PART ONE
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Chapter 1
I DRAFTED BEHIND the ambulance as it sped the two assault victims through traffic on Santa Monica Boulevard toward Ocean Memorial Hospital. When the bus turned inland, I headed north until I reached Pacific Coast Highway, the stretch of road that follows the curve of the coastline and links Malibu to Santa Monica.
My Lamborghini can go from zero to ninety in ten seconds, but this car draws cops out of nowhere, even when it’s just quietly humming at a red light. So I kept to the speed limit, and within twenty minutes, I was within sight of home.
My house is white stucco and glass, shielded from the road by a high wall that is overgrown with vines and inset with a tall wrought-iron gate.
I stopped the car, opened my window, and palmed the new biometric recognition plate; the gate slid open. I pulled the Lambo into my short, tight parking spot and braked next to the blue Jag.
As the gates rolled closed behind me, I got out, locked up the car, checked behind the wall and within the landscaping for anything that didn’t belong. Then I went up the walk to the door.
I’d bought this place with Justine Smith about five years ago. Later, after we’d broken up for the third, impossibly painful time, I bought out Justine’s share of the house. It was comfortable, convenient to my office, just right—until a year ago last May.
On that night, I came back home from a business trip abroad to find another former girlfriend, Colleen Molloy, dead in my bed, her skin still warm. She’d been shot multiple times at close range, and the killer was a pro. The way he’d fixed it, all of the evidence pointed to me as the shooter.
I was charged with Colleen’s murder and jailed, but after some extraordinary work by Private investigators, I was free—if you could call it that. I still opened my door every night expecting that something horrible had happened while I was out.
I put my eye up to the iris reader beside the front door, and when the lock clacked open, I went inside.
A woman’s blue jacket and a sleek leather handbag were on a chair, and her fragrance scented the air as I walked through the main room. I followed the light coming through the house, crossed the tile floors in my gumshoes, then peered through the glass doors that opened out to the pool.
She was doing laps and didn’t see me. That was fine.
The door glided open under my hand and I went out again into the warm night. I took a chaise, and as the ocean roared at the beach below, I watched her swim.
Her lovely shape was up-lit by the pool lights. Her strong arms stroked confidently through the water, and her flip turns had both grace and power.
I knew this woman so well.
I trusted her with everything. I cared about her safety and her happiness. I truly loved her.
But I was unable to see my future with her—or anyone. And that was a problem for Justine. It was why we didn’t live together. And why we’d made no long-term plans. But we had decided a couple of months ago that we were happy seeing each other casually. And at least for now, it was working.
She reached the end of the pool and pulled herself up to the coping. Her skin glistened as light and shadow played over her taut body. She sat with her legs in the pool, leaned forward, and wrung out her long, dark brown hair.
“Hey,” I said.
She started, said, “Jack.”
Then she grabbed a towel and wrapped herself in it, came over to the chaise, and sat down beside me. She smiled.
“How long have you been sitting here?”
I put my hand behind her neck and brought her mouth to mine. I kissed her. Kissed her again. Released her and said, “I just got here. I’ve had a night you won’t believe.”
“I want to take a shower,” Justine said. “Then tell me all about it.”