Private: #1 Suspect

CHAPTER 23

Del Rio got out of the passenger seat of the Mercedes fleet car. He walked between the six-foot-high concrete gateposts dripping with flowers and up the crescent-shaped brick drive to the glass front doors of the Beverly Hills Sun.

The doorman opened the door, and when Del Rio got to the desk, he said to the girl in the black suit with the choppy hair, “There’s a package waiting for me. Rick Del Rio.”

The girl, name of Amy Kang pinned to her jacket, said, “May I see your ID?”

Del Rio thought that Cruz could come in here and say the same thing and the girl would pout and hint around for his phone number. If he looked like Cruz, or like Jack, for that matter, he could own the world.

He showed the girl his driver’s license. She ducked under the black marble and came up with a sealed manila envelope with his name on it.

He said, “Thanks, little Amy,” swiped the package off the countertop, and a moment later got back into the car with Cruz.

As the car shot west on Wilshire, Del Rio slid the CD into the tray of the dash ’puter and booted up the twenty-four-hour-long surveillance video of the fifth floor of the Sun.

The video was time dated, so Del Rio fast-reversed to Sunday afternoon, five o’clock, put it in fast-forward, and watched people getting in and out of the elevators, walking woodenly up and down the hallway, taking the one-way exit up to the pool deck.

“Christ,” he said to Cruz as the car took a right onto Westwood Boulevard. “They call this security?”

“Did ya see that?” Cruz said.

“What?”

“I think that was Sandra Bullock shot past me like I was stopped at a light.”

“The exit to the roof. Supposed to be one-way only, but it’s two-way if someone holds the door open for you. Like they all do.”

“Red Jag,” said Cruz. “I’m pretty sure that was her.”

“Room 502 is kinda far from the camera,” Del Rio said, “but I think this is our vic. Gets out of the elevator, walks away from us. Dark pants. White shirt, sport jacket. Yeah, that’s him. He was alive at five-thirty-eight last night.”

“Let me know when you see the hooker,” said Cruz.

“Here she comes,” said Del Rio. He slowed down the fast-forward to normal speed, watched the female come off the elevator. She was wearing a short blue dress, a push-up bra hoisting her ta-tas out of the neckline. Envelope-style purse. Stilettos. Long brown hair.

“I’ll give her a nine,” Del Rio said, his eyes following her as she went to 502 and knocked on the door.

Maurice Bingham opened it. The girl smiled, said something, and went inside. Time: six-thirteen.

“Couldn’t see her face too well,” Del Rio said. “But it matches with the timeline. He made the call to Phi Beta at what time?”

“Five-forty-five.”

“Right. So the girl arrives at six-thirteen. Let’s see how much time he paid for.”

Del Rio cranked up the speed, watched people doing little Charlie Chaplin walks up and down the hallway, taking the exit door up to the roof, coming down from the roof, then at eight-fifteen, the blue-dressed girl left 502 and headed to the elevator.

Del Rio froze the tape at the best shot of the girl’s face, which was not too good. But it was something.

“That’s it,” said Del Rio. He attached the still shot to an e-mail and sent it to Jack, copying himself. “Bingham got his last two hours of bliss,” he said to his partner, “before dollface killed him. Roll credits. Go to black.”