“I’m in charge of the serial killer case—the murdered actresses.”

“Oh my goodness, you mean the Starlet Slasher?”

Cam rolled her eyes. “Trust the media to come up with something alliterative that makes you want to throw up.”

Missy shuddered. “Whatever, it’s scary. This monster is all my friends can talk about. Cam, I was there! In a show with Molly Harbinger at the Mandalay. To die like that, Cam—it’s horrible.”

“Yes, it is. Wait a minute—Missy, you’re an actress? I never even knew you wanted to act.”

“That’s because I never told anybody back in high school. Fact is, Cam, I was a dog and I was too insecure, afraid I’d be mocked, but yes, I always wanted to act, even as a little girl. I’m not exactly a success yet, but maybe, in time. Who knows when some fairy dust will fall on my head? I’m working on and off, small roles in TV shows and commercials mostly, but it’s steady enough I can support myself.” She paused a moment. “I guess I brought both the killer and my stalker with me to Las Vegas.”

“What? You have a stalker? What’s that about?”

Missy gave her a huge grin, showing even white teeth. “You’d have been proud of me. I ran him down, I caught that loser myself in Las Vegas last weekend. And then—I couldn’t believe this—the cops let the jerk go.”

“He followed you to Las Vegas?”

“Yes. I saw his reflection in a store window on the Strip last Saturday, and I just snapped. I’d bought myself a Ka-Bar, you know, one of those big, scary military knives—”

“Yes, I know them.”

“Of course you’d know. I was so mad I was spitting, and so I took off after him, ran him down in the Wynn hotel garage. The cops came; the stalker said he didn’t do anything, that he’d never seen the crazy woman chasing him with a knife before, never in his life. Then the creep said he wouldn’t press charges because he realized I was upset, but I’d made a mistake; he wasn’t a stalker. Can you believe that? Then that night Molly was murdered. She was a longtime dancer in the Beatles show I’d just snagged a role in. People called her Legs—yep, she had legs all the way to her tonsils. I met her only once in Vegas, to say hello. She was nice, Cam, and she wanted to make it so bad, just like I do, like all of us do.”

Missy’s eyes filmed with tears. “And that idiot stalker. I’d just gotten to Vegas and there he was. It was too much. I broke my contract with the Mandalay and came back home.” She dabbed her eyes with a careful fingertip. “Sorry, but it was really bad. And that reminds me, Cam, I need to check in again with the police in Calabasas. The older detective I originally talked to isn’t there anymore. He retired. Not that he did much of anything before I left for Vegas. There’s a new guy, and I have a name to give him, so that’s something. I’ll get a restraining order on him.” Missy stopped, shook her head. “Sorry, I’m a motormouth. I’m so excited to see you, Cam. I’m glad you’re here. If anyone can catch this psycho who killed Molly and the others, it’s you.”

“Did you know any of the other murdered actresses, Missy?”

Missy swallowed convulsively, nodded. “I knew both Melodie Anders and Connie Morrissey. Melodie lived up in San Dimas. I couldn’t believe it when I heard she was killed, in early April. She was a good actress, really committed, always out there pounding the pavement when she wasn’t working, but she visited her older parents most weekends in San Diego.

“Connie Morrissey lived right here in Malibu, in the Colony, but I bet you already know that. I’d see both of them at auditions, we’d all go out for coffee after, or margaritas and nachos at El Pablo in Santa Monica some Friday nights. They were both nice, Cam, and talented.

“Melodie was twenty-six, and Connie was only twenty-five. So hopeful, so filled with dreams, just like me. And now they’re gone—just gone.”

Cam squeezed Missy’s shoulder. “I’m very sorry. You know I’ll do my best to catch him.”

“Yes, I know.” Missy cocked her head. “I remember a basketball game in high school against the Calabasas Bears. We were down eleven points, but we never folded because you kept whipping us up, and sure enough, we ended up winning by two points.”

Cam remembered that game as clearly as Missy did. She could still hear her parents yelling down at them. She also remembered she and her team, and her parents, had ridden the joy wave for a solid week.

“Can you tell me what’s going on now that you’re here?”

“I can’t tell you much, Missy. I’m sorry, but I would like you to tell me more about Melodie Anders and Connie Morrissey. Okay?”

“Sure, anything to help.”

“Missy, are you living alone right now?”

“Yes. My great-aunt Mary died last year and left me this cute little cottage on Malibu Road, not far from the Colony. Bless her, that’s why I don’t have to work an extra job to keep body and soul together.”

Cam lightly laid her hands on Missy’s shoulders. “I don’t want to scare you any more than you already are, but please, Missy, have someone move in with you until we catch this killer.”

Missy stared at Cam. “You really think the Starlet Slasher could come after me?”

“No, but it would be smart if you weren’t alone until we catch him.”

“Cam, are you staying with your folks?”

“Nope, the Pinkerton Inn.”

A big smile bloomed. “How about you move in with me? I’ve got two bathrooms.”

24

* * *

GEORGE WASHINGTON UNIVERSITY HOSPITAL

WASHINGTON, D.C.

TUESDAY, LATE AFTERNOON

Venus Rasmussen was looking elegant as usual in a dark blue Dior suit, a white silk blouse, and low black pumps, her hair a shiny salt-and-pepper bob. She looked, Sherlock thought, and not for the first time, like the older Barbara Stanwyck, an indomitable will, indisputably in charge. She’d been driven by an assistant directly from her office atop Rasmussen headquarters, a modern spear of smoked glass and steel outside of Alexandria, to the hospital. Even if she weren’t recognized, the hospital staff still straightened when she walked through. She had that effect on people.

Sherlock remembered once when she and Dillon had visited Venus in her top-floor corner office, guarded by three assistants. The incredible space with its two walls of floor-to-ceiling windows, wasn’t, however, sleekly modern like the rest of Rasmussen headquarters. No, Venus had created an oasis of elegance and grace, soft grays and pale blues to showcase very fine English eighteenth-century antiques. Sherlock also remembered two senators waiting to meet with Venus, discussions Venus had mentioned in passing, about new defense legislation they wanted her to consider. And now this mess. She knew Mr. Maitland had a direct line to the vice president with instructions to keep him updated on the situation.