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  And nearly fainted. He managed to keep his shriek in his throat, but the figure bending over his princess sensed his presence, turned, and Marty saw his face in the shaft of moonlight coming in through the bedroom window. He was wearing goggles smeared with blood and had a bloody knife in his hand. As the man jerked away from the bed, Marty saw his princess covered with blood, saw her head bent at an impossible angle, saw blood still oozing from her neck, all in a millisecond. And he could smell the blood, thick and hot and coppery. Marty ran back down the hall, threw a bookshelf down behind him. He heard the killer’s shoes hitting the wood floor in the hall behind him as he ran back into the small office. Marty dove out the closed window headfirst, cutting his hand on his way through, but he didn’t slow. He rolled to his feet, clutched his hand to his chest, and ran to where his car was parked three streets away. Only when he was driving away did he look back. He didn’t see anyone. Had the man seen his face? Would he be able to find him?

  Marty’s heart pounded and he was still panting from his run and from stark terror. He’d never been so afraid in his life. He felt the pain in his cut hand only then, smelled his own blood, only not nearly as thick and fetid as the smell in the princess’s bedroom.

  It wasn’t until later, after his hand had been stitched in the ER across town, and he was cruising on morphine, did he feel rage at what the monster had done. He’d stuck that knife into the princess—his princess—he’d slit her throat. And then he’d come after Marty.

  3

  * * *

  CRIMINAL APPREHENSION UNIT

  HOOVER BUILDING

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  MONDAY MORNING

  FBI Special Agent Dillon Savich looked up at the light tap on his open door to see Special Agent Cam Wittier looking ready to jump out of her skin. What had her boss, Criminal Division Unit Chief Duke Morgan, told her? Savich waved her in. Before he tapped the key that darkened MAX’s computer screen, he knew she’d seen the grisly murder scene photo. He said matter-of-factly, “That’s one of the crime scenes from a particularly nasty set of tourist murders in Bar Harbor, Maine. People expect to enjoy themselves there, not get knifed to death in their motel rooms.

  “Five dead as of yesterday. The police chief called me early this morning, asking for help. But enough of that. Come on in, Agent Wittier. Sit down.”

  Cam settled herself, crossed her legs, and smiled at the man she’d always thought was as sexy as a Wild West sheriff at high noon. She’d pictured how he’d look moseying around in a long yellow duster and a pair of black boots with spurs, of course, when she’d first met him at a computer-coding class he’d given at Quantico. It was a bummer he was married to Sherlock, a good friend and kickboxing partner, and had to stay a fantasy, a no-go forever. Life, Cam sometimes thought, looking at Dillon Savich, was out of sync for her.

  Savich said, “Duke told me about those crooks in suits in Philadelphia—two bankers and three of their lawyers, was it?—you took down for fraud and embezzlement. And recovered twenty million dollars they’d stashed offshore. Congratulations. He told me he did a punk-rock duet with you as your reward.”

  “Thank you, sir. It was a lovely reward, since Duke likes to dance when he celebrates. The only problem is he had no idea how to dance to punk rock, but that small detail didn’t slow him down. Quite a sight.

  “He told me I was to be on special assignment with you, sir. But he didn’t tell me what it was about.”

  “Call me Savich or Dillon.”

  She tried it out. “Dillon. Please call me Cam, not Camilla, as in Prince Charles’s longtime love. My dad named me after her, said she had more guts than the queen.” She shut up, seeing his smile was distracted. It was understandable. Here she was being a motormouth, since she was still flying high over bagging those overdressed scum in her fraud case. After seeing the huge smile on the federal prosecutor’s face, she knew she had an “in,” that Duke might give her another plum assignment. Who knew Dillon Savich would request her?

  “Cam, I asked for you because you’re a good boots-on-the-ground investigator. Your boss tells me you can see connections others don’t, and you’re a pretty good interviewer, gifted at getting people to trust you. Let me add that Sherlock recommended you. She was very impressed when you tied your legs around her neck at the gym. To be honest, though, the biggest plus you have for this assignment are your L.A. connections. Even Mr. Maitland believes you’ll be a perfect fit for this particular case. Let me add you’re a lifesaver, since the unit is swamped.”

  She basked in his words. “Sir— Dillon, what would you like me to do for you?”

