I put my hands on my hips. “You really think my word is enough probable cause for a search warrant?”

He bit the inside of his cheek. Obviously he saw my point. “You’re making it very hard for me to do my job, Bender.”

“Your job is to protect me from bad guys. No one said anything about keeping me from bending the law a little.”

Cal narrowed his eyes at me. Then finally muttered an, “I need a raise,” and turned the car back on.

I tried to hide my smirk of triumph.

“And quit smirking.”

Okay, fine. I didn’t try that hard.

As soon as we were on the freeway, I grabbed my cell and dialed Cameron’s number. She picked up on the fourth ring.

“Cameron Dakota.”

“Hey, Cam, it’s me,” I told her. “Listen, where are you right now?”

“Afternoon baby bump watch on Melrose. Why?”

“I need a favor. Think I can steal you away for a couple hours?”

“Are you kidding? You’d be doing me the favor. It’s like a hundred degrees out here, and I’ve already downed three Frappucinos. What’s up?”

I quickly filled Cam in on our little mission and gave her the address to Katie’s place in Beverly Hills.

When I hung up, Cal still had that I’m-going-to-live-to-regret-this look on his face.

“You’re dragging Cam into this, too?”

“She’s got a telephoto lens that can spot cellulite at a hundred yards away. She’s our lookout.”

Cal just shook his head again. “A big raise.”

At six square miles, Beverly Hills is actually one of the smallest towns in California. But the wealth in those miles could buy a small country. Several times over. Designer boutiques, oversized homes on acres of prime real estate, and more Mercedes per capita than anywhere on the planet, it is a haven to the elite of L.A. society. Manicured, buffed, shined, and pleasant in every aspect, Beverly Hills is the sparkling gem of L.A. County. There isn’t even a hospital or cemetery to remind residents of the unpleasant thought of mortality. It’s said that technically, no one is actually born or dies in Beverly Hills.

Katie Briggs’s place was on a wide, tree-lined street full of homes on steroids. Big, bold, and fairly bursting from their lots. Katie’s was a two-story Mediterranean style, complete with adobe-colored shingles and wrought-iron balconies filled with brightly overflowing flowerpots. A narrow front lawn separated the house from the street, all wrapped up tight behind a large security gate that spanned the length of the property.

Cal parked at the curb in front of a faux Tudor across the street. “Now what?” he asked. Clearly not really wanting to know.

I ignored him, picking up my cell, dialing Cam’s number, and putting it on speakerphone.

“Yeah?” she answered.

“You in place?”

“Yep.”