“Is the sketch good enough for Aaron to use it to identify the Serial?”

“Sorry, sweetheart, the man in the sketch is wearing blood-splattered goggles and a watch cap.”

Sherlock slammed her fist against the dash, then lightly patted it, apologizing to the Porsche. “Wait, Dillon. Maybe there’s enough of a jawline, or a head shape, or a nose and mouth, to help them find him on facial recognition?”

“I doubt it, but it’s worth a try. Cam emailed me the sketch after she texted.” He pulled his cell out of his pocket and handed it to her. “Take a look.”

It was a surprisingly well-detailed drawing, obviously done by a pro. She felt a punch of toxic rage at the spray of blood on the goggles. “What does Cam think?”

“She said a neighbor saw this man who looked like this leaving Deborah Connelly’s house. As you can see, he’s tall and thin. He took off his watch cap to rub blood off his bald head. Cam pointed out it could be a skull cap.”

“Did Aaron identify the artist?”

He pulled the Porsche onto I-95. “Good question. Call him, Sherlock.”

She did, but after she asked Aaron that same question she listened for a moment and then hung up, shaking her head. “Aaron said the artist wasn’t nice enough to sign the sketch, so it’s a dead end.”

39

* * *

CULVER BUILDING

LOS ANGELES

WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON

The Culver Building, in Century City, soared up twenty-two glass-encircled stories, the tenants’ joke being the L.A. smog wasn’t too bad if you could see them all.

Cam and Daniel were shown into the huge corner office of Mr. Theodore Markham by his personal assistant Ms. Brandi Mikels. She looked like she would be as comfortable wearing wings for Victoria’s Secret as wearing a slick black suit.

“Special Agent Wittier and Detective Montoya, sir.”

“Thank you, Brandi. Agent, Detective, you’ve given me no warning, and I’m busy, a meeting, in fact, in twenty minutes. But I’m certain Brandi told you that and you simply pulled rank?”

Close enough. “Thank you for seeing us, Mr. Markham,” Cam said.

He rose slowly and watched them walk across the expanse of thick pale gray carpet to his desk. It was all polished glass and bubinga wood, a dark reddish brown with purple streaks so stunning Daniel wondered if it belonged on an endangered list. Markham took her offered creds and Daniel’s badge, gave them a cursory look-see, and handed them back. “I’ve already spoken to you, Detective Montoya. I remember you and I had a conversation in my office at Universal Studios after Constance was killed. I, of course, had nothing to do with her death, and naturally, you verified that. For whatever reason I cannot begin to fathom, you are back again—I assume it was because Deborah Connelly was killed last night? I heard about her murder this morning with great sadness. Her death—it was like poor Connie’s, from what I heard on the news. That maniac struck again.

“Is that why you’re here, to interrogate me? I rather think you two should be looking for the killer instead, or all over her damned boyfriend.” As he spoke, his hand reached for his phone.

“Mr. Markham,” Cam said quickly, not wanting him to call in his lawyers, “we’re here because you’ve been personally affected, twice now. You’re an important person in show business in L.A. and you could be of great assistance to us. We would like to hear your ideas on how and why a serial killer would target these particular young actresses. There have been six young women now, brutally murdered.”

His hand hovered, then backed away. He waved the same hand at them. “Sit down. As I said, I have a meeting, but I’ll tell you what I know, what I think.”

They sat. His chair was higher than theirs, a bit on the obvious side, Cam thought, but she only smiled at him. As Missy had said, Markham was tall, fashionably thin, his dark hair receding just a bit but still thick and full. He had a bit of white at his temples, carefully brushed on by an expert hand. His jaw was honed and firm, probably the work of another expert hand. In short, Mr. Markham looked exactly as he wanted to look, an important Hollywood big shot. Cam saw a framed photo of a lovely woman about his age, midforties, she guessed, flanked by two boys, both college-age. Mr. Markham was standing on the other side of his sons, his arm around them.

She smiled at the photo. “Your sons, how old are they, sir?”

“What? Oh, both are at UCLA, both computer majors, something their mother applauds.” He shrugged.

“And you don’t?”

He shrugged again. “They’ll make a decent living, I have no doubt, but it won’t be an exciting life.”

“Not like yours, you mean?” Cam said.

He smiled at that, and Cam saw the charm in this smile, easy and prepackaged. “Thing is I don’t know anyone who could help them, then again perhaps they’ll want to join a start-up. At least I could be an investor. We’ll see.”

Daniel said, “Most people have to make it on their own. It builds character, I’m told.”

“They have too much character as it is,” Markham said, shaking his head. “As I said, I have a meeting. You want to know why I think anyone would target these particular young women. Naturally, I’ve given this a lot of thought. I’ve come to realize I have no special insights or brilliant theories about that. I wish I did. I will tell you, though, that in Deborah’s murder, you should look closely at her boyfriend—he’s a doctor and goes by the name of Doc, but I don’t remember his name. Talk about a dark cloud hovering over Deborah. He could even be your serial killer.” He looked down at his Rolex.

“We still have a little time, sir. We’ll certainly be looking at everyone, Dr. Mark Richards included. At the time of her murder, Deborah Connelly had a meaty role in one of your movies—The Crown Prince. What are your plans now that she’s dead?”

Markham picked up a Montblanc pen and began weaving it through his fingers. “You’ll find this hard to believe, but the director has already been on the phone to me, told me he’s tracking down an actress who looks enough like Deborah to fill in for her. Once they have her made up, he’ll shoot the remaining scenes without any close-ups and no one will know the difference. If you didn’t know, The Crown Prince is a remake of Mayerling—the suicides of thirty-year-old Crown Prince Rudolf of Austria and his seventeen-year-old mistress, in 1889. The costumes are voluminous, the bonnets wide-brimmed. He’ll manage. The director also pointed out that with Ms. Connelly’s murder the movie would get some free press. Yes, I know, that’s fairly disturbing, but unfortunately, that’s the way of the world. Ms. Connelly will be missed, but the film will remain on schedule.”