The coroner's office was a bust. The pathologist who was assigned to our case, Dr. Vendi, wasn't available, and Scott was out in the field, so I couldn't bribe him into giving us a look at any preliminary notes. Bailey left instructions to bag and tag the plant debris for analysis, just to be on the safe side, and we drove back to the Police Administration Building.

"Graden said he'd tell the brass about Hayley," I said.

"I'm sure there'll be a presser of some kind pretty soon, then. You better get ready."

The murder of a superstar director's daughter was big news, and that meant both Bailey's shop and mine would be under siege. "I'll make the call when we get upstairs." It really wasn't a DA's bailiwick to talk to the press before there was a suspect in custody, but Vanderhorn would want in on it anyway. Thanks to yours truly, he could legitimately claim that the DA's office was working closely with the LAPD. Just as Bailey was pulling into the parking lot, the clouds opened up and big fat drops began to splatter the windshield.

She looked up at the sky. "I got a feeling this one's going to be the real deal."

As if to prove her right, a deafening clap of thunder boomed and a jagged streak of lightning cut across the sky.

"Damn, it's the apocalypse," I said.

"And not a bit too soon."

As we headed for Bailey's desk, I was, for a change, presentable and ready to run into Graden. Of course that meant there was no way I was going to see him.

Bailey picked up a manila envelope that was on top of her in-box stack. "Looks like we got Brian's birth records." She handed the envelope to me and picked up the phone.

I pulled out the records and saw the little tiny footprint. No one could have predicted that innocent little foot would turn out to be the foot of a vicious killer.

"He bought the Paris ticket under 'Shandling,'" Bailey said.

I put down the birth record. He'd purchased the tickets to New York under his real name. "Why would he use the alias?"

"Maybe because it doesn't matter anymore, because he's outta here."

"I suppose. Or maybe it's a deliberate mislead? Like, in case we hadn't caught on to his true name yet, he used his alias again to make us believe he's going to Paris?"

"But if he's trying to distract us, why not buy two tickets and make it seem as though Hayley's still with him?" Bailey asked.

"Not worth the expense?" I shrugged. "I don't know."

"Too many possibilities," Bailey said. "Not enough answers."

"Have we made any progress on trying to nail down where the e-mail ransom note came from?"

"I'll check. But it doesn't matter. We already know Brian sent it. The most we'll get is his IP address."

"I'm just hoping for something to back up Legs Roscoe-"

"What? He's rock solid. A little weird maybe, but solid."

"Some corroboration wouldn't hurt. Anyway, what about the calls on Russell's cell-the ones after the kidnapping? Any progress on those?"

"Not yet. We're working on it."

Damn. I could feel Brian slipping farther away by the minute. Another boom of thunder exploded outside and now the rain fell in torrential sheets. The downpour was so heavy, I could hear it pounding the pavement below. Workers who were just five steps from their offices got drenched before they could reach the door.

I looked up at the heavy gray sky. I usually prefer bright, sunny days, no matter how hot. Not today.

19.

Hayley's murder was the lead story on the evening news. Hairsprayed news anchors on every channel salivated as they blasted the headlines across the country. I knew it was a harbinger of things to come if the case ever went to trial. But I didn't get time to worry about it.

Forty-eight miles northwest of downtown, the canyons and hills above Malibu, still only thinly covered by shallow-rooted grasses and young shrubs after the rampant wildfires of last summer, shed layers of earth under the pounding rain. Mudslides sent filthy rivers pouring across all four lanes of Pacific Coast Highway. At the end of the highway closest to Santa Monica, the ebbing ground dislodged rocks and heavy boulders, one of which hurtled off the California Incline with meteoric force and landed on the roof of a car, crushing the driver's skull. The car spun sideways, forming a blockade, and four vehicles behind it piled into each other like dominoes.

Farther north, high up in the mountains above Mulholland Highway, where the rain fell as though the clouds had torn apart from the weight, the water found a barren stretch of an old sunbaked trail. Pounding down the newly formed channel with a mighty force, it tore through a small, incongruous mound of freshly turned soil. And exposed an outstretched hand.

