Authors: Catherine Coulter
He eyed her, then said slowly, “I wondered why a local L.A. Field Office agent wasn’t assigned to take over. So, the powers that be in Fed-Land think because you were born into this in-crowd, you’d be the best bet.”
“That was second-biggest reason I was sent rather than an agent from the L.A. Field Office.”
“What’s the biggest reason?”
“I’m that good,” she said, and stuck her head out the open window, breathed in deep, and let the ocean wind whip through her hair.
14
THE COLONY
MALIBU, CALIFORNIA
Daniel had met Chet Brubaker once before, the buff twenty-three-year-old surfer dude who manned the kiosk that monitored the cars entering and leaving the Colony. Not that it had done Constance Morrissey any good.
Cam sang out as they pulled alongside the kiosk window. “Hi, Chet, let us in, okay?”
Chet peered at her, then grinned. “Hey, I remember you, you’re Lisabeth’s daughter, right? Camilla? Cammie?”
“Plain Cam’s good. Yes, and I’m FBI.” She flipped open her creds. “You know Detective Montoya?”
“Oh, yes. Hi, Detective. You must be here about Connie, right? Listen, everyone’s still torn up about her, still scared, you know, still can’t believe it happened here. Everyone’s supposed to be safe in the Colony, but they’re not. I’ve told the company they have to completely block access from the state park into the Colony, you know, put in a real fence that goes all the way down under the sand, not that lame excuse for a barrier that’s been here since year one. Any yahoo can duck under it easy enough. Maybe they should make it electric, you know?” Chet paused, pushed his long blond hair out of his eyes,
beamed at them. “And you know what? They’re going to do something, finally. Lots of bureaucratic-state red tape since it’s a state park next door, but it might happen now.”
“I’d say you did good then, Chet,” Montonya said.
Chet saluted him, then stepped back, raised the bar, gave them a little wave.
Cam said as they drove through, “Most residents agree with Chet, including my parents, given the abundance of millionaires and celebrities in this very small area, many of whom could attract the wrong kind of attention. There’s the kiosk at the entrance, but no protection from anyone who wants to bend over and walk beneath that fence at the eastern end of the beach. It’s been a political football since I can remember.”
“And that’s why I don’t think it’s going to happen before my kids graduate college,” Daniel said. “Since the Morrissey murder, we’ve seen more private security, more video cameras. They call you Cammie?”
“Sometimes Cammie, on rare occasion, Camilla.”
“You want to know what those two names bring to mind?”
“Yeah. What?”
Daniel gave her a sideways look as he drove slowly down Malibu Colony Road. “I’d say Cammie braids her hair and wears patent leather shoes. Camilla lies on a chaise longue in a flowing robe and holds a flower on her chest.”
She laughed. “Good enough. And Cam?”
“That one wears boots, has an attitude, and carries a Glock.”
That sounded good to Cam. She waved her hand. “It seems frozen in time, only a remodeled house now and then.”
Malibu Colony Road took them down to the ocean and swept past a long line of houses on both sides, ranging from palatial glass mansions to small wooden cottages, some dating back to the forties.
Daniel said, “It’s ahead of us, a small bungalow, about halfway down, very nicely remodeled five years ago when Markham bought it as a weekend getaway place. Not waterside. The neighbors who’d met Connie said she seemed like a levelheaded, friendly young woman. Never saw her behave like Markham’s mistresses, but who knew? I can show you the layout, but like I said, all the evidence we have was collected and processed weeks ago.”
“That’s for later. I want to see it for myself, get the feel of it. Do you see that house we just passed? That’s my folks’ house, where I grew up.”
The Wittier house was on the ocean side, not palatial, but not a small bungalow like Morrissey’s, either. It was an older, well-maintained two-story house. If not for its exclusive location, it would have solid middle-class standing. A big bruiser of a palm tree sprawled in the front yard, its giant fronds stretching to the road.
Daniel said, “That’s a really nice house. The Colony’s wildly expensive.”
“My folks say the prices zoom higher every year. Back in the day, Mom and Dad managed to score some really good roles at the same time, enough to afford a good deal they found here in the Colony. They plunked down the cash, moved in, and had me. I think they paid off the mortgage three years ago.”
“No siblings?”
“They tell me they had their hands so full with me they didn’t have the time or energy to make any more kids.”
