"It wasn't anything, Cinnamon."

"I don't want to talk about it."

But she thought about it. All night long. It made her sick to her stomach and she didn't want to eat, although Linda came and tapped on the trailer door and tried to coax her into the house for supper.

How could her daddy kiss someone almost as young as she was like that? How could he do that to Linda? She didn't care what he said. It wasn't supposed to be like that. And she didn't believe it was an accident. Thinking about it just made her more confused.

Cinnamon finally fell asleep in the trailer, but she had nightmares, seeing her father and Patti kissing over and over.

ilaving temporarily exhausted his list of relatives, ex-relatives, ex-wives, and acquaintances who had things to say about David Arnold Brown, Jay Newell took another tack. As any other private citizen could have done had he been curious, he began to keep track of Brown by checking public records. It wasn't easy. The usual paper trail left when people movea"mail forwarding, disconnection of gas, electricity, and watera"was no help.

After David Brown moved out of the rental on Breckenridge, Newell lost the scent. All refunds and mail had been directed to Arthur Brown's Carson address. But that house seemed shuttered and empty, as if David's parents were gone too. Newell was sure that Brown was still in the Orange County areaa"but where?

Because he had a relative in the real estate business, Newell was more savvy than most in checking property transfers. He found one item that fascinated him. Within three weeks of Cinnamon Brown's murder conviction, David Brown had purchased a new home. Real estate transaction records in the courthouse indicated that David Arnold Brown had purchased a home on August 30, 1985. He had received a grant deeda"paid in fulla"on a house selling for $330,000.

Newell went looking for it and found it easily. And what a house it wasa"in a most exclusive area of Orange County: Anaheim Hills. Brown had purchased one of the most lavish houses in the new subdivision called Summit View. All the homes there are set along hilly, curving streetsa"most of them with names ending in ridge. The name was apt; at the top of Summitridge Lane, the view of the Santiago Canyon far below is breathtaking.

The street was so new in 1985 that all its trees were staked and spindly, but begonias, petunias, gerbera daisies, and the fragrant wild plum with its tiny five-petaled white-star flowerets had already taken hold in most yards. All utilities were discreetly underground. Ironically, four huge high-powered electrical towers perched almost malevolently at the very top of the hill. The surging power beneath the ground had to come from somewhere, and a dozen high tension wires hummed as they stretched from tower to tower along the hill's spine.

The house at 3823 Summitridge Lane was clearly that of a rich man, a 1980s version of what an "olde English country manor" might look like if it were relocated from Stratford-on-Avon to Orange County. Fieldstone and stucco with crossbeams, shake roof, leaded windows, a recessed entry-way with ma.s.sive double doors.

A dream house on a dream street.

Each house on Summitridge Lane was grander than the next; every lawn manicured and boasting a huge stone or brick planter that matched the house's facade. Housing codes obviously dictated that even the mailboxes were to be enclosed in stone or brick stanchions, and each also matched its house perfectly.

Of course the house on Summitridge Lane had a triple garage. The balconies in the rear of Brown's new house overlooked the azure swimming pool, and the attached hot tub. Twin hexagonal, two-story towers ab.u.t.ted the pool. There were two weathered-brick barbecues, and the fence surrounding the backyard was of the same brick and wrought iron.

Since the back door opened onto a stone patio that led directly to the unfenced pool, the layout of the new house seemed an unsafe choice for a man alone with a baby. Krystal Brown could crawl so easily toward the pool.

By visiting Summitridge Lane whenever he could, Jay Newell quickly saw the reason for the empty house in Carson. Brown had moved his parents in with him. There would be Manuela and Arthur to help keep an eye on Krystal. And then, Jay Newell saw Patti Bailey in the car with David Brown as they drove away. Patti had apparently made the move to Summitridge Lane too.

Newell could not know at the time, not from his solely exterior vantage point, but this was not a happy house. Manuela Brown complained to her husband about Patti's continuing place in the family. Why didn't the girl go home with her own family now? She had no business being with David any longer. Arthur agreed; he felt privately that Patti wasn't good for David, that she might even be a bad influence. But he was never a man who told his son what to do.

