabasas. Even though I only met him this morning, he’s told me he’s got my back.” And she sent Daniel a big grin.

There were some smiles.

“Okay, let’s get this bastard.”

She pulled out a handful of business cards, walked over to each of the detectives at the table, addressed each by name, and gave them a card. She knew every single name, a show of respect, except for Chief Crowder’s people, and she introduced herself to them, gave them each a card as well. It was obvious she’d surprised them.

She returned to the front of the conference table, looked out at the detectives one final time. Some stares of approval, some lingering wariness. Some open and willing, some not as much. At least she had no doubt Allard Hayes from San Dimas would now have no problem interacting with the LAPD detectives, and Daniel had already made an impact. She gave a curt nod and turned on her heel to exit the room, Daniel following behind her.

Elman escorted them back downstairs. “I thought that went very well, Agent Wittier. You handled some of those crocodiles better than I expected.” Cam wished he’d sounded more hopeful.

He gave her a smart salute in the lobby, and disappeared back into the elevator.

When they stepped out into the bright L.A. sun, Daniel shot her a look while he slipped on his aviator sunglasses. “That group didn’t sound like a bunch of pea-brained local yahoos to me.”

She tapped his arm. “Your words, not mine. Tell me, Detective, how many federal agents have you worked with?”

“Three.”

“Okay, I guess it happens. I kind of like Agent Dillon Savich’s working philosophy—‘Always play nice with locals, you never know when you might need a volunteer for a firing squad.’ ”

Daniel spurted out a laugh. “He really said that?”

“Nah, he said something nice, like one of the locals might throw a touchdown pass.”

“Sounds like a guy I’d like to get to know.” Daniel clicked open the doors of the Crown Vic, already looking forward to the blast of the AC in the dry heat. “Next stop, Paco’s.”

19

* * *

SAVICH HOUSE

GEORGETOWN

TUESDAY MORNING

Savich took a bite of his Cheerios as he listened to Sean describe every detail of the muscle shirt he’d seen online on his iPad. This was a new one. What, Savich wondered, was a five-year-old doing shopping on the Internet? He shook his head at himself. He shouldn’t have expected Sean to stick to the zillion games and puzzles and books they’d put on his iPad. Sean had cottoned to what Wi-Fi was and what it meant. But a muscle shirt? What was that all about?

“A muscle shirt, Sean?” Sherlock asked as she sliced a bit of banana onto his cereal. “To impress Marty?”

Sean looked up at his mom. “It would make my muscles look bigger, that’s what Marty says. She told me if we put our allowances together, we could buy one on eBay, but the only one we found is nineteen dollars. So far we’ve got eleven dollars and thirty-five cents.” Sean took a bite of Cheerios, spooned up a banana, shoved it in, and frowned. “I think the one we found is too big for me.”

“A muscle shirt needs to fit nice and tight, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Marty said when we get enough money, we should buy it for you instead, Papa. I told her we could save the money by Christmas. I think she’s trying to kiss up to you because she wants to marry me.”

Savich, who’d been thinking about Venus and the family meeting the previous night, tried to look solemn, since it wouldn’t do to laugh. He studied Sean’s serious little face, his intense dark eyes, and he marveled at how his boy could bring him back instantly to the real world.

But Sherlock didn’t hold back—she spurted out a laugh, grinning like a bandit at Savich. “Hey, big boy, how would you feel about that?”

“Which?” Savich asked. “The muscle shirt or Marty being our daughter-in-law?”

“Marty’s already a given, so the muscle shirt. I suggest black, Sean, that’d be good. I could show your papa off at the gym.”

Sean looked confused, then his face scrunched up. “I just don’t know, Papa, maybe I should tell Emma about the muscle shirt, too.” He fell silent, stirring his soggy Cheerios around, then grinned, his eyes shining. “Emma gets a really big allowance, so she could put in more money, so maybe we could get it before Christmas.” Then he sighed. “But Marty might get mad, and then I couldn’t play Flying Monks with her.” Again, that intense look. “What would you do, Papa?”

Savich looked thoughtfully into his cereal bowl, then at his son. “You want me to be honest, Sean?”

Sean nodded, all his attention on his father, as was Sherlock’s.

“I’d wait for a girl just like your mama. Then I’d beg her to marry me and stay with me forever. And the best thing? I’d only have to worry about one wife. We’d have plenty of time for Flying Monks.”

Sean turned his father’s dark eyes to his mother’s face, and slowly nodded. “Maybe that’d be okay. You’re pretty nice, Mama.”

“Thank you, Sean,” Sherlock said. She felt such a burst of love she thought she’d float to the kitchen ceiling.

Savich’s cell rang out It’s Time by Imagine Dragons. “Savich.” For Sean’s benefit, he walked into the hall to take it, and when he returned, he drew a deep breath, and said in as emotionless a voice as he could manage, “That was Venus. Reporters are camped out in front of the mansion again and the neighbors are screaming at the police for not doing anything. Venus’s number is ringing off the hook.