Private: #1 Suspect by James Patterson Maxine Paetro

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.”

CHAPTER 24

    PHI BETA GIRLS operated from a small three-story house on Hilgard Avenue in Westwood, also known as UCLA’s Sorority Row. Cruz pulled the Mercedes up to the curb next to a gatepost where the Greek letters phi beta gamma were screwed into the wood.
    Cruz and Del Rio got out of the car and went through the gate and up a path to the front door of the old earth-colored stucco house. Del Rio pressed the buzzer.
    A twenty-something Hispanic male answered the door, hair slicked back, eyebrows waxed, wearing flip-flops, spotless white yoga pants, and a white tunic.
    Cruz flashed his badge. Gold shield in a leather wallet. Looked like the real official thing.
    “Can I help you?” the man asked.
    “We need to see the lady of the house. Susan Burnett. We’re investigating a homicide.”
    “Please wait here,” said the guy in white.
    Cruz said, “Might be better for us not to stand on your doorstep.”
    “I’ll be back in a minute.”
    Cruz turned away from the door and stood with his chin tilted up, hands clasped behind his back, taking in the smells of jacaranda and banana trees, while Del Rio stood on one foot, then the other until the guy came back.
    “Miss Burnett will see you now.”
    The madam or booker or whatever she called herself had a cappuccino complexion and a Pilates build. She was jogging on a treadmill in the gym at the back of the house, jalousie windows overlooking the pool.
    Del Rio thought she was smokin’, probably a hooker herself a few years back. He tapped her shoulder and she turned, hit the power button, and got off her Nordic Track. Draped a towel around her neck.
    Del Rio held up his badge again, not saying he was with the LAPD but implying it. No crime called “implying,” although impersonating a police officer was a felony.
    “I’m Rick Del Rio. This is my partner, Emilio Cruz. We’re investigating a homicide. We’re not here about your business activities. This is all about a homicide last night at the Beverly Hills Sun.”
    “We may have a witness, a girl who works for you,” Cruz said. “If I can put my CD into your player.”
    “Oh, my. You’re very forward, Mr. Cruz,” said Susan Burnett, giving him a dry smile. “Let me see that badge again?”
    Cruz took it out of his jacket pocket, preempting her indignation by saying, “We’re investigators with Private. We’re not going to talk to the cops. If we don’t have to.”
    Burnett said, “I should call the cops just to see what you would do.”
    “You want to turn this little inquiry into an official case, go ahead,” said Del Rio. “The tabloids will love it.”
    Burnett thought for a second. “I wouldn’t