The house on Ocean Breeze Drive had been a nice, cozy run-of-the-mill bungalow. David had leapfrogged to the similar rental on Breckenridge, then to this house, this near-mansion that bespoke quiet elegance, understated wealth.

It was the sort of place where David had always pictured himself, even way back in the years when he and Brenda were living hand-to-mouth with minimum-wage jobs and welfare. Well, Brenda should have had more faith. He was well on his way to being a millionaire now, and Anaheim Hills suited him. He was sure Brenda/was jealous, and that pleased him.

Despite the tension that never quite left him, David felt that, all in all, things were turning out well. Krystal rarely cried for her mother any longer; she had Manuela to rock her, and she had Patti to carry her around. The memory of her mother evaporated so rapidly from her baby mind. Linda had had only eight months with her baby girl.

For those who had known Linda, especially for those who had loved her, the sight of Patti wearing Linda's things was an icy jolt. Like seeing a ghost. They had looked so much alike, so very much alike.

The only difference was that Patti was younger.

Sitting beside his pool on his patio, sipping a soft drink and smoking his fiftieth cigarette of the day, David Brown spent many evenings reflecting upon his life. He was in complete control of his world again and his s.e.x life was greata"if a little tricky with his parents living with him. He still managed to keep his private life untouched. As tragic as it was, Linda was gone. The past had buried the past, as it was meant to do. Life was for the living, and he was going to wring all the juice out of it he could.

David's business continued to boom with rising computer use. He no longer had Linda to help him. He taught bits and pieces of The Process to new employeesa"mostly family. Arthur helped out, and Patti.

Alan and David had apparently settled their differences because Linda's twin was back on the payroll. Larry Bailey, whom David had never trusted, was, nevertheless, brought into the business. Odda"since David had once suggested to Fred McLean that he suspected Larry might have crept into his home and shot Linda. Larry had been in jail just before her murder, and David told McLean that Larry was furious when Linda wouldn't bail him out. The police had checked that theory and found it without merit; it appeared to be only one more of Brown's attempts to divert suspicion from Cinnamon.

Arthur Brown didn't really understand how they retrieved data from the computer disks, and he didn't care to. His son was the brilliant one. Arthur often went down to Randomex in Long Beach and picked up damaged disks and brought them back to David to evaluate. If David spelled it out to him step by step, Arthur could follow his directions. But that was it. He couldn't begin to try it on his own. All the elder Brown really knew was that David worked for the government and for a lot of big, important corporations. His son had told him that.

One of David Brown's favorite claims about his burgeoning business enterprise was that he had to be available to his clients to rea.s.sure them that he would save their lost data. He could explain what had happened and whya"and tell them just enough about how he would bring the damaged disks back to life again. He liked to tell his clients that they had been lucky enough to find the one man in America who could help thema"that his expertise was highly technical and uniquely his own.

It wasn't a total scam. He did know his stuff. He might make his skill sound a bit more miraculous than it wasa"but h.e.l.l, he was a businessman in a compet.i.tive field and a little razzle-dazzle helped.

Executives at Randomex would dispute Brown's claims that he had invented The Process, stating that the data retrieval techniques David used were actually refined by several experts at Randomex. And in the beginning, David rarely, if ever, talked to clients. However, as the years pa.s.sed, David wasn't averse to making Randomex's clients his clients.

David was so adept at diagnosing the problem with a disk that he could quote a fee to retrieve data before he ever got into the disk. He usually required the money up front before he began. With bigger corporations, he could quote a bid for a major job that usually came in on a dime.

Linda's twin, Alan, was impressed with David and a good audience for a recitation of his ambitions. David a.s.sured him that one day he would build his own towering office building, own his own company jet. The way David's income had jumped year after year, Alan had little doubt that David would accomplish just what he said he would.

With all his new business success, with his pleasure in his luxurious new home, David Brown appeared to move through the period of mourning for his murdered wife with remarkable ease. And if he felt low, he was surrounded by people who cared about him, some to the point of adulation, some because they feared him.

