Maybe not the smartest thing to do if there was a prowler in the house!
But there wasn’t.
A check through the window by her front door showed no one at all in the yard.
She looked through the peephole. No one was there.
It was probably about five in the morning.
And she was afraid of darkness and afraid of sleep.
Maybe she’d stay in the living room.
Eventually, she fell asleep on the couch.
As she drifted off, she could almost swear that she smelled the slightly sweet scent of Cara Barton’s perfume.
* * *
He didn’t go in; he looked at the house in the dark, and he marveled at how he had enjoyed the day. Never—in a thousand years—could he have imagined what this would feel like.
Perfect. Everything perfect.
Using Blood-bone—pure genius.
The police were clueless, asking, questioning...and getting nothing.
There was nothing to get. And they just might understand why when the time came.
But for now...
It was delicious. It was the movies, all over again. Marnie was inside her home—the beautiful young heroine—terrified. Waiting...
For the killer to strike.
It was...
Euphoria!
There had been something about Marnie Davante in her role as Madam Zeta that had been magical. The show had been cast well. It was one of those in which the chemistry between the players was just right on, and because of it, the show was incredibly watchable, and it was still doing very well in syndication.
Bryan had downloaded a number of episodes to watch on his phone during the cross-continental flight. After a few, he felt he knew Scarlet Zeta—except, of course, who he had come to know wasn’t a real person—he had come to know a character.
His first stop was with the major crimes detectives who were handling the case. The detective he’d finally managed to speak with over the phone before his arrival—Sophie Manning—was still confused as to why he was coming out from Virginia.
That was all right. In a way, he was still confused himself.
He was asked to wait by the desk sergeant, and soon a small woman with a purposeful gait came toward him. She assessed him quickly, apparently noting that he’d probably hold his own in a fight since she gave him a sort of approving nod. While she was a tiny thing, Bryan figured she’d had some training herself, and while she might not be able to throw much weight around, she’d be damned good throwing around what she did have.
“Mr. McFadden?” she asked, offering him a hand. She had a good grip.
“Bryan McFadden, yes. And you’re Detective Manning.”
“I am. If you’ll come with me, my partner is upstairs in one of our conference rooms.”
Upstairs, he met Grant Vining; once again, he was impressed. Vining didn’t appear to be at all intimidated, nor did he seem to resent Bryan’s presence there. If anything, he was curious—something that he voiced almost immediately.
“You’re out here from Virginia?” he said.
“Yes, sir. Virginia is my home. At the moment.”
“Military brat?”
“Military myself for a few years—a few years back. My parents, no. They were actors.”
“I see,” Vining said. Then he scratched his graying head. “No, no, frankly, I don’t see at all. You’re a private eye?”
“Yes, recently licensed.”
“And you’ve been hired by someone out here? You’re acting for someone? I can assure you, we really are a competent operation. Hollywood is our jurisdiction, which might seem cushy. But in many ways, that makes our work harder—under a spotlight, we have to be better.”
Manning—the respectful junior in the duo—stood quietly, watching the exchange.
“I have absolutely no doubt that you’re exceptionally fine detectives and that this is a crack unit,” Bryan said.
“But then—”
“I’m acting for the deceased,” he said quietly.
“For—for Cara Barton?” Vining asked.
Bryan nodded. “I was actually born out here. My parents were Hamish and Maeve McFadden. If you’re a fan of AMC or any of the TV channels that keep old movies afloat, you might have seen them. They were, however, working in theater the last decade or so of their lives.”
“And?”
“Cara Barton is—was—a dear friend of my mother’s,” Bryan explained.
“The chandelier!” Manning suddenly exclaimed.
Vining and Bryan both looked at her. She flushed but went on enthusiastically. “I know who your parents were now! Your mother—wow! She was stunning. And your dad, too. I actually told my mom when I was little that I was going to grow up and marry him, and, of course, she told me that he was already married, and then later, she told me that he was...”
“Dead,” Bryan finished for her.
She flushed again. “Yes. I’m so sorry.”
“So...this is in your mom’s memory then, kind of. Or do you have a client?” Vining asked.
“That would be me. I am my own client on this.”
Vining studied him for a long moment and then nodded. “All right, fine. Let us bring you up to speed—and remind you that we are the police here. If you make any pertinent discoveries—that is to say, any discoveries at all—they will be shared with us immediately.”
“Absolutely,” Bryan promised.
“We have had all kinds of meetings, bringing in every precinct in the county and sending information out far beyond. We’ve shared what we have with the FBI, the state police and the US Marshals Service. What we have is very little, but I will see that you receive copies of the files. On the one hand, it is an extremely bizarre case—a woman was killed by a person wearing a comic costume and wielding a sword. Apparently, such light-up swords have become extremely popular toys and costume items, making it a daunting task for police and security on hand at the convention at the time of the murder. Such a sword—a real one, with a killing blade—was not found. And while precisely thirty-six persons wearing a Blood-bone costume were stopped and questioned by the same officers, not one was found with a speck of blood upon them or their weapon. In other words, someone wore this costume with a sword that appeared as harmless as the hundreds—perhaps thousands—on sale at the convention. No blood other than the victim’s was found anywhere near the victim or on those around her. No fingerprints were found other than those belonging to the cast and crew. We are, at this moment, relying on good old investigative work, searching through the victim’s past acquaintances and anyone who might have had a grudge against her. Oh, on that—well, people don’t like to speak ill of the dead, do they? Getting the truth out of cast and crew isn’t easy. Also, remember, anyone pertinent to the investigation has already been grilled by police. They will not look upon you kindly.”
“I don’t intend to