(The ninth book in the Irene Kelly series)

I am indebted to several members and former members of the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department for their kind assistance with the research for this book, most especially Detective (Ret.) Ike Sabean, Homicide Bureau Missing/Abducted Children, who was so generous with his time; Detective Elizabeth Smith, Homicide Bureau; and Barry A. J. Fisher, Scientific Services Division.

My thanks also to Edwin L. Jones, Forensic Scientist with the Ventura County Sheriff’s Department Forensic Sciences Laboratory, whose awareness of historical crime lab processes, expertise in serology, and willingness to answer my questions was much appreciated. Jim Giddings of Genelex helped me to better understand DNA testing and changes in its applications within forensic science and paternity testing. My thanks to Ed German, CLPE, FFS, for his superb Web pages on fingerprint examination at www.onin.com/fp, including valuable historical information on the development of this field. Additional help was provided by John Mullins, forensic anthropologists Diane France and Marilyn London, and Dr. Ed Dorhing and Dr. Doug Lyle.

Robert M. Flynn, who wrote for the Evansville (Indiana) Press and was inducted into the Indiana Journalism Hall of Fame in 1992, was undoubtedly the first person to inspire my interest in the world of newspaper work. Many years before this book was completed, I talked to Uncle Bob about the background and story idea, and his reminiscences contributed much to it. I have also received generous and patient help from those he would have referred to as his “ink-stained friends,” most especially Debbie Arrington of the Sacramento Bee; and a number of authors who were also part of that world for many years, including Charles Champlin, Michael Connelly, Peter O’Donnell, T. Jefferson Parker, Kathy Hogan Trocheck, and Elaine Viets.

My heartfelt gratitude to the staff and management of the Long Beach Press-Telegram, most especially to my friend John Futch, Executive News Editor, who gave so much time and assistance, and to Executive Editor Rich Archbold, who allowed me to sit in on meetings and to have access to the paper’s newsroom and staff. Veteran reporter and copy editor Richard Stafford was also generous in speaking to me of his experiences.

Librarian Richard Partlow’s father was a journalist who was blacklisted in the 1950s, and I thank Richard for helping me to better understand the impact the blacklist had on some reporters’ careers.

Rob Bamberger, host of Hot Jazz Saturday Night on WAMU, a public radio station covering the Washington, D.C., area, helped me with music research of the kind that only someone with a true appreciation of his field can provide, and his program (accessed via the Internet) gave me great vintage jazz to listen to as I wrote. Thanks also to Dick La Palm, who was Nat King Cole’s publicist, and who helped track down information about “Send for Me.”

Matthew Godwin of www.earlytelephones.com helped me keep my nickel and dime pay phones straight, and provided other helpful information through his Web site.

Melodie and Greg Shaw, Bill Pratt, and Bob Phibbs not only provided the support of their friendship throughout the writing of the manuscript, they told me about the tunnels that still exist between some of the homes near the Long Beach shore and the bluffs. Bill also helped me with research regarding Rolls-Royces.

James Lincoln Warren, a commander in the U.S. Naval Reserve, took time from writing historical fiction to provide assistance with the scenes off the coast of Las Piernas. If I’ve run aground in any of those passages, it isn’t his fault. Andy Langwiser of Andy’s Books in Cypress, California, kindly allowed me to make use of his expertise from his years in major construction work, and O’Malley and his crew are the better for Andy’s help. Many thanks to these gracious friends.

The Long Beach Public Library’s periodical, local history, photograph, and map collections were used extensively in the research for this book, and I thank the library’s excellent staff for their assistance.

Thanks to my family, especially my husband, Tim, and my sister, Sandra, who read nearly every version of this book as it evolved through rewrites. And to my friend S.G., thank you for teaching me a way back to the heart of the matter.

Marysue Rucci helped me find my way to a better manuscript and gave me room to write and rewrite it. Her patient championship made this book possible. To her, and to all of those at Simon amp; Schuster who lived with changing schedules, my deepest thanks.

Saturday, 11:45 P. M.

January 4, 1958

I F THE BLONDE HAD NOT PUT HER HAND ON JACK CORRIGAN’S THIGH, HE might have awakened in his own bed, rather than facedown on the side of a farm road in the middle of the night. Then he would have missed the burial.

Given his condition that night, he might have slept through everything that happened, but a cold wind cut through his clothing, rousing him. He rolled painfully onto his back and found himself looking up dizzily into the rustling, moonlit leaves of tall, thin trees. His perspective was marred by the alcohol in his veins, and the fact that his left eye was nearly swollen shut.

He closed his eyes and tried to recall how he had ended up here. He remembered the party and the blonde…

The blonde had smiled and said something to him, then she took another drag from her Lucky Strike.

Corrigan saw her heavily lipsticked red mouth form words, but he couldn’t hear what they were. The rock-’n’-roll band was on a break, but someone had turned the radio up, and Jerry Lee Lewis’s “Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On” was rattling the windowpanes. Conversation in the crowded room competed with the music by notching up the shouting level. An old injury kept him from joining the dancers. No, he admitted-even if his ankle hadn’t troubled him, this was not his kind of music. You old fogey, he told himself, and not yet out of your forties.

Not his kind of music, and not his kind of party, which was part of the problem with his mood tonight. He wouldn’t have come, but Katy had sent him a note, specifically asking him to be here.

Despite the note, neither Katy nor her mother, Lillian Vanderveer Linworth, had seemed especially friendly when he arrived. That didn’t surprise him. Harold Linworth, the birthday girl’s father-and Lillian’s husband-had politely despised him for years.

Katy’s in-laws were there as well, Thelma and Barrett Ducane. Barrett was already hitting the sauce, but Thelma looked almost sober for once. Jack planned to catch up to Barrett as soon as possible.

Thelma let it drop that they had just talked Katy and their son Todd into coming along for an after-hours party on their yacht. A moonlight cruise on their new fifty-foot Chris-Craft Catalina.

“I bought the Sea Dreamer for Thelma for Christmas,” Barrett said. “She’s quite the sailor, my little gal.”

If Thelma was supposed to be the captain of this idiotic voyage, that explained the sobriety. She was careful with her toys. Although the Chris-Craft was by no means the most expensive boat they could afford-pocket change to them, he was sure-Jack thought of how tightfisted they were with their boys, Todd and Warren, and how readily they spent money on themselves. He asked if Warren would be joining them on the boat.