"That may be what she was telling people. Maybe she didn't want to deal with a lot of personal questions. Actually, I think it was more like a nursing facility than a hospital, but I don't have the name."

"Do you know if she's all right?" Marnie's heart was racing, and she told herself to calm down. Alison would not have been panicking like this over Gramma Jo.

"No, and I haven't heard a word from her. I've been asking around, but nobody else has heard anything from her, either. It's weird, like she just disappeared." Worry clouded LaDonna's expressive brown eyes. "I've been a family friend for years, and I really love Gramma Jo. I wish she hadn't been so secretive about where she was going."

Marnie was grateful for that much. It helped to know that someone shared her concerns, and LaDonna was a family friend. "I don't see her car here. Did she drive herself to the facility?"

The family car had been an ancient station wagon, and in the early days before the flea market, Gramma had parked alongside the road and sold her vegetables and her wares right out of the back. She'd told fortunes in those days, too. Marnie could remember her asking customers for a personal item, which she'd clutch in her palm.

Marnie never knew whether Gramma had the "sight" or not, but some people swore her predictions came true. Gramma should have warned them all about February second.

"I don't know that, either," LaDonna was saying. "One day she was here, and the next day she was gone, but she took hardly anything with her that I could see."

"That is strange." Marnie had been racking her brain, but she wasn't aware that Gramma Jo had any health problems. Of course, grief and worry took their toll on the body, and her grandmother wasn't a young woman. Marnie could hardly bear the thought that this was her fault. She would not be able to forgive herself.

Whoops of excitement drifted up from the beach. Beyond the sand dunes, maybe a couple hundred feet away, a mother with two young children was laying out a blanket, apparently for a picnic on the sand. They all wore their swimsuits, and the kids were dragging inner tubes as big as them toward the gentle surf.

"I don't know what to do besides keep my eye on the place," LaDonna said.

And meet your creepy boyfriend here, Marnie thought. Her stomach was churning, but it wasn't because of her old friend's sex life. LaDonna had always been a sucker for male attention. She traded sex for love, and wondered why she never felt good about herself, much less loved.

Marnie was worried sick about her grandmother, who'd lived on this patch of land her whole life. It had been left to her by the eccentric maiden aunt who'd raised her, and Gramma Jo had nothing else as far as Marnie knew, certainly not insurance to pay for medical care and hospital stays. There were no other relatives, either. Gramma Jo had married briefly after dropping out of high school, but found she had nothing in common with a young husband whose sole interests were drinking beer and working on junker cars. She'd kept the name, but happily said goodbye to the man. There'd been no one else until Marnie came into her life many years later.

Marnie fought to keep her voice detached when she spoke. "I guess that's about all you can do," she said. "I'm sorry to hear about Gramma Jo. I hope she's okay."

She wanted to say more as she stepped back to leave. LaDonna had shown an appalling lack of respect for her grandmother's home, and Marnie wanted to extract promises that LaDonna would actually water the flowers and lock the place up tight-and most of all, stop turning it into a love shack. But she doubted that Alison would have cared about any of that, and once again, Marnie couldn't take the chance.

Like every obsessed investigator, Tony Bogart had a love-hate relationship with crime scenes. He was intimately familiar with the frustrations of coaxing forensic secrets from a blood-spattered bedroom or a barroom back alley. He'd heard all the analogies to seduction. Probably he'd compared too many of life's frustrations to sex and women, but not when it came to crime scenes.

The allure wasn't about seducing secrets from dead bodies and inanimate objects. It wasn't about the guesswork. It was about the inevitable-the return of the suspect. Tony lived by the age-old theory that the perpetrator could not resist his own sense of horror or triumph or whatever other irresistible emotion had held him in thrall when he committed the crime.

He had to return to the scene to be a witness to his own guilt. Or genius. Sometimes it was to try and undo what he'd done, but every perpetrator came back. Even if he revisited the crime only in his mind, he showed up. Always. They all did. And most showed up in the flesh.

