“And he’s making less than a hundred grand at the studio?”

“And driving a new pickup truck,” Morales said. “I checked the title—no liens on it, so he paid cash.”

“Sounds like Mr. Gregg has a business going on the side,” Croft said.

They looked into the two bedrooms and found nothing of interest. In a home office, however, they found a large safe.

“We’re going to have to call Tech Services and get a safecracker,” Morales said.

“That’s going to take a day or two,” Croft said. “On the other hand, I know a guy.”

“What the fuck, call him.”

—

FORTY MINUTES LATER, a small man carrying a briefcase presented himself at the front door.

“Hello, Manny,” Croft said. “Come take a look.” He led the man into the home office.

“Fifteen minutes,” Manny said. “A hundred bucks, special police rate.”

“Done,” Croft said, “but I’ll want a receipt.”

Manny inspected the lock, then pulled a stethoscope from his briefcase and pressed it against the safe door while slowly rotating the dial. “That’s one,” he said, turning the dial in the opposite direction. In twelve minutes, he had it open.

Croft gave him a hundred and accepted a receipt.

“You think the captain will okay that?” Morales asked.

“It’s cheaper than having the LAPD do it.” Croft pulled on a pair of latex gloves and opened the door. “Looka here,” he said. There were half a dozen handguns of different calibers and two silencers on the shelves. There was a briefcase on the floor of the safe that, when opened, revealed a sniper rifle, broken down into parts so as to fit in the case. There was also a hefty silencer.

“It seems that Mr. Gregg offered a range of assassination services,” Croft said. There was a stack of money, secured by a rubber band, and he counted it. “Thirty-nine grand,” he said. There was also a plain white envelope containing only hundreds. “Twenty-five grand,” he said. “I’ll bet that’s the first half of the payment for Eagle’s airplane. We’d better check the envelope for prints.”

Croft put the envelope into a plastic evidence bag. “You know,” he said, “it was a good plan. Gregg could have walked down to the beach, waited for the airplane to take off, then dialed the number. The airplane would have crashed into the Pacific Ocean and broken apart. It would have taken a major operation to recover it and check for evidence, and we would have found nothing useful. But somebody dials a wrong number, and blooey! The assassin is assassinated.”

“I guess we better go talk to Mrs. Grosvenor,” Morales said.

“Not until we see if we can lift a print from this envelope,” Morales said, holding up the evidence bag.

—

TWO HOURS LATER, they had a thumbprint and a name: Barbara Eagle.