It wasn't that David Brown was physically threatening; he was an admitted coward who ran from fights. It was because David always seemed to know secret things, to refer obliquely to some nameless danger that awaited anyone who crossed him. Among his handpicked a.s.sociates, his devoted family, David was power.

He was in control and meant to keep it that way.

David Arnold Brown, of course, had trouble he was not yet aware of. When he walked, he did not walk alone. When he cruised the streets and freeways of Orange County in one of his expensive new cars, he had company. Jay Newell was often just behind him, his tape recorder and notebook filling up with every change in David's life, every move, every new acquisition. Newell didn't know himself where all this information was going to leada"maybe nowhere.

Newell had checked every county in California by computer to see what properties David Arnold Brown might have purchased. It would have been easier if Brown's name had been rarer; Newell got dozens of Browns back, but he also got some hits on the man he wanted. Every time David Brown bought a lot or a house, Newell knew about it.

It was the same with cars. Tedious computer checks spit out volumes on David's car purchases. The guy was spending money as if he had found a lost gold mine. David had the Bronco and the Chevy Monte Carlo when Linda was murdered. Almost immediately after her funeral, he bought a Nissan 300ZX Turbo, 1985, a sleekly expensive sports car. He ordered vanity plates, reading "Data Rec."

Between August 1985 and the spring of 1988, Brown changed cars almost as frequently as the seasons changed. He bought: A Chevrolet Suburban station wagon, 1985 A Honda Accord LX, 1985 A Dodge D-50 1986 truck (with camper) A 560 two-door convertible Mercedes, which bore the license plate "Phoenix" (Estimated cost: $70,000) A 190E Mercedes (Estimated cost: $25,000) A Ford Bronco, 1986 or 1987 A Ford station wagon, 1986 or 1987 Two identical Nissan Sentras, 1987 A third Nissan Sentra, 1987 (orange) A Ford Bronco, 1988 A completely equipped motor home, 1988 (Estimated cost: $60,000) A Ford station wagon, 1988 A Ford Escort, 1988 Fifteen expensive vehicles in three years . . . David had not had the Nissan sports car long when he and Patti were driving on Katella Street in Orange on November 22, 1985a"shortly after ten P.M. on that Tuesday night. David, behind the wheel of his new 300ZX, was stopped in the left turn lane when the car was struck from behind by a small Renault Alliance. Patti screamed and cried and grasped at her neck. She was soon hysterical. As her sobs and screaming grew louder, David explained to the Orange Fire Department medics who worked over her that she had been through a great deal of tragedy recently. "Her sister was murdered only a few months agoa"she was my wife. I don't know what this is going to do to her. How much are we expected to take?"

Not all that much, it would seem. The "accident" was scarcely more than a nudge. California highway patrolmen investigated the incident. The other driver admitted that it was his fault. "I was slowing down, maybe going ten miles an hour, when my foot slipped off the brake pedal and hit the accelerator." The impact had been enough to knock David's shiny black car forward. The CHPS investigator noticed the Renault driver was wearing cowboy bootsa"that could account for his foot's slipping. There was no damage at all to the Renault and only a number of minor scratches to the rear b.u.mper of David Brown's car. But neck injuriesa""whiplash"a"are tricky, and virtually impossible to diagnose. They are the bane of the insurance industry. Patti Bailey was now complaining of increasingly severe neck pains and a terrible headache. She was treated at the scene and rushed to St. Joseph's Hospital by ambulance.

David and Patti had both been visiting a chiropractor frequently before the accident, including the afternoon before Linda died. With these new injuries, they saw the chiropractor even more often.

David had insurance with Allstate. He insisted that he had reported the accident to his insurance agent at once, but the first record the Garden Grove office had about the "rear-ender" was when David made a claim more than four months later, on April 3,1986. Giving him the benefit of the doubt, that office brought up David's auto insurance policy on the computer, and it showed that David had more than adequate medical coverage on his policya"$100,000.

