“No,” Kit said. “I don’t think anyone has cared much about him for some time.”

“I know how you feel,” Chase said in a low voice to the dog.

“Chase!” a man’s voice called frantically. They looked up to see Alex Brandon standing near his car, obviously searching for his nephew.

“Sounds to me as if someone cares after all,” Kit said. “You’d better let him know where you are. See you around.”

“Wait! What about Rusty?”

“Fight for him,” Kit recommended, “or forget you met him.”

He hurried away from Chase and the dog, back to the Jeep. If the boy left the dog here, he would do what he could for it.

“I’m here, Uncle Alex!” Chase called.

Alex all but ran to where he was. “Jesus Christ, you scared the hell out of me!”

“I needed to take a leak. I told the…”

“Whose dog is that?”

There was an uneasy silence, then Chase said, “His name is Rusty. He likes me.”

Alex was just ready to leave the scene, when Lieutenant Hogan came in to tell him that Frederick Whitfield IV had been found dead in a Maserati off Mulholland Highway-Whitfield and another young male, Morgan Addison, apparently had a suicide pact. “You realize what this means?” Hogan had said. “If we can tie these two to the crime scenes, we’ve seen the end of this business. And not a moment too soon, if you ask me. I know it’s late, but you’d better head out there.”

Unlike Hogan, Alex hadn’t felt excited. If Frederick Whitfield IV had committed suicide, all the answers died with him.

What brought you to this? Why would you-a rich, good-looking young man with the resources to do almost anything-turn into a killer, and then kill yourself? How is it that your family never noticed what you were up to?

The answers to a hundred questions would be nothing but guesswork from now on. It was a damned waste all the way around.

So he had gone outside in a foul mood, not-as Hogan suspected-because he now had to drive another forty or fifty miles to a new crime scene, but because this was not the way he wanted this one to end. And he wondered if Frederick Whitfield III would give a damn, over in France or wherever the hell he was, when he learned that his son had shot himself.

He talked Hogan out of calling Ciara back, saying that he’d call her himself if needed, but this way one of them would get some sleep. He agreed that Hamilton should be notified as soon as possible. He was debating whether to take Chase home to Malibu or back to his own house, when he saw that Chase was no longer in the car.

He felt panic, anger, and guilt for leaving Chase alone so long. And let his temper get the best of him. Chase was looking up at him now with a mixture of defiance and uncertainty. He was petting one of the most pathetic examples of a Labrador Alex had ever seen. The dog’s fur reeked of smells Alex didn’t really want to identify. Chase had to be starved for company if he’d befriended this thing.

The thought suddenly reminded Alex of another rich kid whose parents had left him behind. “I can see that he likes you,” Alex said. “And I’m sorry-I didn’t mean to snap at you. I’ve just had a rough night, that’s all. And it’s not over, so we need to get going.”

“We’re going to another case?”

“Let me restate that. I need to go to another crime scene. You need to decide if you’d rather go back to my house or Malibu tonight.”

“What about Rusty?”

Alex opened his mouth to say, “Leave him,” but shut it without uttering a word. The dog was watching him, too, now. He’d have to be diplomatic if he was going to talk Chase out of this. He’d start with the blame going elsewhere. “Will your folks let you keep a dog?”

Chase shook his head. Still, Alex noted, there was hope in his eyes. He couldn’t bring himself to crush it. “You want me to keep your dog at my house, is that it?”

Chase looked down at the dog, who briefly wagged his tail, then seemed to pick up on his new friend’s mood. In a voice Alex could barely hear, Chase said, “It doesn’t sound fair to you after all, I guess.”

I’ve lost my mind, Alex thought, but said, “Just promise me that the minute we get home, you’ll bathe the dog. Then you’ll bathe yourself and put your clothes in the wash…”

How much of this Chase heard, he wasn’t sure, because he was shouting with glee and the dog was barking. Chase jumped up and hugged Alex before Alex guessed what he was going to do. “You’re welcome, but now you’re going to pay my dry cleaning bill, too. And probably for a car wash. God almighty, that dog stinks. You sure that damn thing is alive? Jesus, he must have rolled in garbage…”

But Chase was hugging the dog now and waving to someone. Alex turned to see a man driving off in a Jeep.

“Who was that?” he asked.

“Some reporter. Rusty liked him.” He paused, then added, “He gave me his water and beef jerky, so that I could give them to Rusty.”

“I’ll have to thank him someday,” Alex said under his breath.

36

Mulholland Highway

Santa Monica Mountains

Thursday, May 22, 12:24 A.M.

The Bora was bright red beneath the lights the crime lab had set up, a low, sleek streak of color in dark surroundings. If you ignored the two dead men, Alex thought, and the dark brown stains on the inside of the driver’s side window and elsewhere in the interior, you couldn’t help but appreciate it as a thing of beauty.

“Less than six hundred of them ever made,” Enrique Marquez said. “I couldn’t let them just haul it off on a standard tow truck. The flatbed should be here before too long.”

Alex had been in touch with Marquez through the task force, but this was the first scene they had worked together since Adrianos’s body was found. Recalling Ciara’s insults to the man, Alex was relieved she wasn’t here. He wouldn’t break any confidences about her sister, but he could still mend some fences.

“I’m with you,” he said. “Besides, we’ll want to go over every inch of it anyway.”

“You aren’t thinking of dismantling it?” Marquez asked in horror.

Alex smiled. “I doubt that will be necessary.”

“I hope not.”

“Any idea how long they’ve been up here?”

“The Malibu Station says they patrolled past here at about six o’clock and would have noticed it then-I’ve got to believe that’s true, because at six it wasn’t dark yet, I’m damned if I believe one of our guys could go past a red Bora in broad daylight without seeing it.”

“So who did see it first?”

“Malibu Station deputy taking that same routine ride between here and Kanan-Dume. He found them at about ten-forty-five. So we’re looking at sometime between six and ten-forty-five. Coroner thinks-unofficially-they’ve only been up here two to three hours. When you’re done looking them over, he’ll take them out of the car and be able to tell you more. It’s a little cramped trying to work in there now. But we’ve had a chance to take some photos, do a little fingerprint work, make some calls. My partner has been running his ass off down in Malibu and the Palisades, and I learned a few things from a deputy who has worked here for a while.”

“I’m glad you caught this case, Enrique. Anyone else might not have made the connection to Whitfield so quickly.”

“Your buddy from Channel Three beat you up here,” Marquez said. “I wish I knew who was tipping her off to everything.”

“You and me both. You’ve held her at bay?”

“You know I did.” He grinned. “Ontora and I have had a few run-ins. I think she was disappointed that I was here. Wouldn’t let them close enough for a shot, and at this turnout there are too many trees to let them get anything by helicopter. I loved it.”

“The deputy radioed it in and waited here, right? Maybe Ontora heard it on a scanner. Same thing just happened to us in Del Aire.”