This morning was no exception. Tony had only been hoping for one suspect. He got three, maybe four.

The crime scene was the tide pool hidden on the oak glen behind Josephine Hazelton's cottage, where his brother, Butch, had been murdered. Tony had been keeping an eye on the place since he got back. He'd noticed immediately that it was vacant, and he'd found out from the nearest neighbor that Gramma Jo had been gone for about a month, but the neighbor didn't know anything more than that.

This morning Tony had noticed activity in the cottage, and he'd decided to stake it out long enough to see who was inside. He hadn't been there fifteen minutes when he'd had the good fortune to see Alison Fairmont drive up and get out of her car.

Of course, Alison was already a suspect, but her strange behavior this morning had cemented that in his mind. For no reason that Tony could understand except guilt, Alison stood by her BMW convertible, staring at Josephine Hazelton's ramshackle cottage, and cried as if her heart would break.

Tony was hidden in the glen, near the pool where Butch had been killed. He'd been waiting for Alison to come over to the actual scene, but maybe her guilt was too great for that. Or maybe she'd noticed the activity in the house, too. Alison had never struck him as having a functioning conscience, which was why the tears had surprised him.

He watched her take the steps to the porch, and from there it got even more interesting. Alison had barely knocked on the front door when Bret Fairmont scrambled out the back, trying to stuff his hard-on into his pants, which wasn't easy when you were running.

Not all investigators would have pegged Bret as a suspect, but Tony had no problem making that leap. Having sex in or near a crime scene was one of the weird things some perpetrators did, especially if the original crime was sexual in nature. There'd been no evidence of a sexual assault on Butch, but that didn't mean his murderer might not have been a gay man who'd come on to Butch and then killed him after being rejected. That would make even more sense if Bret were a homophobe who couldn't admit his homosexual tendencies. Tony had no proof that Bret was gay, but a serious investigator thought in terms of all possibilities.

He'd quickly moved to a cover that allowed him to get a better look at the front door, but he'd also cursed himself for not carrying a camera. He'd missed several beautiful blackmail shots. He would have used them to extract information rather than money, but he would have used them.

Apparently Alison didn't see her brother flee out the back. She kept banging on the door, almost as if she was angry. Tony waited for another unzipped male to follow Bret, but it didn't happen that way. Instead, a woman appeared at the front. Women rarely returned to the scene of a crime for sex, but this one just might have.

LaDonna Jeffries? Suspect number three?

It was beginning to look like a high school reunion.

Tony couldn't get close enough to hear their conversation, but he could see the tension in their exchange. LaDonna had her arms crossed and her chin high, the classic defensive posture. Alison looked angry at first, and then, strangely, anxious. Tony knew the two women weren't friends, but he wouldn't have thought them enemies. Watching them, he wasn't so sure.

The conversation had ended abruptly, and Alison had seemed in a hurry to go. LaDonna left moments after Alison drove away. She'd jogged down the gravel road in her Skeetcher tennis shoes, apparently to wherever she'd parked her car so it wouldn't be seen.

Tony had decided not to follow either woman, intending to check out the house instead. But the surprises weren't over yet. Another car pulled up just after he retrieved the key that LaDonna had left under the mat, and let himself into the cottage. Tony ducked out the back door, just as Bret had done.

But Tony didn't sprint for the woods. He glued himself to the outside wall by the door, which he'd left open a crack. And now he was observing suspect number four.

Andrew Villard entered through the unlocked front door and scanned the room, apparently to assure himself that he was alone.

Tony watched him quickly work his way from the living room to the kitchen, going through the drawers and the cabinets, checking the messages by the phone and the notes stuck to the refrigerator with magnets. He used a tissue to avoid prints, which was interesting. But if he was looking for something specific, he didn't seem to find it.

