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executive producer.” She recited his phone number from memory. She also gave him the address.
    â€œYou have all that memorized?” West said. “I’m impressed.”
    Catherine shrugged. “It’s what actors do, memorize.”
    â€œDo you know if Mr. Lowe had family?”
    Her face clouded. “No, I’m sorry, I don’t.”
    It took me a second to realize that she wasn’t apologizing for not having an answer but for not bothering to have asked Ed Lowe. Catherine was always a sensitive spirit.
    â€œJust so that you know, Ms. Anderson, people are going to be in and out of here for quite a few hours. Do you have a place you can stay tonight?”
    â€œShe’s staying with me, Detective,” I said before Catherine could answer. “You know where I live and you have my private number.”
    He let slip a little knowing chuckle. “That I do, Maddy . . . Mayor.”
    Catherine gave me a confused look, then asked West, “May I pack a few things?”
    â€œI’ll have to go with you,” he said.
    â€œYou shouldn’t treat her like a suspect,” I snapped. “She’s a victim.”
    â€œI’m not a treating her like a suspect, but I’m not going to change my procedure to preserve your feelings. If we’re lucky, we’ll catch the killer, and when he or she goes to trial I don’t want some public defender raking me over the coals for not preserving the evidentiary quality of the crime scene. I’m trying to protect the evidence, the scene, and you two.”
    I struggled for a sharp retort but came up empty.
    â€œThis way, please,” Catherine said. She started up the stairs.
    West paused partway up the treads and looked out the windows as if checking our story. I could see him looking down toward the pool. A second later, he was up the stairs and following Catherine to her bedroom.
    I walked to the open doors and pretended to watch the field investigators do their work. Within a minute, the medical examiner arrived, and I pointed him to the backyard. No matter how difficult my job became, it would never be as taxing as what these guys did day in and day out.
    At least I hoped it never would.

Chapter 5
    C atherine’s cell phone rang four times from the time we left her house and drove to my home. The trip took only half an hour, the traffic being thinner southbound than the reverse. Still, it was a taxing drive.
    The first call had been her publicist. I couldn’t hear what he said, but her side of the conversation gave me enough to know that he was asking about her health and mental state. She ended that conversation with, “Okay, Franco, I’ll see you then.” That call was followed with one from Stewart Rockwood, the producer; one from a Patty Holt, Rockwood’s aide; and another call from Franco the publicist—again.
    â€œKind of makes you want to turn that thing off, doesn’t it?”
    â€œThey’re worried about me. They didn’t say so, but I think they’re also worried about fallout.”
    â€œFallout?” I pulled down my street and up the driveway, then paused while I waited for the garage door to rise.
    â€œPublicity is a two-edged sword. Bad press can make or break a movie.”
    â€œBad press can make a movie?”
    â€œSometimes.”
    â€œIt’s a shame that’s not true in politics.”
    I guided the car into the garage and exited. Catherine did the same, dragging a designer duffel bag with her. She held it to her chest like it was a teddy bear and she was a frightened eight-year-old. We walked through the door that joined the garage with the house. I had been gone for a week, and it felt good to be home.
    My house is more than a home; it is my cocoon, the place I return each night and lock out the world. My husband, who grew up buried to his neck in comic books, called the place his Fortress of Solitude. If Superman could have a