  “We have a Serial out of Los Angeles who broke pattern and jumped state lines. He killed an actress in Las Vegas Saturday night, and that makes the whole business federal. We’d like you to go to L.A. and coordinate with all the various sheriff’s departments and the LAPD and catch this guy.”

  She held back from jumping out of her chair and pumping her fist, but her eyes were shining. “My mom’s been keeping me up to date on those murders. She called me when the murder in Las Vegas hit the news yesterday, said she’d worked with that young woman who was killed, Molly Harbinger, last year. Mom thought she was talented, could really sing and dance, and she was still wide-eyed and sweet, not to mention gorgeous. Same M.O., killed in her own bed like the other four? About midnight?”

  He nodded.

  “Mom’s neighbors are really on edge since the third serial murder. It was in the Colony, you know, in Malibu, and a lot of people knew the murdered girl, Constance Morrissey. She was always nice, Mom said, probably sleeping with Theodore Markham, the influential producer who was renting her his house, not that anyone cared. And then that fourth actress was murdered in North Hollywood. My parents had never worked with her, didn’t know her.”

  Savich nodded. “We don’t have much of anything on the four murders in L.A., but in Las Vegas—I think we’ve caught ourselves a break. I spoke to Police Chief Moody, who knew all about the Serial and was happy to hand it off to the FBI. There are anomalies in the murder Saturday night.”

  She was sitting so far forward in her chair, Savich was afraid she might tip over onto his desk.

  “The Serial’s M.O. is cutting the alarm wires, then coming in through the back door. But in this case, however, a glass cutter was used to cut a circle out of a window in the second bedroom to open the lock. Chief Moody tells me he’s convinced there was a burglar in the victim’s house that night as well as the Serial. The burglar saw the Serial or the murder scene and ran for his life. He threw himself back through the window to escape, left big jagged shards of glass outside and he cut himself. Forensics found blood drops leading away from the house. The shape of the blood splatter showed the wounded man was moving fast, probably running all out.

  “Believe it or not, the same man ended up in the Valley ER early Sunday morning to get his hand stitched. He used a phony name and address, paid cash. We have him on video at the hospital. He was wearing a hoodie, so the cameras didn’t get enough of his face to identify, but the blood means DNA for us. If he’s in CODIS, we’ll have a name right away. The chief put a rush on it.”

  “Going to a local ER wasn’t especially bright,” Cam said. “If he’d been thinking straight, he’d have wrapped it up and driven a hundred miles to another town.”

  “Agreed. A sketch artist is working with the doctor who stitched him up. We should be hearing soon from Agent Poker in Las Vegas.”

  Her eyes lit up. “His name is Agent Poker? Is that a joke?”

  Savich grinned. “Special Agent Aaron Poker requested Las Vegas, said he knew he’d fit right in, and evidently he does. I’m thinking it’s his own little joke. He’s been there four years now, and has a good close record. I spoke to Aaron this morning, and needless to say, he’s pumped, and all over this.”

  Cam said, “So another criminal—a burglar—might identify the Serial. Now there’s irony for you.”

  “If he pans out, and talks, I�
��ll personally offer to clean his slate, buy him a beer and a pizza.

  “You’ll have a lot of politics to untangle in L.A.” Savich looked at MAX’s screen. “The first murder was February 26th a twenty-four-year-old actress, Davina Morgan, from Lubbock, Texas. That was in Van Nuys, LAPD jurisdiction. The second was April 2nd, in San Dimas, which is a sheriff’s jurisdiction. Her name was Melodie Anders, twenty-six, from San Diego. Constance Morrissey, your parents’ neighbor, was murdered May 3rd in Malibu, again a local sheriff’s jurisdiction. The fourth victim was Heather Burnside, twenty-eight, from Atlanta, Georgia. She was killed in North Hollywood, LAPD, June 2nd. For whatever reason, the Serial then traveled from there to Las Vegas in order to murder Molly Harbinger this past Saturday.

  “Cam, I told you one of the reasons we selected you is because of your L.A. connections. You were born and grew up in Malibu, and as you know, Connie Morrissey’s murder happened in the Colony, in Malibu, not far from your parents’ house. Your folks are actors. They’re still active, aren’t they?”