When he disappeared into the cottage's only bedroom, Tony slipped inside and crept to the doorway to watch him. Villard had stopped at one of the dressers, and he was looking at some pictures of Josephine Hazelton and her granddaughter, the missing Marnie. He took a snapshot from the mirror and slipped it into his pants pocket. A small jewelry box caught his attention next. He bent down, looking closely at the box, quickly checked the contents, then slipped it into his pocket, as well.

He wasn't stealing from the woman. No one stole a snapshot.

What the hell was he doing?

He went through the rest of the bedroom, carefully searching dresser drawers, cabinets and closets. A paisley shawl in soft pinks and greens was lying on the bed as if it had been tossed there. He picked it up, but didn't take it with him.

When Villard left the house, he went straight to the scene of the crime. He made his way around behind the cottage to the oak glen where the murder had taken place. He walked the perimeter of the pool, taking in everything around him. A natural formation of boulders created a path that extended a few feet into the pool, and when he reached the last stone, he knelt and measured the depth of the water with a branch he'd picked up.

Maybe he was trying to recreate the scene in his mind. Tony couldn't figure it out, but as Villard stared at the shiny black water, he looked disturbed, even shaken.

That was when Tony realized that he himself had no such feelings about this place. His brother had died here. Butch had been butchered, yet Tony felt little more than a flicker of irony at the gallows pun. That was wrong. It was sick. He should have been enraged. The victims of violent crime deserved that, even his asshole brother. They deserved justice, and yet all Tony cared about was solving the puzzle, winning the game, getting the prize. Sometimes, he wondered why.

Tony put the soul-searching out of his mind when Villard tossed the measuring stick away and left the glen. Moments later, as the man got into his car, Tony crept through the trees to the side road where he'd hidden the Vette, and waited for Andrew to drive by. Tony wouldn't need to follow closely. The rooster tail of dust would tell him which way Andrew had gone, even when he got to the main road. It would also hide Tony's car from his view.

Tony tailed Andrew to Mirage Bay, where he pulled up in front of the local jeweler's shop and went in. Fifteen minutes later, he came out and walked across the street to a real estate office. Tony could venture a guess as to the reason for those visits, but he would wait until Villard left the area before he confirmed his suspicions.

Of all the visitors to Josephine Hazelton's house that morning, Villard was the only one who had ventured to the actual crime scene, but Tony had to admit that he was the least likely suspect. He was an outsider with no real connection to Butch and no particular motive to harm him.

Butch had more reason to want to harm Villard. A normal kid might have hated the guy because he'd stolen his brother's girl, but Butch had never been normal, although he did once confide to Tony that he hated Villard's guts because Villard had done something to embarrass him in front of his friends. Butch hadn't gone into detail, and Tony hadn't pressed. They'd never been close that way.

As much as Tony wanted to nail the French bastard, he didn't have the goods on him. Not yet, anyway. And there was something far more intriguing about Villard. Tony had had him under surveillance for several days, and with the exception of this morning, he was starting to see a pattern in Villard's movements. The man had an objective, but unfortunately, it didn't make any sense to Tony. Andrew Villard seemed to be investigating the death of a woman who was very much alive.

His wife.

Julia took great pleasure in gazing at her new circlet bracelet as she drove through the light afternoon traffic on the San Diego Freeway. She didn't have to take her eyes off the road because her hands were right there in front of her, and the way the round-cut diamonds caught the sun was dazzling.

She didn't think of that kind of pleasure as bad, although her mother would have. Eleanor would have called it materialistic. But how could it be wrong to take so much pleasure from just one new piece of jewelry? She wasn't bringing home bags of baubles, thousand-dollar designer shoes or Citation jets, even though she could well afford them. It was one bracelet, and it made her happy when so little else could these days.

Julia relaxed her grip on the wheel. Her knuckles had gone white around edges just from thinking about her mother. Eventually she would tire of the bracelet and buy something new and sparkly to boost her spirits, but that might be months, even years from now. She still loved her S600 Mercedes, too, and it wasn't new. She understood value. She'd bought a car that would last.