Six months later, David brought a stack of medical bills in for paymenta"almost $25,000 worth. This was a bit of a jolt to Allstate. The police accident reports depicted an essentially minor collision. Most of the claims were for "soft tissue injury." Patti asked for $ 1,000 for pain-clinic visits. On many occasions, the bills noted several chiropractic visits on the same day. Nevertheless, Allstate eventually paid David $12,500 and Patti $10,500. A check with Farmers Insurance, the insurer of the driver of the other car, showed that Fanners had also paida"under the liability provisiona"to the tune of $38,500.

Insurance investigators are a suspicious breed by nature, and they began to work back through David Brown's insurance history. To them, $61,500 seemed an inordinately large payoff for a low-speed, rear-end collision that resulted in a few scratches, most of which, probers found, had been there when David bought the Nissan. Moreover, Patti's neck showed no lingering symptoms of soft-tissue or cervical-spine damage.

Allstate had other policies with David Brown; the house on Summitridge Lane (and later, the house on Chantilly). He had also attempted to insure Linda's jewelry with Allstate, but it was so valuable, the company declined.

A check of David's driving record in Orange County revealed several speeding tickets and showed accidents in 1970, 1972, 1978, two in 1980, and 1982.

After payment had been made on David's claims, Allstate's recheck of its computers for David Arnold Brown's car insurance brought a shocking revelation. Although agents swore that their initial computer check indicated that he had $100,000 medical coverage, it no longer showed on computer screens or printouts. Nor was it listed on any hard-copy doc.u.ments on the auto policy.

Nor could it be there. Allstate didn't offer medical coverage on the kind of policy David had. But somehowa"for a timea"the computer printout had said David Brown was insured.

The only conclusion deductive reasoning could suggest was that someone had illegally accessed the company's computers, inserted the $100,000 coverage in David Brown's policy, and then, silently, erased it.

Further, one Allstate investigator checked in the central file that lists all claims against the company, and against other companies, for another claim she knew David had collected on. It had to be listed in the computer files.

But it was gone.

Such computer wizardry could be accomplished only by someone with extremely sophisticated knowledge and skill regarding operating systems, programing, and data entry and retrieval. Someone who knew that illegal computer access can be accomplished in three ways, known in colorful computer lingo as l"data diddling," "Trojan horse," and "superzapping."

No charges were ever filed, but with the realization that it had paid David Brown and Patti Bailey's medical claims of $23,000 on a policy that had never had any medical coverage, Allstate quietly beefed up its computer security.

all of David's new cars, it was difficult for Newell to keep track of him. It did little good to know what kind of car he drove; the next week, the next day, he might have a new one. He tired of the two Mercedes sedans quickly and sold them to invest in Fords.

Following another trail of his investigation, Newell tediously filled in all the gaps in David Brown's credit profile. He found out about federal tax liens on Brown's property in 1983 and saw they were paid off within a few months of filing. He even knew the credit cards Brown carried, and that they were paid to date. However, he detected a pattern of wobbly credit and money problems before Linda's murder, and emerging affluence and larger luxury purchases after.

"It was good to have that background, to know as much as I could about him," Newell would say later. "But the one thing I wanted most was to talk to David Arnold Brown."

It was galling to think that he had yet to meet the man's eyes, to exchange the most innocuous words. For Newell, a master at a.s.sessing nonverbal communication, a chance to observe Cinnamon's father close up might well answer the question that plagued him. Was David Brown really the childish, insensitive b.o.o.b who had teasingly pulled his ex-wife's hair in the courtroom even as his daughter was being sentenced for murder? Or was he a brilliant manipulator who had somehow managed to pull off a murder and walk away with no particle of evidence clinging to him?

Where was all the money coming from? Was Brown's business truly as successful as he bragged it was? Investigators knew of one insurance policy payoff on Linda, but that would be long gone by now at the rate David spent money. Either there had been more policies, or Data Recovery was raking in the contracts from frantic corporations and government agencies. Perhaps both suppositions were true. All Newell needed was a face-to-face confrontation with Brown and he thought he could find out.

It shouldn't have been that difficult just to talk to a man. But David was like quicksilver. Although Newell called at the Brown household on Summitridge Lane at disparate times of the day and night, he was never able to penetrate the protective wall that surrounded David Brown.

