Morbid and Steem danced around Marguerite, executing martial feints that Scylla had used innumerable times on Commandos of Doom. It not only kept the target off balance, it blocked her escape.

But where some girls would have begged and cried, this one lunged. She shot out the heel of her hand and connected with a cracking sound, square on Scylla's nose.

He fell back with a howl of agony and held his face with both hands. He saw the girl turn to run, dodging the others as if she were weaving through defenders for a layup in a playground basketball game.

Steem reached out with a long arm, grabbed the girl's hair, and yanked her right off her feet.

Then he let go of her and stepped back. This wasn't his turn.

Scylla thought he knew what to do now. He went straight for the girl, visualizing throwing her to the ground and choking her with a headlock-but she was much faster than he was.

She spun around, chopped at him in some kind of judo move, then followed the chop with a kick to his groin. He saw the kick coming and deflected it so that it connected with his thigh, but it still hurt like hell. Another hard blow landed on his forearm. Had she cracked a bone?

He dodged several more of her blows, and when she connected, he didn't go down. The pain was actually feeding him now, real pain, a real life-and-death game. It stoked his fury as he danced around her. Morbid and Steem were taunting her, crowding her, waving their arms.

"I'll remember you," she shouted at them, a fierce warrior and opponent. "You. You. And especially you, asshole!"

As Scylla watched, Marguerite spun and missed. He saw his chance and chopped the back of her neck with the side of his hand. Then he kicked her legs out from under her.

She was down, crying now, "Why… why?" But then she bounced right up again.

She went at Scylla and smashed a foot into his throat. He went down-and the girl saw a hole to run through, to get away from them.

Steem called to Morbid, "She's too good for him." Then he started to laugh. She was getting away, though. So he pulled a gun from his waistband. He shot her in the chest. That knocked her straight back, and she fell over Scylla.

She lay there, and Steem stood over her.

"You were great," he said. Then he shot her in the face. Twice to be sure.

Morbid stepped up beside him over the dead girl. "That was kind of cool. She was great."

Chapter 38

JASON PILSER-Scylla-wanted to lift his chin and howl. The pain started at his nose, radiated out and along every nerve in his body, pounded in his left thigh and right forearm, which was probably broken. If pain could be seen, he would have been blazing like a fucking light show.

But there was justice too. The bitch was dead. Now he was in charge of staging the body.

He taped the free end of an electric cord to her hand and positioned it over her head; the other end, he tightly knotted around her neck, so it looked as though she had hanged herself.

Gallows humor-and the original plan before Steem had had to shoot her.

If he hadn't been in such agony, it would actually have been pretty damn funny. He took off the bitch's athletic shoes and threw them into the van. His trophy. The shoes were so big, he could probably wear them himself. That would be a hell of a thing, wouldn't it?

He was about to say so as he looked up at Morbid and Steem. Objectively, they were savages. He was sure they killed for the same reason he had. For the unparalleled thrill. It was like a drug. And they were smart enough, disciplined enough, to pull it off in populated areas, like here.

Shit. He'd just killed a woman with traffic racing by on the other side of a fence.

Steemcleena finally spoke. "Scylla. That was a very poor showing, man."

Jason didn't like the expression on Steem's face. Getting injured had cost him points. Hell, she had knocked him down. Jason said, "You're kidding, right? She's some kind of judo expert."

"You guys, get into the van," Steemcleena said. "Scylla, you'll get another shot at this. Maybe next time you'll even win."

Chapter 39

DEL RIO AND CRUZ left the fleet Mercedes with the valet at the Beverly Hills Hotel and headed through the lobby to the Polo Lounge. The maitre d' said that Ms. Rollins was on the patio. Cruz rolled up his jacket sleeves and followed Del Rio out into the bright sunshine.

Cruz thought that Sherry Rollins looked about thirty, although it was getting harder to tell women's ages in this town. She was wearing a floppy hat and a skinny black dress with white detailing; she looked like a young executive at one of the studios.

Both men shook hands with her, said their names, and the blond-haired woman moved her dog from a chair and invited them to sit down.

"Are you hungry?" she asked. "The lobster salad is quite good."

"Something to drink, maybe," Del Rio said.

The waitress trotted over and took an order of beer for Del Rio, tea for Cruz. Then Cruz took the lead.

"Ms. Rollins."

"Sherry," she said.

"Sherry. We're investigating the death of Shelby Cushman. I'm sure you've heard about it."

"A break-in, wasn't it? A burglar broke into the house and shot her."

"Actually, that's not right," Del Rio said. "All the indications are that Shelby Cushman was murdered with premeditation. Nothing was taken. Not a thing."

"That's insane," said the woman. "I'm sure I heard it was a robbery. Why else would someone kill Shelby?"

"How well did you know her?" Cruz asked.

"I've known her a few years," she said. "I wouldn't say I was a close friend."

"But she used to work for you, didn't she? She was one of your escorts."

Sherry Rollins didn't miss a beat. "Not since she got married. Last few months, she was working for someone else. That's what I heard, anyway. I'm sorry-this is very upsetting."

"It would really help if you'd tell us all about it," said Cruz. "And don't leave anything out. Try to hold in your grief."

"I don't know any more than what I've told you."

"You do, Sherry," said Del Rio, his voice all business, no kidding around now. "You know a lot more. And I'll tell you what. Help us out here, and we won't go to the police. We won't tell them why we think you're a suspect in Shelby Cushman's murder."

"Suspect? That is absurd. Why would I want to kill Shelby?"

"I don't know why, but the police might like to question you about that-and any number of other things."

The woman in the hat gave him an icy look, but he had her, and he knew it.

Sometimes Del Rio really liked his job.

So far, he was giving this day five stars.

Chapter 40

AT JUST AFTER FOUR, the sun was a dull white disk glowing in a pewter gray sky. The reservoir was covered with algae, and the trees were large humps, massed like woolly mammoths, making the whole place seem prehistoric.

If you squinted, you couldn't see the city of Los Angeles at all. You could pretend the rush of traffic on Rowena was just a bitter wind.

Justine Smith's heels sank into the ground as she walked down the slope toward the cordon of crime scene tape that stretched from tree to tree, a bright yellow ring in the smog and the gloom.

Lieutenant Nora Cronin lifted the tape for Justine, but instead of making a snarky remark, she just said hi. Something had changed, and Justine had an idea what it might be. Cronin now felt so desperate about the case, she would accept any help.

Even from Private. Even from Justine.

"Chief Fescoe has been looking for you," Cronin said. "He's here."

Justine nodded, then continued on toward the scrum of cops huddled around the body. At six-foot-three, Mickey Fescoe stood a bit above the others. It was rare to see the chief of police at a crime scene, but she guessed that Fescoe too was feeling the heat.