“Sir, is this an emergency call? Do you need assistance?”

“Yes, it’s definitely an emergency. Someone may have been murdered. I don’t know how long ago this happened, or even if it did for sure. Has anyone called about someone named Marti Lowenstein-Bell?”

“Sir, I can’t give out that kind of information.”

“It doesn’t matter. Just send someone to the Lowenstein-Bell residence. I think she’s been killed. I’m almost sure of it.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I just am. Okay? I’m almost positive there’s been a murder.”

“What is the address?”

“The address? Oh, Jesus, I don’t know the address. The body is supposed to be in the swimming pool.”

“Are you at the residence now?”

“No. No. Listen, this is a . . . I don’t know how to make this clear to you. It’s the Mary Smith murder case. The Hollywood celebrity killings. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

“All right, sir, I think I understand. What was the name again?”

“Lowenstein-Bell. Marti. I know her husband’s name is Michael Bell. You might find it under that. I don’t know for certain if she’s dead. I just got this awful message. I’m a reporter at the L.A. Times. My name is Arnold Griner. Detective Galletta knows who I am.”

“Sir, I have the information now. I’m going to put you on hold for just a minute.”

“No, don’t —”

Chapter 25

Chapter 25

LAPD DISPATCH PUT OUT A CALL at 8:42 A.M., sending officers, backup, and emergency medical personnel to the Lowenstein-Bell address in Bel Air.

Two separate 911 calls on the same incident had come within a few minutes of each other. The first one was from the Los Angeles Times. The second came from the Lowenstein-Bell residence itself.

Officers Jeff Campbell and Patrick Beneke were first at the scene. Campbell suspected before they arrived that this was another celebrity murder. The address alone was unusual for this kind of call, but dispatch had mentioned a single adult female victim. And possible knife wounds. The couple who owned the house were both Hollywood types. It added up to trouble no matter what.

A short, dark-haired woman in a gray-and-white maid’s uniform was waiting in the driveway. She was wringing some kind of towel. As the patrolmen got closer, they could see that the woman was sobbing, and walking in circles.

“Great,” Beneke said. “Just what we need, some Carmelita who doesn’t even speak English, bawling her eyes out and acting muy loco.”

Campbell responded the way he always did to the younger officer’s tiresome, racist cynicism. “Shut the hell up, Beneke. I don’t want to hear it. She’s terrified.”

As soon as they were out of the car, the maid went hysterical. “Aquí, aquí, aquí!” she screeched, motioning them toward the front door. “Aquí! Aquí!”