Patti or Manuela or sometimes his father, Arthur, answered the door. They explained that David was at the doctor's or away on business, or in the bathroom or too ill to talk. They were polite, evasive, wary, and obviously well trained. Sometimes, they didn't even open the door, but talked through it; they told Newell that the alarm was activated, and they didn't know how to operate it. If they opened the door, the alarm would go off.

Newell knew that David Arnold Brown really did exist. He thought he knew the man as well as anyone could without ever talking to him. He had read the entire case file a couple of dozen times, reviewed the statements Brown had given, and seen him up close that one time at Cinnamon's sentencing, and even now, he frequently caught glimpses of David at a distance.

If Brown bothered Newell, the reverse was truea"and double. Jay Newell had shocked Brown with the way he had managed to keep up with the family's moves. David didn't like people coming to his door, asking for him. If he had had any idea how many times Newell was only fifty feet away from him, he would have been outrageda"and panicked.

But Newell had the advantage. David didn't know what Newell looked like. He knew his name all right; Newell had left enough cards to paper Brown's entry halla"but that was all. If he was truly concerned, he could have done some research and found a picture of Newell. But David never bothered.

Jay Newell had the definite impression that David Brown had no wish to see him or talk to hima"ever. And there was no legal way to force such a conversation. Perhaps David's reluctance was born of some instinctual wariness. He knew he could routinely charm both clients and females with his voice and his repartee. He was good. He had to be good; the man had parlayed an eighth-grade education into a million-dollar business, and even though he was short, stout, and far from handsome, he never lacked for women. But a police detective was another matter. Here was a man who might cut through the bulls.h.i.t and snare him.

If, indeed, there was any crime to snare him for.

And still, Newell kept up his quiet pursuit. He had to squeeze in time to spend monitoring David Brown; he was deep into myriad investigations of gang activity. And David Brown was officially old business.

"It sounds dull," Newell would say later. "I didn't do anything that dramatic. I just watched him and followed him and monitored public records. I'd see him leave the house, often with Patti Bailey, and I'd see him come home. I wanted to know who this man wasa"where he went and what he was doing. I was never far behind him, but I doubt if he realized that for months."

Jl ay Newell knew far more about David's whereabouts and lifestyle than David's own daughter did. Cinnamon had no address for her father, and she had no telephone number. She didn't know where he lived or who lived with him.

But he did come to see her occasionally on the every-other-Sat.u.r.day visitors' day at Ventura School. He explained to Cinny that his deteriorating health made it hard for him to make the drive often. If the weather was hot, he wouldn't be able to stand the long drive. He might hemorrhage. He might pa.s.s out.

She believed everything he said.

Every time he left after a visit, Cinnamon worried that she might never see him again, that he might really die as he always hinted he would. Her feelings were so mixed up about her father. For so long, he was the only magical person in her life. Her mother worried about even normal, everyday things. Her father just wanted to have fun. When he made her laugha"ever since she was littlea"they had so much fun. Even when he was sick, he took care of her, and of so many other people. He was smart and he was rich and people respected him.

When he did come to see her, he was still funny and made her laugh, but the visits seemed to be over before they even came close to talking about the things that worried her. There were certain subjects that spooked him, and he either ignored her questions or told her, "I'm working on it. I'm contacting lawyersa"investigators. You'll be out of here soon."

She believed him.

Although David didn't come to see Cinny often, he did keep her commissary fund supplied with money, and she was allowed to order items by mail and charge them to his business accounts.

Cinnamon's first psychological screening tests at Ventura took place in November 1985. The diagnosis was as vague as it could possibly be: "unspecified mental disordera" nonpsychotic." In layman's terms, the examiner thought that there was probably something wrong with Cinnamon Brown, but she wasn't crazy. He went on to say she was not a danger to others, but that she might be dangerous to herself; that was unpredictable. Psychotherapy was recommended.

As always, there was little information for any examiner to go on. Cinnamon's memory was apparently lost in some abyss in her own mind.

The psychiatrist found Cinnamon to be a cooperative, friendly young woman who was adjusting well to being incarcerated. She was adamant that she was not interested in psychiatric help.