The shallow grave was discovered by a biker, and the first responding officer, having heard about Hayley, had the good sense to call Bailey-a phone call that sent us screaming down the freeway and winding up the Santa Monica Mountains within the hour. Those steep, narrow roads would've made me nervous on a clear day, but on a day that was still dark with the threat of another downpour, and asphalt that was slick with rain and oil-not to mention the occasional patches of thick mud-my heart jackhammered so hard I had to remind myself to breathe. Each hairpin turn gave me a view of the thousands of feet I'd be falling to my death if Bailey made one wrong move. By the time she pulled in behind the patrol cars parked against the side of the mountain, my stomach was in my throat and I had to get out and take several deep breaths to keep from puking.

"Where the hell are we?" I asked when I felt like I could pass for normal.

A tall, dark-haired uni with a runner's body who'd come out to escort us answered, "God's Seat, on Boney Mountain." He leaned down and peered at me. "You okay?"

Apparently I was wrong about passing for normal. "I'm fine."

"It's a tough ride. Especially for the passenger."

And especially when the driver ignores the brake. I appreciated his kindness. And as we followed him down the trail, I also appreciated the fact that I'd been at home when Bailey called, which gave me the chance to change into jeans and hiking boots. We were easily two thousand feet up, and the torrential rain had left the path slippery as ice.

We paused at a split in the mountain that afforded a view stretching from the ocean to the valley. It was almost eight p.m., but there was still some daylight left and it was peeking through the heavy cloud bank. I could see why they called it God's Seat. Even under dark, cloudy skies it was breathtakingly beautiful. After a few moments, our guide moved on and we eventually came to a small clearing encircled by crime scene tape. In the center of the taped-off area was a partially washed-out mound of dirt; the rain was still trickling across the path it had forged. Protruding from the earth was a waxy forehead and nose and an outstretched arm. But I couldn't see enough to make out a face.

As I stood on my tiptoes to get a better look, a deep, gravelly voice that sounded vaguely familiar drew my attention.

"How long you gonna keep me here? You know, I got work to do, just like you guys."

On the far side of the taped-off circle, I saw a big guy wearing a black bandanna around his head Hulk Hoganstyle. Even from twenty feet away, I recognized Dominic Rostoni, highly successful custom motorcycle dealer and white supremacist gang leader. Bailey and I had run into him on our last case, and I knew he lived just off Mulholland in Calabasas-not all that far from this place. This mountain was probably a great ride for bikers.

Bailey was conferring with the officer who made the first response. I tapped her on the shoulder and pointed to Dominic.

"What're the odds?" she asked.

"Pretty good, when you think about it."

Bailey did, for about a second, then nodded. We made our way over to his side of the crime scene.

"Hey, Dominic," I said. "Long time no see." I didn't offer to shake hands.

He looked up with a frown, then his expression cleared. "Yeah, I remember you. Hey, can you tell these guys to let me go? You know where to find me."

"You found the body?" I replied.

"Yeah. Came up for a smoke."

I further assumed he didn't mean cigarettes. Just the thought of navigating these roads on a motorcycle while high on...anything, gave me vertigo.

"You touch anything?" I asked.

He looked offended. "What you take me for? An idiot?"

The true answer was "Yes, you neo-Nazi asshole." But sometimes the truth does not set you free. I did believe he was smart enough not to mess with a dead body unless he was the reason it was in that condition. And, obviously, he must've called the cops as soon as he found it, because I doubted they'd be doing routine patrol here in this weather.

"What were you really doing out here, Dominic?"

"Really, I was just out for a ride."

"Right after a storm like this." I raised an eyebrow.

Dominic sighed and looked away for a moment. "Wife and I had a fight. I needed some cooling-off time. Soon as the rain stopped, I went out for a ride. Didn't expect to wind up here, tell you the truth..."

"And you called the cops?"

He nodded and glanced toward the mound of dirt. "Poor kid. Got one of my own, you know."

I didn't know. And I wasn't thrilled to hear that these cretins procreated. I restrained the impulse to ask what his kid was doing with his life. I didn't want to hear he'd joined the "club."

"You come here pretty often?"

"Maybe once a month."

"You happen to notice anything else unusual?"

Dominic shook his head. "Even if there was, with this weather it'd be long gone anyways."

Anyways. Didn't he say that last time too? This stuff made me nuts. "Anyway, Dominic. There's only one. Right?"

He snickered briefly. Guess I had mentioned it last time.

"Yeah. Anyway, I didn't see nothin' out of the norm."

