Spencer scanned the sign-in. Techs hadn’t made it yet; neither had the coroner’s office.

“Going up,” he said, then motioned toward the bench and the two men. “Keep your eyes on our friends there. We’ll be back to question them.”

The kid nodded. “Will do.”

They made their way to the second-floor apartment. Another officer stood outside the door. Guy named Logan. Spent a lot of time at Shannon’s.

Spencer nodded at him as they passed. He looked hungover. No surprises there.

Just beyond the apartment, Tony handed Spencer the open jar of Vicks. Spencer smeared some under his nose and handed it back.

They stepped into the apartment. The smell rushed over Spencer in a stomach-churning wave. He forced himself to breathe deeply through his nose and counted to ten, then twenty. Between the Vicks and his fatiguing olfactory glands, the smell became tolerable.

The front room appeared undisturbed. Elegantly appointed with a combination of new and antique pieces, richly patterned art and stunning floral arrangements.

“Classy,” Tony said, moving his gaze over the room. “Those gay boys got the gift, you know?”

Spencer angled him a glance. “They were interior designers, Pasta Man. What did you expect?”

“Ever see that show? Queer Eye for the Straight Guy?” Spencer indicated he hadn’t. “They take a regular guy like me and transform him into a GQ dude. It’s something.”

“A guy like you?”

The older man arched his eyebrows, indignant. “You don’t think they could spiff me up?”

“I think they’d take one look at you and kill themselves.”

Before his partner could comment, the techs arrived. “Hey,” Tony called. “You guys ever see that Queer Eye show?”

“Sure,” Frank, the photographer, answered. “Hasn’t everybody?”

“Junior here says they’d take one look at me and kill themselves. Think that’s true?”

“Pretty much,” one of the other guys answered, smirking. “If I was your wife, I’d kill myself.”

“We’re burning daylight, boys,” Spencer interrupted. “Do you mind?”

They all turned their attention to the scene, a few of them grumbling. Not a magazine or bric-a-brac out of place. He always found it bizarre that there could be such calm only feet from horrendous violence.

And horrendous it was, he discovered moments later. The victims had been tied together and herded into the bathroom. Obviously instructed, or enticed, to climb into the claw-footed tub and kneel.

There, they had been killed.

But that wasn’t the part that was out of the ordinary. It was the blood.

Everywhere. The walls, the fixtures. The floor.

As if it had been painted on, with a house paintbrush. Or a roller.

“Holy shit,” Tony muttered.

“At least.” Spencer made his way to the tub, conscious of the sound his rubber-soled shoes made on the blood-streaked floor. Cursing any evidence that might be destroyed, but acknowledging no other option.

The victims faced each other, arms tied behind their backs. They appeared to have been in their thirties. In good shape. One wore only his skivvies, the other drawstring pajama bottoms.

They had both been shot in the back.

He frowned. But it didn’t appear either had put up a struggle. Why?

“What’re you thinking, Slick?”

He glanced at his partner. “Wondering why they didn’t put up a fight.”

“Probably thought not struggling would save their lives.”

Spencer nodded. “Guy had a gun. Herded them in here. Probably thought they were being robbed.”

“Why not shoot them out front? Why this elaborate stage?”

“Wanted the blood.” Spencer pointed to the tub. The killer had put the stopper in, to catch the blood. Some pooled in the bottom of the tub. “Part of a ritual maybe?”

“Detectives?”

They turned. Frank stood in the bathroom doorway. “Miss something?”

A plastic bag had been taped to the back of the door. Spencer looked at Tony. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“That this is a bit too familiar?”

“Uh-huh.” Spencer fitted on his gloves, crossed to the door. “Got your shot?” When the photographer nodded, Spencer carefully peeled the bag off.

With a sense of déjà vu, he removed the note inside. It read simply: The roses are red now.

CHAPTER 43

Thursday, March 17, 2005

Monterey Coast, California

3:15 p.m.

Billie hadn’t lied; after they’d gotten out of the city, the drive had been lovely. When they turned off Carmel Way and onto the famous Seventeen Mile Drive, Stacy caught her breath. The curving road, densely forested on both sides, wound its way through the breathtakingly beautiful hilly terrain. That stretch proved short-lived, transforming into a sinuous roadway, lined on both sides by fabulous estates and glimpses of the Pacific Ocean.

Billie’s friend had booked them into the Lodge at Pebble Beach-the Pebble Beach of golf fame-which even Stacy had heard of, though she’d never played golf. Excluding the goofy variety, of course. She’d been pretty damn good at that, championship material, if she said so herself.

Somehow, she didn’t think that’d hold much sway here.

She leaned toward Billie. “What? The local no-tell-motel couldn’t fit us in?”

“Hush,” Billie said as a man hurried toward them. Tall, beautifully dressed and handsome, with silvering temples. The hotel manager, Stacy decided.

“Max, my love,” Billie said as he caught her hands, “thank you so much for making room at the inn.”

“How could I not?” He kissed her cheeks. “You’ve been away too long.”

“And I’ve been despondent every moment of that time.” She smiled. “My dear friend, Stacy Killian. It’s her first visit to the Lodge.”

He greeted her, motioned to the bellman, then turned his attention back to Billie. “Are you planning to golf?”

“Regrettably, no.”

“The pro will be devastated.” The bellman appeared; Max handed Billie over to his care-after he had coaxed her to promise to call if anything didn’t meet her expectations. Anything at all. No matter how small.

After they had been seated in a golf cart modified for passengers and were on their way to their rooms, Stacy looked at Billie. “I’m surprised they didn’t ask me to walk behind the cart.”

Billie laughed. “Just relax and enjoy yourself.”

“I can’t. Your friend Max, he knows I’m a fraud.”

“A fraud?”

“I don’t belong here.”

“Don’t be silly. If you can pay your bill, you belong.”

“But I can’t.”

“Leo’s paying for you. Same thing.”

She frowned, unconvinced. “You golf?”

“Quite well, actually.”

“I got that impression.” The cart stopped in front of an alcove shielded by a camellia tree covered with pink blossoms. “How well, by the way?”

“I was the U.S. Junior Amateur champion three years running. Gave up the game for love. Eduardo.”

Eduardo. Jeez.

They climbed out of the cart and followed the bellman. They had side-by-side rooms, both accessible from the alcove. The bellman opened Billie’s first-no surprises there-and they stepped inside.

“My God,” Stacy said. The room was large, complete with a sitting area and big stone fireplace. Sliding glass doors led to a shady patio. The pillows on the king-size bed had the look of down.

Billie brought her hands together in girlish delight. “I knew you’d love it!”

How could she not? She might be uncomfortable with wealth and luxury, but she was human, after all.

The bellman opened Stacy’s room, accepted Billie’s exorbitant tip and left them alone.

Stacy took in the room, stopping on the set fireplace, then glanced back at Billie, standing in her doorway, expression pleased. “I don’t want to know what this place costs a night.”

“No, you don’t. But Leo can afford it.”