“Oh.” I saw that Ron Burns wasn’t quite as immune to Washington pressure as I had thought. Even so, he was the best thing that had happened to the FBI in a long time. And he’d already done me more than one favor in my short tenure. Of course, I had done him a few good turns, too.

“Alex, just do a quick in-and-out on this one. I’d really appreciate it. We’ll have you back with your family for dinner. A late dinner, anyway. Just check out the murder scene for me. I want to hear your take on what happened. I took the liberty—they’re waiting for you to get there.”

I finished the call and cast a look at Jamilla. “Well, the good news is, I don’t have to fly anywhere. It’s something in L.A. The actress Antonia Schifman was murdered today.”

She pushed up next to me in bed. “Oh, that’s terrible, Alex. I liked her movies. She always seemed nice. That’s really a shame. Well, at least I’ll get to dish with Nana and the kids while you’re out of earshot.”

“I’ll meet you all back here for dinner. Might be a little late.”

“My flight’s not until eleven, Alex. But I have to be on the late flight out.”

I kissed her, just a little sheepishly, ashamed that I’d given in to Burns. But what choice did I have?

“Go make California safe—safer,” she said. “I’ll keep an eye on Mickey and Donald to make sure they don’t go postal.”

What a thought.

Chapter 10

Chapter 10

THE STORYTELLER drove right by the Schifman murder scene, right by the crime scene. He knew he shouldn’t have come out here again, but he couldn’t help himself. In a way, he thought this might even be a good idea. So he stopped his car and got out to look around.

What an incredible rush it turned out to be. He knew the house, knew the ritzy neighborhood in Beverly Hills really well—Miller Place. Suddenly, he almost couldn’t catch his breath, and he loved the feeling of danger, of “anything can happen now!” And it definitely could. He was the Storyteller, after all.

The press was everywhere, along with the LAPD, of course, and even some police brass, and he’d had to park about a quarter of a mile away. That was fine with him—safer, smarter. A minute or so later, he joined in with fans and other lookyloos making the pilgrimage to the shrine where poor Antonia had checked out of the rat race this morning.

“I can’t believe she’s dead,” a young couple was saying as they walked arm in arm, heads bowed as if they’d lost a real loved one. What was with some people? Could anybody be this nuts?