Private

"You're a witch," I said, pulling her robe down from her shoulders. I hoisted her into my arms so that her legs wrapped around my waist, and I pressed her back against the refrigerator door. She squealed at the touch of the cold metal.

Colleen had once told me a joke: "What's Irish foreplay?"

I gave her the punch line now. "Brace yourself, darlin'."

She sucked in her breath, the two of us panting as the limited contents of the refrigerator rattled and danced to our beat.

"Sorry I made you late," she said when we were done. Her sweet, toothy grin said she wasn't sorry at all.

I smacked her bottom. "As long as I didn't make you late."

I left her standing under a hot shower, rosy cheeked and humming an old rock song she loved, "Come on, Eileen."

I set her burglar alarm, locked the door behind me, and ran down the stairs. Getting seven kinds of lightning knocked out of me hadn't felt too bad, actually. But now I needed to work, work, work.

Chapter 11

I STOPPED AT police headquarters on my way to Private. So far, there were no charges against Andy Cushman. I was already behind schedule, so I hurried to the office.

The "war room" at Private is octagonal in shape and features a round ink-black lacquered table, the only item there that once belonged to my father and the old Private. Padded swivel chairs are clustered around the table and jumbo flat-screens are mounted wall to wall.

Everyone was waiting for me when I walked in twenty minutes late. I was met with a stu

"Sorry about Shelby," said Del Rio. "She was such a sweetheart. I just can't fucking believe it, Jack. None of us can."

Condolences were echoed by the others at the table as Colleen Molloy came in with a Red Bull for me and my call sheet. I'm not sure what it says about me, but apart from Andy, the people I cared about most in the world were all there. They included half a dozen of my investigators, plus our criminalist, Sci, and a fiftyish computer genius, Maureen Roth, whom everybody called Mo-bot.

"Need me for anything else?" Colleen asked. She'd been my assistant for two years, which was how we met, and then it got more complicated than that, a lot more complicated.

"No, thanks, Molloy. I'm good."

I sca

I booted up my laptop and punched in the photos I'd taken of the Cushman crime scene. They filled the screens wrapping around the conference room. "I took these last night."

There were extreme close-ups of the splintered door frame, the trashed bedroom, Shelby's wounds, and even a shot of Andy sobbing into his bloody hands that was worthy of a newspaper front page.

"I've got to tell you all something," I said to the group. "Shelby and I were once close. This was before she and Andy met. So, whatever you hear out there, Shelby was my friend, a good one."

The room stayed very somber and silent. Justine stared at me and through me. I knew she was trying to fit Shelby into the time sequence of my checkered past. She had good reason to.

"Take a look at these photos," I went on. "I've studied the images myself, but I'm not seeing much but the obvious so far."

Justine spoke up. "I assume not, but was anything taken from the house?"

"Only Shelby's life."

"Were either of them dealing?" Del Rio asked. "Sorry, Jack. The questions have to be asked. You know that."

I told him no. The Cushmans didn't use drugs and they certainly didn't sell. I knew that Andy made enough money as a hedge fund manager to keep him and Shelby very comfortable. I was certain of that much. Andy ran some of my money, and his investing had helped me open offices all around the world, including New York and, most recently, our shop in San Diego.

"Okay, assuming Shelby's jewelry is real, the room was trashed for effect," Justine said. "The shot to the breasts would appear to be the mark of a sexual sadist. The other shot says 'execution.' So why was Shelby a target?"

"Maybe the whole point was to set Andy up as the killer," Emilio Cruz said.

I nodded. "If that's what the killer was trying to do, it worked."

I told the group what Chief Fescoe had told me. The LAPD's working theory was that Shelby's death was a crime of passion, that Andy shot her and then called me as a cover story-a pretty good one, I had to admit.

"You're sure he didn't do it?" Emilio asked.

"I'm sure. I know some of you have no sympathy for Andy, but he was in love with Shelby. And now he's our client. LAPD says there's no match to the slugs the ME removed from Shelby's body, and before the killer left the premises he polished the surfaces to a high shine."

I asked Sci to reach out to the LAPD crime lab and report back on anything he could get out of them. I told Cruz to take another investigator with him to the Cushman house, canvass the neighbors, see if anything had been overlooked by the police. We were a lot better than they were, and we didn't have to follow their procedures and rules. Plus, I could put more people on the case.

I turned to Rick Del Rio, my blood brother. After he came back from Afghanistan, Rick had made some bad decisions. He paid for them with four years at Chino-which made him very valuable to Private. While doing his stretch, Del Rio had become a student of criminal law, first to help himself, but then he became a jailhouse lawyer, made friends in low places.

"Tap your sources," I said. "I'm pretty sure the shooter knew the Cushmans' habits. For one thing, he kicked in the door knowing that Shelby never set the alarm. He probably knew when Andy was due home too. And he wiped that place clean.

"As of right now, finding Shelby Cushman's killer is our most important case," I said. "Everyone's on it. That's all I've got at the moment."

I stood up and closed the lid on my laptop.

"Hang on, Jack," Justine said. "I've got news on Schoolgirl."

Chapter 12

JUSTINE KNOWS ME better than anyone, including Del Rio and even my brother. She and I lived together for two years, and after we broke up, we stayed close. Confidants, best friends. I've told Justine about my daily hate calls. She's the only one who knows. You're dead, Jack.

Now she reached under her chair, pulled out a blue knapsack, and put it on the conference table.

I asked, "Is that Co

Justine nodded and said, "I'm handing it over to LAPD as soon as we're done with it here. We can do more with it than they can. We don't know if the killer made a mistake or if he's baiting us."

Then she described the young victim and the crime scene in excruciating detail, getting more worked up with every word. She stopped speaking as her throat tightened. She shook her head and swallowed hard, apologized before going on.

But on she went.

It killed me to see how much this case hurt her, and for that reason alone, I wanted to nail the killer almost as badly as she did. We all did.

"Jack, to repeat, whoever this psycho-killer is, he's not the first to use 'different means,' but it's rare. Most killers of this type have a pattern and stick with it. The pattern describes the killer's mood and maybe their personality too. These murders are all different. That's wacked out, and it's something I haven't seen before.

"Shooting someone is remote. Setting fire is a sexual crime. Strangling is personal. We've got those three methods and more.

"I don't see this killer evolving, and I still can't picture him. He doesn't fit any profile I know. The only good news," she continued, "is that Cruz found this sad little bag."