She spotted the sign for her freeway exit ahead and glanced in the rearview mirror, getting ready to change lanes. As she did she saw the car behind her moving with her. The dark green sedan followed her from the fast lane of the freeway into the middle. Julia didn't think much about it. Southern California freeways were hell in the best of circumstances, and she liked to be in the exit lane well ahead of time.

She was also dreading this afternoon's rendezvous. She'd gotten carried away at the gym, and she was running late. But that was probably intentional. She didn't like how things had been going with her lawyer, Jack Furlinghetti. He was stringing her along, playing her, and there was little she despised more than being played.

As she got ready to change lanes again, she checked both mirrors, rear and side, and saw that the car was still with her. Curious, she began to pay attention. The sedan took the exit with her, too. The sun was reflecting against the windshield, and she couldn't see the driver, but the vehicle looked like a standard midsize four-door, nothing fancy.

Julia turned right at the exit, and the other car did, too. The sun was coming from a different angle now, silhouetting the driver, and Julia thought it might be a woman. She could see what looked like long hair, although she couldn't make out any details.

When the sedan was still with her at the next turn, she fished her cell out of her purse and, with one hand, keyed in the speed dial code for Jack Furlinghetti's cell phone. She knew he wouldn't be in his office. He was waiting for her in a motel room, hopefully not as sleazy as the last one.

He answered on the first ring. "Where are you?"

He must have seen her number come up on the display. "I'm being followed, Jack. I think it's a woman. It might even be...my assistant."

Julia hadn't realized she suspected it was Rebecca until she'd said it. She glanced in the mirror again, trying to get a better look at the car and the license. Rebecca drove an old Volkswagen Rabbit. It couldn't be her-unless she'd picked up a rental. Julia still couldn't see the driver clearly. Rebecca normally wore her hair up. The color might have been hers, reddish-brown, but with the bright sun, she couldn't tell.

"Lose her and get over here. You wrote down the directions, right?"

"I'm not coming, Jack. It's not safe. We'll have to reschedule."

"You're going to be sorry. I had a surprise for you."

"Really?" Her voice was singsong. Heh heh. Wink Wink. "What kind of surprise, Jack?"

He snickered, and Julia grimaced. Her mother was right; she had no morals. Jack Furlinghetti redefined the word revolting, but she was worse. She was encouraging his revoltingness, exploiting it.

"I want an answer, Jack. Are you are going to cooperate?"

"Only if you do. Get your awesome ass over here."

"Apparently you'd like a threesome? You, me and my tail?"

"Is that a trick question?" In a different tone, he added, "Julia, you know what I mean."

"I'll call you back to reschedule," she said, clicking off the phone. Bastard. She would have to find another way to deal with him. Would her mother think her immoral if she strung him up by his balls? Probably not. It might be the first thing Eleanor would heartily approve of.

A horn blared, reminding Julia that she wasn't paying attention to the road. She tossed her cell phone in the passenger seat. They really should pass a law against the nasty things.

When she glanced back at the mirror, the sedan was gone.

Jack Furlinghetti finished off the soft drink he'd gotten from the vending machine in the motel lobby. He dropped the can in the wastebasket, not quite sure what he'd been drinking. The medication he was on blunted his senses and made everything taste the same, but he'd had a thirst that had to be quenched, and the vending machine had been handy.

The motel room was a disaster, small, stuffy and claustrophobic. Even for a guy with a seedy motel fantasy, he had to admit that this was a challenge. The decrepit air conditioner had wheezed its last almost as soon as he'd turned it on, and the building was about as well insulated as a sardine can.

He sat on the bed and picked up his cell, smiling at the rusty creak of the box springs. He had phone calls to make. It wasn't easy accounting for all the time he'd been away from the office lately. And Julia wouldn't have liked his surprise, anyway. There wasn't going to be any sex today, at least nothing exotic. Just some bad news for the lady of the house. Julia didn't know it yet, but she wasn't getting what she wanted.