“That’s what my dad thought, but Mom kept getting pregnant. It always seemed to surprise my dad. Go figure.”
“How many siblings?”
“Four, I’m the oldest. There’s Morrissey’s bungalow. Hey, what’s this? I didn’t expect these guys.”
A dark green moving van with bright white stars all over it, the
signature of the Starving Actors moving company was parked out front, a large buff man in dungarees looking over them from a ramp at its rear.
“Well, it has been six weeks since Morrissey’s murder,” Daniel said. “The D.A.’s office must have given Markham full access. We’ll let these guys have a break, and I’ll show you around. I wonder if Markham sold the cottage or rented it out to some other actresses in need of nurturing. Let’s see if the starving actors know.”
“Hang on a second,” Cam said, and punched a number on her cell. “Mom, hi. Yes, that was me and Detective Montoya driving by. We’ll come back in a little while. A question. Do you know who’s moving into Constance Morrissey’s house?” A couple of seconds passed, some more questions, more hmms, then, “Okay, thanks.” She looked over. “Theo Markham was evidently so broken up by Connie’s murder that he sold the bungalow to a special-effects software guy from Seattle last week. It went for just under three mil, Dad said. He heard the family was moving in next month, but they must be moving in some of the furniture in early.”
Daniel was impressed. “Three mil for that little bungalow?”
“Don’t forget, it was remodeled.” She gave him a grin. “That room on the left? That’s where the master bedroom is, biggest room in the house, but of course you know that. Let’s go check it out. There was a security system?”
Daniel said, “Yeah, it was a good system, but naturally not foolproof, if you know how to disarm it. The Serial knew to cut the wires.”
A hunk named Lance, who didn’t look much like he was starving, met them at the door. He didn’t seem surprised when they told him who they were. “Really a bummer, that poor girl getting killed like that,” he said, shaking his head. “I didn’t know her.” He waved a hand over his shoulder. “Bart and Jules didn’t, either. You want us out of here for a half an hour? Fine by me, we’ll take a break and have a
swim while you look around.” He waved the other two starving actors over. Cam and Daniel watched the young eye candy jog down the road together toward the state park. By the time they reached the end of the road, they were wearing only cutoffs.
Cam stepped through the open front door, painted a bright red lacquer, into a small Mexican-tiled foyer. To her right was a small living room, modern furniture piled in the middle and boxes stacked high against the walls. She walked into the room and looked around, easily picturing the Connie Morrissey she knew from her photos enjoying this lovely airy house, all windows and light. The walls were painted a pale yellow, and the oak floors were buffed to a high shine. She followed Daniel down the short hallway to the master bedroom, en suite after the remodel. She walked slowly into the room and stood quietly, surrounded by boxes and light rattan furniture. She closed her eyes, pictured where the bed had been, the bloody violence, Connie’s surge of fear, if she’d had time to even realize she was going to die, hoping it would bring her closer to what had happened and why. Two years ago at a murder scene, she’d stood over the chalk outline of the victim, an older man who’d been stabbed in the heart, and felt a sort of wrinkling in the air itself and a numbing coldness that had scared her to her toes. Then she’d felt the same coldness pouring off the great-nephew and known she’d met the killer. But she hadn’t found the proof to nail him, and what she believed, what she was sure about, wasn’t enough. It still burned.
But here, now, in Constance Morrissey’s lovely bedroom, its pale blue walls and pavers accented with Mexican tiles, she felt nothing like that, only sadness. There was nothing of Connie here anymore, only an empty room with cardboard boxes stacked against the walls.
The bathroom was very large, no expense spared, evidently, the countertops a lovely pale Italian marble, the double washbasins
painted with Spanish scenes. Big shower, Jacuzzi. There was a roll of toilet paper on the countertop. There was no trace of Connie here, either.
Daniel touched her arm, made her jump. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. Let me take you through it.” He led her to the second bedroom, this one smaller, its walls a mellow pale green. He pointed to the window. “After the Serial disabled the alarm, he broke that window and walked down the hall to her bedroom. This was something new for him. He usually breaks in through the kitchen door, but here it’s too exposed. Everything else was the same. He walked quietly to the bed, grabbed her by the hair and sliced her throat. The medical examiner said it happened so fast she never knew she was dead. And doesn’t that sound comforting?
