“That’s possible, I suppose. Thank God the deputy stayed here, though, because between the money these two had on them and the car, these guys were like a hundred-thousand-dollar prize waiting to be claimed.”

“Not an easy car to unload, though,” Alex said, and frowned. He walked nearer to the Bora. “A little conspicuous for arranging murder, too, don’t you think? If they had pulled up in this thing in the Lakewood neighborhood where we found Adrianos, I think someone would have noticed it.”

“Sure, but you know these guys have more than one car. In fact, this one was in the shop until today.”

Alex stopped walking. “What?”

“No, wait, it’s after midnight isn’t it? Until yesterday morning-Wednesday.”

Alex frowned-something wasn’t right. “You’re sure he just got it back?”

“Yes-hang on a minute.” Marquez opened the file folder he had in his hand. “The driver is the registered owner of the vehicle. Morgan Addison.” He flipped through some department forms and came to a flat evidence envelope. He pulled out a yellow carbonless form and handed it to Alex.

The form was a receipt made out to Morgan Addison from Blackstone European Auto Repair and Restoration in Santa Monica, time-stamped at nine-fifteen on May 21. It appeared to be a routine maintenance check, but combined with the bill for washing and detailing the car, the total cost was more than Alex paid for a year of visits to a mechanic. “How many miles driven since it was in the shop?”

Marquez consulted his notes. “One hundred forty-six.”

“Then we’ll want to see what’s within that range and try to find out if anyone in those areas remembers seeing a red Bora. Maybe we’ll be able to fill in the gap between their victims-we’ve skipped from number six to number three.”

Enrique put a hand on his shoulder. “I feel for you, man. I’m glad they didn’t decide to go out in a hail of bullets or holding hostages, but this is lousy.”

“Yes.”

“And nothing but shitwork from now on, tying up all the loose ends. Just isn’t as rewarding as catching somebody.”

“I’m not so sure there’s no one left to catch.”

Marquez raised his brows.

“Why does someone who’s planning to kill himself take his car into the shop?” Alex asked, handing the receipt back to him.

“Wants to make sure he can get to the scenic location in style. You know how suicides are about staging things. Probably why he got it washed.”

“Yes, but that receipt isn’t for washing and repairs. He paid for oil and fluids, wiper blades, things like that.”

Marquez studied it again and said, “Okay, so on Tuesday, he didn’t know he was going to kill himself. On Tuesday, the brilliant Detective Brandon had not yet been visited by the tooth fairy at a press conference, and so he wasn’t naming Mr. Frederick Whitfield IV as one of the murderers yet.”

“Tooth fairy, huh? Well, maybe you’re right about the change in outlook. But it bothers me. He spent his last day or so driving the Bora over a hundred miles, only to take it up to a spot on the road this close to Malibu?”

“Like you said, maybe he had to leave a body somewhere.”

“And hauled it in this sports car?” Alex asked.

“So he used another vehicle for that, but this was going to be the one they made the exit in.”

“Maybe-but why this spot?”

“It’s pretty up here.”

“You’ve driven Mulholland. Is this the most scenic spot? Even at night, there are places with amazing views of city lights. This is a shallow turnout with no real view, even in daylight.”

Marquez gave him a scathing look of disbelief. “You think someone else is involved because these guys picked a lousy view?”

“No, it’s just-I don’t know, it feels wrong. If they’re from Malibu, why come here the long way?”

“What do you mean, the long way?”

“Look at the side of the road they’re on. They’re heading toward the ocean-toward Malibu. So where did they come from?”

“Maybe they headed up here, saw this turnout, and did a U-turn,” Marquez said.

Alex conceded that this might be true. “Any other tire prints?”

“Dozens of them. Nothing we can use.”

Alex couldn’t shake the feeling that something about this scene was wrong, though. “So talk to me about what else you’ve discovered.”

“Looks like they had a suicide pact. They’re apparently old friends-lived in Malibu, went to the same private school. We found them so late this evening, we weren’t able to learn a lot, but we got that much from a couple of people who knew them-one neighbor and a deputy that had dealings with them when they were juvenile delinquents.”

“So they have juvenile records?”

“Rumor has it they do. We’ll see what the courts will let us learn. Not in trouble much as adults. We’re just getting started on all of that.”

“Not complaining. You’ve already covered a lot of ground.”

“Morgan Addison was twenty-four years old last February. He owns a house on the beach in Malibu. Lives alone. Neighbor told us that Mr. Addison came into a trust fund when he turned twenty-one and spent most of his time surfing and polishing the Maserati, hanging out with friends, and so on. No employment ever. Parents live in the Palisades, but apparently they’re estranged from their son-that’s another story. Anyway, one of their neighbors said they’re on a cruise. Couldn’t remember where. We’re trying to get in touch with them, but that’s as far as we’ve gotten. The other one-”

“Wait, before we talk about the passenger, tell me a couple of other things about Morgan Addison. You said a deputy told you there had been trouble before now?”

“Speeding tickets in the Maserati, that’s all. But the guy from the Malibu Station who rode up here with me has worked there about twelve years, and he says the kid was a lifetime asshole and good riddance. Said that he was dumped in that private reform school up here-what’s it called?”

Alex suddenly felt a cold knot form in his stomach. “Sedgewick.”

“Yes, that’s the one. Guess Addison used to deal dope at the local high school before he was old enough to be in high school himself. Got caught at it twice, but they could never make the charges stick-parents bailed him out of every jam he ever got himself into. Then one day, he beat the crap out of his sister-broke her arm, knocked out a couple of teeth-’cause she borrowed his bike without asking. Mumsy and Daddy had apparently had enough at that point and sent him to Sedgewick. He boarded there and never went back home after that.”

Alex realized that Enrique and his partner must have been really pushing to learn this much so quickly. “Thanks, Enrique. Like I said, I’m glad you’re the one who caught this one.”

“Yeah, well, between you and me, I’m glad your partner isn’t here with you.”

Alex caught his look but decided to avoid the topic of Ciara. “Sorry I kept you waiting,” he said. “Guess I’d better not hold up everyone else any longer.”

He walked around to the passenger side of the car, bracing himself, as he found he must always do in suicide by gunshot cases. There had been enough of these over his years in homicide investigation to no longer make it as difficult as it had once been, and now only a case involving a man of about his father’s age would disturb him to any great degree.

He knew that he would always think of his father in these cases, would always recall finding him. But he had learned to concentrate on the cases of new victims by telling himself that their families deserved to have him do his job-without allowing his personal emotional reactions to interfere with it.

“A shame, with all they had going for them,” he heard Marquez say.

“A damned shame,” he agreed.

He sat on his haunches to lower himself to eye level with the occupants of the car. This was the less messy side-entrance wound side. Frederick Whitfield IV’s lifeless hand lay in his lap, his pale manicured fingers holding a gun.