"Although subject has no memory of the events [of the crime], she somehow feels she is not guiltya"and will eventually be proven innocent."

One thing was obvious; Cinnamon didn't want any psychologist or psychiatrist poking around in her subconscious, trying to bring up memories. She seemed almost alarmed at the thought of it.

Each year, near Christmas, Cinnamon would go before the parole board. She didn't really expect to be paroled that first year; she had only just got there. It was a mere formality when she went before the board on December 12, 1985.

Parole denied. The "ward" would be retained in the CYA system for treatment and training; "recommend psychiatric and psychological examinations and reports at each annual review."

Her parole date was tentatively set as September 1992. Seven years away.

Cinnamon had told the examiners on the board that she had no involvement in her stepmother's murder. She also told them that she remembered nothing of the early morning of March 19 or the days following.

There was a question in the examiners' minds about the possibility of conspiracy involving "other family members." They found Cinnamon to be "not criminally sophisticated" and noted that "she appears emotionally immature."

She was fifteen. It seemed a given.

They recommended therapy for an extended period of time. They gave her no "good time" at all.

On January 6, 1986, Cinnamon appeared once again for review. As in her first review with the parole board, the examiners felt that she was not dealing with her offense, and that she needed extended psychiatric treatment. The problem was that Cinnamon still absolutely refused treatment. She had a blank spot in her memory, and she wanted it left that way.

Cinnamon was only one of 1,100 boys and girls locked up in Ventura. The campus was green and dotted with trees. Cinnamon lived in a "cottage" called El Toyon. " 'E.T.,'" she explained. "It's for the younger girls, fourteen to eighteen. I had my own room at the end of the hall. Our cottage held fifty girls. I was trusted and placed at the end.... I had my bed with my old beach towel across it. I had a desk and shelf across from my bed, and also a tall, thin locker and a sink and toilet.

"I've always been very neata"clean, picky. I guess everything was organized. I had a color TV, Walkman, and bear pictures on my wall, and frames with pictures of my family. I had a lot of things. ... I was very comfortable; I enjoyed my room. I had quality time alone. But the funny thing about my rooma"my things looked new because I took good care of them. I always had all the material things I needed. Staff would normally not allow such a thing, but because I was on good behavior, I was allowed to have the things I did and in the quant.i.ty I did.

"I also had pink curtains on my windows to cover up the bars. Eight bars down and three bars across. I could open a portion of the window myself. Our doors were always locked at night for security reasons. Mail was pushed through the door during the night."

Cinnamon did well in school, and in her cottage. During her first two years at Ventura, she was a.s.signed to the kitchen and cooked and served food to the girls in E.T. cottage. Breakfast at seven, lunch at noon, and dinner at five. She could go to canteen every two weeks, and have visitors twice a month. "Security" escorted all her movements inside the school.

School officials noted that Cinnamon did not align herself with any of the gangs at Ventura. The Caucasian girls urged her to come into the "White Car," their slang for the white girls' gang. She declined. She was something of a loner, doing her time, and waiting. She seemed always to have that air of waiting about her, as if she truly believed that someonea"or somethinga"was coming for her soon.

Cinnamon remained sweet, somewhat naive in manner, and was easy for prison officials to deal with. But she could nota"or would nota"remember the murder night. Until she did, prison officials thought she would not get well or move toward freedom.

In one sense, it almost seemed that Cinnamon felt safer in prison than she had on the outside. At least, she was no longer being bounced back and forth between her mother and father. She had her room, her private s.p.a.ce, albeit with a locked door and a window with eight bars down and three bars across.

On April 19, 1986, David Brown purchased a second piece of property, an investment. He bought a house at 1510 East Lincoln in Anaheim. He moved Alan Bailey in, with only a sleeping bag for furniture. Alan slept there to protect the property from vandals and break-ins. Jay Newell checked the place out from time to time, but David never moved in. The place was located in a commercially zoned area, and David had obviously seen the possibility of a quick turnover.

He was right. He sold the Lincoln property within months for a $15,000 profit.

In the summer of 1986, although she was completely unaware of it, Cinnamon Brown had a new stepmother, Patti Bailey.