The Cinderella Murder (34 page)

Steve felt his grip on the steering wheel tighten as he replayed Martin’s words to the media that day. He had described Steve as a “disturbed individual” who had “found his way into” Advocates for God. He had assured the press that AG was doing everything in its power “to apprehend this criminal.”

Steve knew he’d messed up—bad. He hit that man who interrupted his break-in at the
Under Suspicion
house harder, and more times, that he should have. And that neighbor lady back in Oakland—that had gone really wrong.

But if Steve was such a disturbed, ill criminal, shouldn’t Martin Collins have to take some responsibility for his conduct? Martin, after all, had known Steve’s struggles with his temper. And yet who had Martin turned to when he needed someone to get to the bottom of what Nicole Melling was saying about him to
Under Suspicion
? That’s right: Steve. As far as Steve was concerned, his actions—right or wrong—belonged to Martin just as much as to him.

He felt the comfort of the nine-millimeter in the back of his waistband as he spotted Martin exiting the homeless shelter. Because Martin was a firm believer in what he called “the strengthening power of routine,” Steve knew that Martin’s next stop would be home. Steve also knew that Martin would spend several minutes shaking hands and posing for photographs before getting in his car.

That would give Steve plenty of time.

He started the engine and drove to the hills, parking one block away for safety, even though he’d stolen the blue pickup he was now driving. As he strolled on the sidewalk, he kept alert, checking for any police or security guards circling the neighborhood. If necessary, he could crouch in a nearby garden, posing as a landscaper. Steve knew how easy it was to hide in plain sight, simply by looking like someone who belonged in a setting. But the block was quiet. There was no need for camouflage.

Within seconds, he slipped right through the front door, using tools he’d wielded so many times on Martin’s orders. All these years, he had looked to Martin for guidance about what was right and what was wrong. Now Martin had turned that entire world upside down.

It was time for both of them to be judged by the only voice that counted.

He made himself comfortable on the living room sofa, placing
his gun on the coffee table in front of him. He could not recall ever being so self-assured inside Martin’s home.

When he heard the mechanical rumble of the garage door, he rose and picked up his weapon. It was showtime.

•  •  •

Fifteen minutes later, a reporter named Jenny Hughes was jogging in the Hollywood Hills, admiring the homes as she passed. Her own digs were quite different, a converted warehouse in downtown Los Angeles. But on most days, Jenny’s runs doubled as a chance to check out how the other half lived. She had a serious case of real estate envy.

She used the approaching hill as an interval opportunity, breaking into a full sprint. By the time she reached the top, she was gasping for breath, and her pulse had spiked to maximum capacity. She slowed to a casual walk, feeling the endorphins surge with each deep inhale. There was a reason she had a resting heart rate of fifty-one.

She found her pace slowing further as she neared the next house on the block, an all-white modern number, chock-f of floor-to-ceiling picture windows. Her particular interest in this house wasn’t limited to the property itself. The home’s sole resident was Reverend Martin Collins, founder of the Advocates for God megachurch. Before she’d left for her run, the newsroom had been abuzz with reports that one of the church’s members was on a one-man crime spree.

She’d watched the reverend’s impromptu press conference. According to Collins, the man wanted by the LAPD was a free agent—a rogue who had gone off the deep end. But some in the newsroom speculated that the man’s arrest might be a chance for police to peer behind the church’s carefully crafted façade. There had been rumors for years that the church and its charitable activities were all a front for financial shenanigans. What would this Steve Roman say
about AG now that Collins had thrown him under the bus on live television?

Jenny felt her pulse dropping beneath cardio level. Time to get back at it.

She gave a final look at Collins’s house as she picked up the pace. Just like her dream of owning a mansion was a distant fantasy, so too was a world in which she’d be trusted to write a front-page article exposing corruption at a megachurch. Jenny was a reporter in title, but so far her bylines were limited to human-interest stories, “personality” features, and other lightweight fare. If Collins had a dog who could ride a skateboard, that would be the kind of thing her editor might send her way.

Her thoughts were broken by the sound of two quick blasts, back to back. On instinct, she dove to the grass median next to her, seeking shelter behind a station wagon parked on the street. Were those
gunshots
?

The sounds were gone now. The distant hum of a lawn mower reminded her that she wasn’t exactly in East L.A. She was rising to her feet, laughing at her own wild imagination, when she heard one more blast.

This time she was certain. It was gunfire. And unless her ears were playing tricks on her, it sounded like the shots had come from Martin Collins’s house.

She entered 911 in her cell phone but then deleted the numbers for a quick call to her editor first. She finally had dibs on a major story.

70

M
adison Meyer slid into the booth at one of her favorite Italian restaurants, Scarpetta, careful of her extra-short hemline. “Did you miss me, Professor?” she asked coyly. She had excused herself to the powder room to reapply her lipstick. Men had a tendency to stare at her lips when they were coated in cherry red.

Richard Hathaway smiled at her from across the table. “Terribly. And you missed the dessert tray. The waiter was a minute into his elaborate descriptions before I finally pointed out your absence. I think there might be an inverse correlation between basic common sense and the ability to go on and on about a tray of food. But I did ask him to come back once you returned.”

“I love it that you use terms like ‘inverse correlation’ in everyday conversation.”