His mind went oddly blank as he stared at the cell's keypad, trying to remember his office number. The phone was new and he hadn't programmed it yet. What the hell was that number? He hated not having information at his fingertips.

He reached inside his suit jacket, snagged a packet with two tiny red tablets, ripped it open and swallowed them both without water.

Give yourself a minute. You'll be fine, dude. Superman.

The bed groaned loudly as he got up and walked to the grimy second-floor window. He wrestled it open, looking for a breeze. The parking lot was empty, except for a dented compact car and his silver Porsche, which stuck out like a handful of sore thumbs.

No, Julia wasn't getting what she wanted. And neither was anyone else in the Fairmont family. He wasn't giving control of the trust fund over to any of those desperate losers, no matter what they did. Both Bret and Andrew, the son-in-law, had paid him visits to make discreet inquiries. Jack was a little surprised neither of them had offered him sex. The only one he hadn't heard from was Alison, who had a legitimate claim-and hadn't breached the morals clause. Yet.

Of course, if she were to offer him sex...

But there were other, smarter ways to deal with her. He grunted and shut the window, which was nothing but a conduit for the drippy heat.

Now, Eleanor Driscoll, there was a woman after an attorney's heart. That crazy morals clause she'd come up with practically guaranteed that her female progeny would screw themselves out of the money, so to speak. Of course, it could be legally challenged in a heartbeat, but who among the proud and prominent Fairmonts wanted their dirty laundry aired in court? And Jack would make sure it was a packed courtroom and not some closed session with a hired private judge.

Eleanor was quite a dame, and probably as hot as a cherry bomb in her prime. Who else would think in terms of moral clauses except someone struggling to contain his or her own rampant libido?

The office phone number-555-2100-popped into his head, thanks to the pills. One of his clients had been supplying him with smart pills that did everything from jump-start your memory to make you an analytical genius. He hated game shows, but had found himself watching Jeopardy and acing the questions before the contestants could hit the button. It was unreal. Of course, it was illegal, too. Not narcotic illegal, just not approved for use by the FDA.

Not that he really needed to be any smarter. The people he dealt with were endlessly stupid. What made being an estate lawyer so easy and lucrative was how efficiently most people, especially the wealthy, fucked up their lives and brought about their own financial downfalls. Jack hardly had to do any work at all.

He glanced over his shoulder at his depressing surroundings. Time to pack up and say goodbye to this dive. He also needed to replenish his supply of pills. He'd found only one packet in his suit jacket. Possibly he'd been taking more than he realized.

17.

The misty pink clouds sat like scoops of strawberry ice cream on the lavender hills, and the evening air was heavy with the sweetness of star jasmine. It was cocktail hour at the Fairmont mansion, and Julia and Bret were sipping what looked like champagne cocktails when Andrew joined them on the terrace.

"Can I get you a drink?" Rebecca asked, approaching him with a tray of appetizers.

"No, thanks." He carefully dodged her as he walked over to Julia, who'd taken possession of a chaise longue under a huge Kentia palm.

Whether intentional or not, the slit of Julia's sarong skirt had fallen open to reveal enough skin to make you wonder if she was wearing underwear. And the glazed smile told him this wasn't her first drink.

Bret, on the other hand, looked stone-cold sober as he stood at the railing, his back to the ocean, watching Andrew with a glower.

Andrew's gut tightened. Maybe he had better watch for falling pots. Bret was positively malevolent tonight.

Andrew turned to Julia. "Have you seen Alison? She's not in the room, and there's no note. When I left she wasn't feeling well."

Julia sloshed her drink a bit as she set it down. "I have no idea where she is. I haven't seen her since breakfast. Is everything all right?"

Andrew tried to quiet the uneasiness he felt. "Everything's fine. She probably went for a walk."

"At this time of day?"