  “Oh yes. I guess you could say acting is their life. They play stock characters now, mostly. Movies, TV, anything they can get. They enjoy working as much as Michael Caine, Dad told me, only for a lot less money.” She gave him a fat smile, showing nice white teeth and a dimple in her left cheek. “I do know the alligators in this particular swamp and they’re a special breed. Their brains, well, they don’t work quite like ours do.”

  “You mean normal, like cops?”

  She laughed. “My folks think an alien deposited me in the hospital nursery, since I’ve never had any interest in the business. Thank you for asking for me, Agent Savich— Dillon.”

  He smiled at her. “Try to remember that only bad guys call me Agent Savich.”

  “When you have them in a half nelson, right?”

  “Sometimes. With the murder in Las Vegas, we have five dead movie stars, all young women, in four different jurisdictions. The Serial’s M.O. is always the same. He cuts the alarm wires, comes in through the back door, cuts their throats during the night when they’re in bed, asleep. There’s never been any signs of a struggle. Then he’s gone. Clean, fast, silent. Now, something that’s been kept out of the news: he takes their tablets or laptops and their cell phones.”

  Cam sat forward. “Any idea why? You think he’s afraid there’s something to connect them to him?”

  “We don’t know yet, but we know they’re important to him. This past Saturday night in Las Vegas, not even the burglar surprising the Serial was enough to rattle him. Even when he couldn’t catch the burglar, he didn’t panic. He went back and took the victim’s Toshiba and her cell phone that she’d left charging on her night table. Very cool, very together.

  “Molly Harbinger had a boyfriend, name’s Tommy Krug, a car salesman. Agent Poker said the guy wouldn’t stop crying, admitted he was there until sometime after midnight. A buddy picked him up on a motorcycle. The buddy is a blackjack dealer at the Mirage casino, verifies Tommy’s alibi. The two of them went to Tommy’s place and played cards.”

  Savich gave her Agent Poker’s email and cell phone. “If you have questions, or as Aaron gets more information, he’ll call you or you’ll call him.

  “But you’re not going to Las Vegas, Cam, you’re going to the Lost Hills Sheriff’s Station in Calabasas, to work with a Detective Daniel Montoya. He’s the lead on Connie Morrissey’s murder. He was also the first to realize we had a Serial. He’s been working the case, and he’ll be the one to brief you.”

  “Why won’t I be working with the LAPD? The last murder was in North Hollywood and they have more resources. Why a sheriff’s detective?”

  “First let me tell you about Montoya. He’s thirty-one years old, a year out of Army Intelligence, and fairly new to the job. He was bright enough and experienced enough to get promoted into a newly retired detective’s slot. He’s got the background for it.

  “As I told you, he was the first to figure out we were dealing with a Serial and alerted all the law enforcement agencies in the L.A. area. It took Montoya and three murders to get that far, even though the first two victims were both young actresses who had their throats slashed and their computers and cell phones taken. And why is that? I wonder.” He arched an eyebrow at her.

  Hallelujah, Cam knew something about that. “So many young people in L.A. are would-be actresses. On the Hollywood food chain, the victims were still guppies. They were all hoping to luck into that one glowing role that would put them on the red carpet, but hardly any of them ever walk it. My parents told me these women were a very long way from being household names. So, to the detectives, at the beginning at least, they’d simply be individual cases.”

  Score one for Wittier. “So that’s one question you’ve answered. Another you’ll have to address is how and why the Serial picked them.

  “We don’t want you staying at your parents’ house while you’re on the job, it could get complicated. You’ll be staying at the Pinkerton Inn in Malibu. As you know, the Calabasas sheriff’s station handles Malibu. The sheriff—”

  “—Dreyfus Murray. I know him, Dillon. My mom dated him before she met my dad. Way back in the day.”

  And with those few words, she knew she’d proved her value to him. Of course, she would bet her next paycheck he already knew all about Dreyfus Murray.

  “That should assure your cooperation with that office, unless your mother broke his heart and he hasn’t gotten over it.”

  “Nah, he’s been married twenty years. Mom said they’re good friends, wife, too.”

  “Mr. Maitland spoke to the LAPD chief of police Martin Crowder. They’ve known each other a very long time, he told me, and he could speak frankly.” He paused, raised a brow.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know him.”

