“Willig’s sound asleep,” he said.

“Good,” the tech said in a low gritty voice, probably a smoker’s voice, the fool. “I won’t have to chat with that jackass.” He jerked his head toward the open door of Willig’s room. “You know what he did, don’t you? It’s all over the hospital.”

“Yeah. Show me your ID and you can go in and torture him.”

The tech leaned toward him as he reached into a pocket. In the next instant Chas felt the sharp stab of a needle slid into his neck, above his collar. He opened his mouth and went for his Beretta, but his arms didn’t work. He felt an instant of terror, then nothing.

The tech gently eased him back so he would stay upright. If anyone noticed him, they’d believe he was asleep.

After a look toward the nurses’ station, the tech walked into Willig’s room.

Vincent was dreaming. He was lying on one of those fancy chaises, on a beach, maybe Fiji, someplace like that, and he had so much money he couldn’t spend it all. There were drinks all around, and beautiful young native girls were hovering around him, laughing and teasing him, a kiss here and there, and he was happy, so very happy. They all wore bikinis, tiny little swatches of cloth. One girl leaned down over him, her breasts nearly in his face, whispering something.

The dream cut off like a spigot and Vincent came awake. Something was wrong, very wrong. He felt a tremendous pain in his arm and he wanted to scream but he couldn’t move. He realized his heart was pounding out of his chest, fast, hard, and he couldn’t catch a breath, couldn’t suck in air. In that instant, Vincent knew he was dying, and he thought about his soul. His stared up at a shadowy face. “Wha—?”

“Goodbye, Vinnie.”

28

* * *

WEDNESDAY MORNING, 6:30

Savich and Sherlock stood over Vincent Willig’s body. Detective Ben Raven, WPD, said, “It’s a hell of a thing. Whoever took Chas down was good.” Ben sighed. “I have a team standing by. I wanted you guys to see Willig before I let them in.”

It was a hell of a thing, Sherlock thought, as she leaned down and studied Vincent Willig’s face. She felt a stab of pity, said a brief prayer. Sorry, Vincent, you shouldn’t be dead. “He looks surprised,” she said. “His eyes are open, his mouth is open, like he wants to speak.” She cocked her head to one side, a move Savich recognized. She was reconstructing what had happened. “Our killer injects a drug into Officer Golinowski’s neck, walks in, sees Vincent sound asleep, injects a lethal dose of that drug, or something else, into his IV tubing. Vincent jerked away, you can see that on his face, Dillon. Look at his eyes. I think it’s more than surprise. I’d say it was shock when he realized who was killing him. And he was feeling pain, probably couldn’t breathe. Maybe potassium chloride, and then he’s dead.”

Ben was staring at Sherlock. “You see it that clearly?”

She shrugged. “I do wonder if he had time to say anything.”

Savich said, “Ben, you said a nurse found Officer Chas Golinowski slumped unconscious in his chair. Is he awake yet?”

“He woke up by himself, but he was pretty confused. They decided not to give him any reversal agents, at least until his bloodwork’s done and they see what the killer gave him. They’re monitoring him, letting him sleep it off. The doctor spotted the needle mark on his neck, like I told you. It isn’t clear where the killer got the drugs yet. We’re checking the pharmacy, the crash carts. Maybe the killer brought them into the hospital. The nurses didn’t see anybody. I haven’t looked at the security tapes yet. You guys done in here? Let’s go to the security office, see what we’ve got.”

They didn’t have much. They saw a tech of indeterminate sex wheeling an IV cart with all the expected paraphernalia, vials and tubing and syringes. The tech was covered head to toe with hospital garb, under a white lab coat.

“No more of this tech?” Savich asked Security Chief Doug Cummings.

“Just a backward view. Fast forward, Lonnie.”

The security assistant fast-forwarded, hit pause. “Here he or she comes to the stairwell at the end of the hall. The camera catches his or her back. Leaves the tray and is gone. If someone is careful, they can avoid the cameras in the stairwells, and he or she did. Sorry, guys, that’s it.”

Cummings said, “I’ve already fielded two calls from reporters. This is going to burst wide open, and very soon now. The man who attempted to kill Venus Rasmussen is himself murdered, with a police guard outside his door. You’ve got a mess on your hands.”

An understatement, Savich thought as they walked to the ER, where Officer Chas Golinowski lay sleeping in cubicle four.

Ben said, “I’ve alerted our media liaison. We’re going to take a big hit for this. No excuses, but the killer was good.” He sighed. “I hope Golinowski has something to say that’s helpful.”

Officer Chas Golinowski didn’t have anything to say. He was still sleeping peacefully, snoring.

Savich and Sherlock spoke to the nurses, the orderlies, anyone who could have possibly seen the killer. No luck. Savich called Mr. Maitland, then Venus.

She was silent a long time, then, “Whoever it was worked very fast, Dillon. Terrifyingly fast. I only made the offer yesterday. Do you think it was a man or a woman?”

“I’ve studied the security tape, saw a tech garbed in hospital white. It’s impossible to tell.” He paused, then added, “Venus, it doesn’t mean that it has to be one of the family. The one behind this had to know Willig was here, but that was all over the news.”

“Will the police officer be all right?”

“He’s stable. They’re letting him sleep.”

Venus said, “You know, Dillon, you ask anyone where they were in the middle of the night and who’s going to say they were anywhere but in bed, sleeping with the angels?”

No one, Savich thought, no one at all.

29

* * *

MISSY DEVEREAUX’S COTTAGE

MALIBU

TUESDAY NIGHT

Cam showered in Missy’s second bathroom, pulled on boxers and a T-shirt and snuggled down on the soft mattress Missy had replaced when she moved in, along with the old green wall-to-wall carpet. “I love my shiny new oak floor,” she’d said to Cam as she’d showed her around. “A new kitchen when I snag a good role. The fifty-year-old fridge and the green kitchen cabinets will be the first to go.”