When she first got the letter about
Under Suspicion
, she’d had a fleeting hope of reconnecting with Keith Ratner. At one point, they’d been so well matched. Both actors. Both driven. Both a little bit sneaky. Maybe she could finally get Keith to love her the way she had once loved him.

But now she wasn’t the least bit interested in Keith. She’d always thought that his connection to AG was a gimmick, as if the do-gooder, Bible-thumping image would compensate for the he-might-have-killed-his-girlfriend
stigma. But nope, apparently he really was a changed man. Good riddance.

Then it turned out that Keith wasn’t the only former flame at this little UCLA reunion. The years had been kind to Richard Hathaway. If possible, he had even gotten better with age. Of course, the millions of dollars he’d earned certainly didn’t hurt. He had the kind of money that made A-list actors feel broke. Plus he was smart. There was a reason all the female students had been so drawn to him in college.

She was trying not to get her hopes up, but she couldn’t help it. He was planning to return to Silicon Valley in a couple of days. She just needed to plant the seed that she was available to go with him if he wanted company.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you,” she said breezily, “my agent wants me to audition for a play in San Francisco. It’s a small production, but a few movie stars are interested in the lead, so it will get plenty of attention.” There was no play, of course, but she could always tell him later that the funding fell apart.

“Sounds like a good opportunity.” His gaze wandered around the restaurant. “I’m starting to think that waiter’s never coming back. The desserts really did look spectacular.”

“I’ll be going up next week,” Madison continued. “You know, if you want to get together.”

“Sure thing. Let me know what hotel you’ll be at, and I’ll find a restaurant nearby.”

Well, dinner was better than nothing. Madison could swing a couple nights in a hotel if it meant a chance at landing a man like this one. “Oh, speaking of hotels, I almost forgot to tell you: Laurie Moran saw you leaving my room today. I guess the cat’s out of the bag.”

“Not much of a cat: we’re two consenting adults.”

“True, but it still feels a little naughty, doesn’t it?” Madison took another sip of the red wine Hathaway had ordered without even
looking at the list. It tasted expensive. “Anyway, you wouldn’t believe how out of control her production has gotten. Did you see there’s an arrest warrant out for that guy from Keith’s church? Plus I heard some of the crew at the hotel saying that Dwight had that house in Bel Air seriously wired up for surveillance. Totally creepy, right?”

“Surveillance?”

“Yeah, and not just normal security cameras, either. Like hidden cameras and microphones in every room. I know he was your friend and everything, but that seems pretty stalkerish. Made me remember how he used to look at Susan all weird and dreamy in college. Did you know him to be the type to spy on people without telling them? Maybe it was his way of having control. Ah, here he is!”

The waiter was back, and as Richard promised, the choices looked delicious. She never ate dessert—sugar was a surefire way to bloat, which the camera magnified tenfold. But maybe she’d allow herself just one bite of that amazing-looking chocolate torte.

The waiter was midway through his tour of the tray when Richard suddenly dropped three hundred-dollar bills on the table. “I’m terribly sorry, but I’m afraid my stomach is having troubles.”

“Sir, is everything okay?” the waiter asked. “I can call for medical assistance if it’s serious.”

“No.” He was standing up already. “I just—I need to go. Can you please make sure she gets a cab?” He was stuffing fifties in the waiter’s hand. “I’m terribly sorry, Maddie. I’ll call you tomorrow. And, please, if it’s not too forward, I’d like you to stay with me when you come up for your audition, okay? It’s a ways from San Francisco proper, but we’ll get you a driver.”

He blew her a kiss, and then he was gone.

The waiter looked at her apologetically. “So, should I call you that cab?”

“Sure. But first, I’ll have the chocolate torte. And a glass of your best champagne.”

“Very good, ma’am.”

Twenty years ago, Richard had stood her up for a date, and look what happened. She’d won a Spirit Award. He may have left tonight’s dinner early, but he had invited her to his home. He had called her Maddie.

Before he knew what hit him, she’d have him wrapped around her little finger. Madison Meyer Hathaway. It had a nice ring to it.

71

T
he mood in Jerry’s hospital room was as bright and celebratory as the last visit had been terrifying and dreary. He still looked weak and his head was still bandaged, but the oxygen mask was gone. The bruises were deep purple but beginning to fade ever so slightly.

Laurie and Alex had driven straight here from the hotel, arriving at the hospital’s parking garage just behind Leo, Grace, and Timmy. They’d only been in Jerry’s room a few minutes, and already the nurse had popped in twice to remind them not to get “the patient” too excited.

Jerry pressed an index finger to his lips. “Keep it down,” he said groggily, “or Nurse Ratched will send me to sleep without a martini.” He glanced toward a tiny stuffed panda bear resting on a nearby tray. “Timmy?”

Laurie nodded.

“I thought so. One of the nurse’s aides said the ‘sweetest little boy’ had brought it.”

“He’s just outside.” Laurie sent a quick
OK
text message to Grace, who was waiting in the hall.

“You were afraid the bruised and battered mummy might scare a nine-year-old?” His voice was still weak but growing stronger by the minute.

“Possibly,” she admitted.

Leo’s cell phone rang at his waist. He silenced it as he took a seat in a chair in the corner. “I keep telling her the kid’s probably tougher than she is.”