“He took her cell phone off its charger by her bed and the computer from the second bedroom, where the router is, and left the same way he came in, through the broken window. He could have been back in the state park in just a couple of minutes.”
She nodded. “Your report said there was a party on the state park side that night, lots of music, lots of dancing. Beer and lots of pot, too, I bet. Not the kind of party where everyone knows everyone else. He picked a good night for killing her.”
Daniel said, “I went back every night for a week and talked to anyone who showed up. A couple of nights I even took a six-pack of beer to get them to believe I wasn’t there to bust them. But nothing.”
They walked back outside into the bright sunlight, Cam mourning the young, vibrant life, violently ended with no perpetrator in sight. There was no sign of Lance and the other two starving actors.
15
“Camilla DuBois! My darling!”
Daniel turned to Cam. “I know about Camilla, but who’s DuBois?”
“Don’t go there.” A big smile bloomed on Cam’s face. “Speaking of key local informants, there’s one of them—my mom, Lisabeth Wittier. Come on, Daniel, let’s go talk to my folks.”
Cam jogged down the road to meet the woman walking toward them. She hugged her and waved back at Daniel. Daniel drove the Crown Vic, parked it, and stepped out, watching them. Her mom was talking nonstop, laughing and patting Cam’s face, her shoulder, her hair, whatever part she could reach, since Cam topped her by a good eight inches. An older man tall enough to be a forward for the Warriors back in the day came loping out of the house behind them. Both of them were handsome, fit and full of life, probably knockouts when they were younger. Daniel recognized them from a few movies and TV shows.
He was introduced, his hand pumped enthusiastically. “Call me Lisabeth, please, Detective Montoya, otherwise I’ll feel like your mother, and believe me, one adult child is enough.”
Cam’s dad gave him an appraising look and a firm no-nonsense handshake. “And I’d like you to call me Joel, otherwise I’ll feel like
my dad, who made all six of us boys call him Mr. Wittier. Makes me shudder to think of it. I recognize you from the time of Constance’s murder, Detective Montoya. You were here so often, I wanted to offer you a bed. I bet some of the neighbors did, too. It’s a pity the killer hasn’t been caught. We know it was you who identified him as a serial killer, that there were two other women he’d killed before Constance. It’s still hard to accept that something like this could happen here in the Colony.”
“Or anywhere at all, Joel,” Daniel said. “I’m sure you’re glad your daughter’s here to help us now.”
“You’ll see soon enough she’s got a very good mix of our two brains, makes her unstoppable.” Joel paused a moment. “It would have made her a great actress, but never mind that.”
Lisabeth said, “Cammie, we’ve got iced tea and sugar cookies ready for you, made with Splenda of course, on the back porch. Come in, come in. You can take the time, can’t you? We can fill you and Detective Montoya in on everything going on here.”
“Do call me Daniel.”
Lisabeth beamed at him. “A very good name, solid and trustworthy.”
Cam took her mother’s arm. “Come on, guys, you’re not going to try to quarterback this whole business, are you? Dreyfus already told me he’d ordered you to keep out of it.”
“Of course not, dear, but your father and I see things here, of course, how could we not? We hear things, too, and we love to talk to people. I guess I never should have told Dreyfus that Joel slept out under the palm tree the night after Connie’s murder, hoping the killer would return to the scene of the crime. He had a prop Beretta.”
Cam’s blood froze. “Mom, Dad, this isn’t the silver screen with a scripted ending, this is real, and this guy—this serial killer—he’s a
cold-blooded murderer. So keep out of it. No more sleep-outs. Okay? Don’t listen, don’t see, don’t talk. If I have a question, I’ll ask you.”
“Dear, you know your dad and I are always careful. But Connie’s murder was a huge shock here, and all our neighbors want to talk about it, trade theories, you know how it goes.”
Lisabeth looked at Daniel for support. He started to open his mouth, and closed it. Better to let Cam deal with her parents.
“We’ve only got a few minutes, Mom, then it’s off to LAPD headquarters to meet with the detectives involved with the four cases here in California.”
“Sure wish I could be there with you, princess,” Joel said. “I’ve had roles playing LAPD before, but can you imagine what I’d pick up at a meeting like that? Have you thought about how you’re going to handle those detectives who are focused on throwing you off a cliff? I mean, a Fed prying into their business. You sure Detective Montoya is going to have your back? Is he on your side?”