  “That’s okay. Chief Crowder is a bit peeved that his people won’t be running the case, but he’s resigned it to. He informed Mr. Maitland that the LAPD would have tagged the Serial by now if two of the murders hadn’t happened in outlying sheriffs’ districts. David Elman, head of their Homicide Special Section, had already spoken to the sheriffs’ people. Mr. Maitland asked him to arrange a meeting at LAPD headquarters tomorrow with all the sheriffs’ detectives and LAPD detectives who’ve been working the case, get everyone together, face-to-face, with Montoya. Make it perfectly clear you’re in charge, Cam, that it’s you who will decide what directions to take them.

  “I’ll download all the separate murder books to your iPad so you can review them on your flight to L.A. this afternoon—autopsy reports, crime scene reports, bios of all the detectives working the cases.

  “You’ll have to start by not shooting any of them at the meeting tomorrow. I doubt the sheriff’s department detectives will give you any trouble, but you never know. Sherlock told me you deal well with male egos at the gym.”

  An eyebrow went up. “Me? I marvel at her skill at that, Dillon. There’s never any bloodshed.”

  Since he did as well, he couldn’t disagree.

  4

  * * *

  Savich watched Cam Wittier stroll through his unit, taking her time because there were eight agents to touch base with, and, of course, there was Shirley the unit secretary. Cam had her smiling and talking—about her health, her family’s health, about all her pets’ health. That was smart. Any agent with a brain knew the unit secretaries ran the FBI universe. Shirley was grinning from ear to ear when she handed Cam her airline tickets and itinerary.

  He’d picked the right agent to work with the local cops in L.A. It wouldn’t be easy with all those territorial egos vibrating when a federale walked through the door. There was something about Special Agent Cam Wittier, something shining and vital. Energy seemed to pulse in the air around her. She could draw people in like a magnet, maybe even some of those suspicious L.A. cops who would think she was there to bigfoot them. Yes, he’d picked right. If an outsider had a chance of navigating the alligator-infested waters of L.A. without undue carnage, i
t was Wittier.

  Sherlock appeared in his doorway. “She’ll knock ’em dead, Dillon. The way she reads people, not to mention that brain of hers—it’s all good. I’ve come to haul you off to lunch. I’m thinking maybe some Chinese—”

  His cell belted out Jessie J’s Bang Bang.

  He answered and heard a whispery voice, thin as old parchment. “Dillon?”

  “Venus? Is that you? What’s wrong?”

  “Yes, Dillon, it’s Venus. I daren’t speak louder. Someone might hear me, the wrong someone.”

  “Venus, I can hear you fine. What’s going on? What’s wrong?”

  “Dillon, someone’s trying to kill me.” Dillon stared at his cell. Kill Venus Rasmussen? Was she losing it? No, not Venus. At eighty-six she still had her shark brain, still ran Rasmussen Industries with an iron fist. He’d spoken to her a couple of weeks before, and she’d been fine.

  “Talk to me, Venus.”

  Her voice sounded a bit stronger now, but still muffled. Was she hiding in a closet, a handkerchief over the phone, so no one would hear her? “Last night we were celebrating Alexander’s acquisition of some quite-valuable Japanese watercolors from the Fukami collection for the Smithsonian. Well, of course I did some groundwork for him, helped him convince Mrs. Fukami to donate the watercolors, but he pulled it all together, well, mostly. We had champagne after dinner and I only drank enough for two toasts. An hour later, after I was in bed, I began shaking, my stomach cramping, and I threw up. Veronica—you know Veronica, my companion—she called my doctor and he was there in fifteen minutes. He said it was an old lady’s stomach, sensitive to food I’m not used to. That’s what he said the first time too.” She snorted. “Dillon, the thing is, the first time wasn’t bad, but then it happened again a second time, and then this third time. And I keep getting this ‘old lady’s stomach’ tripe from him. Dillon, I know it wasn’t because I’m a sensitive old lady. This time it was really bad, much worse than before. I felt ill for three hours. I told Dr. Filbert I wasn’t allergic to anything—he already knows that, of course—that it had to be something else. I reminded him I’m eighty-six years old and after all these years I know my body. This wasn’t old lady’s stomach; this is something else entirely. I told him I believed I was being poisoned. He didn’t laugh, smart man, even said I could go to the hospital and be tested, but I wasn’t about to do that. You know what the media would do if they got hold of a tidbit like that.”