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her.”
    “My…my.” Beau smiled. “Has experience made you wiser?”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “Well, you forgot to mention your new client was so damned attractive.”
    Vincent nodded. “A looker.”
    “Maybe I didn’t notice,” replied Cape. “I am a professional.”
    Beau snorted. “A professional investigator’s supposed to notice things.”
    “I guess I’ll have to investigate further.”
    Beau laughed. “That’s what I’m worried about.”
    Cape held up a hand in warning. “Don’t you start. I already got an earful from Linda.”
    “I’m starting nothing—and make sure you don’t, either. Just because the lady needs your help doesn’t mean you get your white horse out of the stable.”
    “Was that a metaphor?” asked Cape. “Or an analogy?”
    “You’re a lost cause,” replied Beau. “You know that, don’t you?”
    Cape ignored the bait. “You didn’t answer my question.”
    Beau spread his arms and stretched, blotting out the sun. “Grace was cool when we questioned her, but the story didn’t track. Just a list of reasons why her partner wouldn’t want to go swimming in the bay. But we’ll toss the guy’s hotel room, maybe ask around the movie set.”
    “Standard follow-up,” said Vincent.
    Cape nodded. “Not surprised. She’s more hunch than fact right now.”
    “Well, it’s on you,” said Beau, putting his hand on Cape’s shoulder. It felt like a titanium catcher’s mitt. He raised the arm and waved it in an arc around the playground. “As you can see, the police got real murders to investigate. No way we’ll give your client’s hunch more than a day’s worth of looking.”
    Cape held out his hand. “More than I deserve—I owe you one.”
    “You definitely owe me,” agreed Beau. “But I’m pretty sure it’s more than one.”
    “Put it on my tab. And good luck hunting Fat Frank.”
    “I ain’t interested in hunting anymore,” said Beau, his cop eyes hard and flat again. “I plan on catching next time.”
    Being hunted by Beau was not something most people survived. As Cape crossed the police tape and headed for the exit, he almost felt sorry for Frank Alessi. The feeling was gone by the time he reached his car.
    The fog had crept over the hills to wrap the zoo in a wet blanket. Cape turned up his collar and wondered whom he was hunting and whether they even existed outside his client’s imagination.

Chapter Eight
    “How does it feel to be famous?”
    “Don’t you mean infamous?”
    Cape didn’t answer, gesturing at the newspaper on his desk. Long shadows swam across the walls of his office as the sun sank into the bay outside. Grace was almost in silhouette, the circle of light from the small desk lamp not quite reaching her face.
    Cape made no move to turn on the lights. Even in the dark he was reminded of Beau’s astute observation—she was attractive. Better to keep the lights low. The last thing Cape needed right now was another distraction.
    “This is embarrassing,” said Grace. Her right index finger came down hard on the paper, her polished nail glowing in the small pool of light. The headline said it all:
    “Movie Mogul Murder Mystery!”
    Four M’s in a row had to be a tabloid record for alliteration. When Cape called Linda to congratulate her, she told him she wanted to add Mayhem at the end, but her editor said four was the limit—stringing five words together in a single headline might call into question the paper’s journalistic integrity. Cape admired their restraint. It was important to have standards.
    Despite the bombastic opening, the article hit all the right notes. Grace was described as having been brought in for questioning, but the article gave the impression she was the first of many interviews—neither the instigator of the inquiry nor a suspect. Cape was mentioned as an independent investigator hired by the studio. Linda had agreed that any heat should be directed toward him and not his client. They