I wondered if he was smart enough to use the double negative on purpose, just to mess with me, but decided that was probably giving him too much credit. Besides, bad grammar was the least of his deficits. I looked at Bailey, who was suppressing a smile with only partial success.

"Your information still the same?" she asked him.

"Yeah. 'Course."

Bailey gave the officer next to Dominic the high sign. "You can let him go. And thanks."

The coroner's wagon pulled up as Dominic's bike gave a throaty growl. He steered out to the road and touched two fingers to his forehead in a salute, then roared off. I didn't recognize the coroner's investigator who jumped out of the wagon. He was a smallish black man with a neat mustache and goatee.

Bailey and I introduced ourselves as he stood outside the tape and gloved up.

"George Harrison."

I wanted to say "You're kidding, right?" but his serious expression gave me the answer. Without another word, he ducked under the tape, and Bailey and I followed him. He immediately turned back and frowned at us.

"I'm going to have to ask you to stay back until I'm done."

"Mr. Harrison, how long have you been with the coroner's office?" Bailey asked, her tone on the borderline between irritation and genuine pissitivity.

"With this office, four months. In Seattle for five years, and in New York for ten." He said it without a hint of self-importance; it was just a statement of fact. That itinerary explained his accent-as in, he had none whatsoever. That was a lot of years on the job for someone who looked like he was in his twenties. Our skepticism must've shown, because he added, "Black don't crack."

The slang was so out of place in his King's English voice, I chuckled in spite of myself and I saw that Bailey did too. George gave us a little smile and unwound a bit. "You can watch from over there right now. When I get ready to wrap him up, I'll let you in for a closer look."

Bailey and I stood back and watched. George was one hell of a thorough worker-calm, careful, slow, and steady. After what felt like hours, he gestured to us. "Take a look, but stay back." He left to get the body bag and gurney.

I scanned the area around us briefly and imagined what it would be like to be alone up here in the dead of night. Scary, desolate...and worst of all, isolated. No one would ever hear you scream. Bailey and I picked our way carefully across the river of loose rocks and mud that had streamed from the grave. As our steps brought us closer, I steeled myself for a sight that was likely to be gruesome. But nothing could have prepared me for what lay inside the crime scene tape. The body of Brian Shandling, ne Maher.

20.

As I stared at the pale, wet face, body frozen in rigor, his aunt's words repeated in my head: "gentle soul," "sweet boy." Her words had fallen on cynical ears at the time. Now, I was more inclined to believe they were true. And if they were, this was yet another child who'd been ripped from the world before he even had a chance to live. I wasn't ready to deal with the tragedy of another young death this soon. My only path of escape was to focus on the evidence.

"George, can you give me an estimate for time of death?" I asked.

"Just a very rough one. I'd say he's been dead for about three days now."

Three days. That would put his death very close in time to Hayley's. We'd get a tighter frame when the autopsy was done for both of them-though, contrary to popular belief, it wouldn't be down to the minute, or even the hour. Usually, the best a coroner can do is narrow the time of death down to a window of a few hours. Even then, an estimate as narrow as a couple of hours requires more information than a pathologist can gather on his own. For example, stomach contents can be helpful, but without certain information like a witness who can say when the victim last ate, or how fast that victim digests, or how much physical activity the victim engaged in after the meal, and so on-the coroner can't give a precise time of death. Since no one we'd spoken to so far had seen Brian after Iris Stavros had a glimpse of him on Monday, we weren't likely to find anyone who could say when he last ate. We'd need other information to prove conclusively that he'd died shortly before or after Hayley. I motioned for Bailey to join me and we moved outside the crime scene tape to a spot where we could talk.

"You could've told me who the victim was," I said, more than a little irritated at the way I'd been blindsided.

"Sorry. It's just that the cop wasn't sure." Bailey glanced at me. "It's just...I didn't want to jump the gun..."

...given the way I'd reacted to Hayley's death. "I get it." I gave her a grim nod. "I'm going to step out on a limb here and say Brian didn't buy that ticket to Paris."

Bailey nodded. "And it seems a lot less likely that he killed Hayley. But he was definitely in on the kidnapping-"

"And we know he sent the ransom note, so there's a good chance Hayley was in on the kidnap-ransom scheme."

"Agreed. But now we know someone else has to be involved-"

"Someone who was trying to make it look as though Brian was still alive and planning to leave the country-"