“Yes, because she knows it would hurt me.”

DETECTIVE ALEX REESE found the apartment building in West Hollywood where Tina López and her roommate, Soledad Rivera, lived and rang their bell.

The door was opened by a short, plump, pretty woman. “Yes?”

Reese flashed his badge. “I’m Detective Reese, Santa Fe Police Department. Are you Tina López or Soledad Rivera?”

“I’m Soledad,” she replied. “What do you want?”

“I’d like to ask you and Ms. López some questions regarding an investigation I’m conducting. Is she here?”

“Maybe.”

“May I come in?”

“What do you want to know?”

Before he could reply, another woman came down a hallway and approached the door. She was taller and quite beautiful, wearing low-cut jeans that exposed an expanse of belly from well below her navel to just below her deeply cut cleavage.

“Are you Tina López?”

“He’s a cop from Santa Fe, Tina,” Soledad said.

“What do you want?”

“I’d like to ask both of you some questions concerning an investigation I’m conducting. May I come in?”

“I guess so,” Tina replied.

Reese took a seat in the small living room. “It’s my understanding that you were both in Tijuana for the bullfights recently.” He gave them the dates. “Is that correct?”

“Yes,” Tina replied.

“Who were you with?”

“Grif Edwards and Jack Cato,” Soledad said quickly.

“And where did you stay?”

“At the Parador,” Soledad said.

“Before I ask you the next question I should tell you that my investigation is of a double murder, a mother and her son, in Santa Fe, and that anyone who gives false information to me with regard to those killings is liable to be charged as an accessory. Being an accessory to murder carries the same prison sentence as that for the actual murderer. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

Both women stared at him blankly, and he thought he saw tears begin to well in Soledad’s eyes.

“Do you understand?”

“We don’t want to talk to you anymore,” Tina said.

“Grif and Jack weren’t with you in Tijuana, were they? It was two other men, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t…” Soledad began, but Tina elbowed her.

“We don’t want to talk to you anymore,” Tina said again.

“In that case, I’ll have to have the Los Angeles police take you to police headquarters, and we can start all over again with a written record of your questioning.” Reese changed his tone. “Ladies, let me give you some good advice: You don’t want to go to prison for protecting these two guys. They’re not worth it.”

Soledad turned and looked at Tina, and tears began to roll down her cheeks.

“Shut up, Soledad,” Tina said. She turned to Reese. “Now you get out of my house.”

“I’ll see you at the police station,” Reese said, “and if I were you, I’d get a good criminal lawyer, and that’s going to be expensive.”

Soledad began to bawl.

Reese turned to her. “Soledad, do you want to talk to me and save yourself a lot of grief?”

“I told you to get out!” Tina cried.

“Soledad hasn’t asked me to leave.”

Soledad continued to cry loudly.

Tina jumped to her feet, went to the door and pointed outside. “Get out!”

Reese got up, taking his cell phone from his belt. As he walked to the door he made a show of calling a number. “LAPD? I’d like to speak to the chief of detectives, please.” The door slammed behind him.

Reese went back to his rental car, got in and waited. Ten minutes later, Soledad Rivera ran out of the apartment building, carrying a nylon duffel bag, got into a Volkswagen Beetle and drove away. Reese started his car and followed at a distance.

Soledad drove to a neighborhood that seemed to be completely Hispanic, judging from the signs on the storefronts and the people on the streets. She turned into the driveway of a small, neat house, got out of her car and ran inside.

Reese noted the address. “Soledad has run home to Mama,” he said aloud to himself.

ED EAGLE LANDED at Santa Monica Airport, picked up a rental car and drove with Susannah to her Century City apartment. Eagle called Don Wells at Centurion Studios.

“Ed? How are you?”

“Very well, thank you, Don. May we have lunch today?”

“Sure, why don’t you come out to Centurion, and we’ll go to the studio commissary.”

“All right.”

Wells gave him directions, and Eagle hung up.

“How long are we going to be here?” Susannah asked.

“One night, maybe two,” Eagle replied.

Susannah went to a wall safe behind a picture, opened it and held up a small semiautomatic pistol. “This goes into my purse,” she said.

“Good.”

EAGLE WAS GIVEN a studio pass at the front gate and directed to the commissary. Don Wells was waiting at a table inside. He stood up and waved.

Eagle made his way across the crowded dining room to Well’s corner table and sat down.

“Drink?” Wells asked.

“No, thanks, just some iced tea,” Eagle replied, accepting a menu from a waitress. They ordered lunch.

“So, anything happening with the Santa Fe D.A.?” Wells asked.

“Do they have any leads on the killer or killers?”

“They seem to be concentrating on you,” Eagle said.

“You mean Jack Cato?”

“You know about that?”

“He told me he and Grif Edwards had a visit from a Santa Fe detective.”

“Does that concern you?”

“Why should it?”

“It seems clear that the Santa Fe police are theorizing that you hired Cato and Edwards to kill your wife and son.”

“Listen to me, Ed…”

Eagle held up a hand to stop him. “Before you say anything else, let me explain something, Don. Hypothetically speaking, if a client tells his lawyer that he’s guilty of a crime, then when he is tried for it, the lawyer can’t put him on the stand.”

“Why not?”

“Because if the client, having told the lawyer he’s guilty, claims innocence on the stand, then the lawyer is suborning perjury, since he knows his client is lying. Do you understand?”

“Yes, and don’t worry; I’m not going to tell you I’m guilty.”

“Good. What is your relationship with Cato and Edwards?”

“Not much of one. They’ve both worked on a number of my pictures as stuntmen or extras, and they’re part of a group that plays poker at my office once a week when I’m in town.”

“Do you think that these two men are the sorts who would hire out to commit murder?”

“Beats me,” Wells said. “All I know about them is that Cato is hard to read at the poker table, and Edwards scratches his head when he draws good cards. Anything beyond that would be news to me.”

“Ever heard any rumors about either of them?”

“What kind of rumors?”

“Rumors about their hiring out for murder.”

“Nope. Stuntmen are a funny breed, though: a lot of swagger and big talk. It wouldn’t surprise me if one of them bragged about something like that, whether he did it or not.”

“From what you know of them, do you think they might become loose cannons if put under pressure by the police?”

“I honestly don’t know, Ed. My impression of Cato is that he’s the sort who’s steady under pressure; I’ve seen that in his stunt work. Edwards? Who knows?”

“Don, at the very least, the police investigation of these two men means that they are taking you very seriously as a suspect. Have you ever given either of these men sums of cash?”

“Yeah, after a poker game, but I think I’ve won it back.”

“You’ve said that you keep cash and Krugerrands in your Malibu safe, just as you did in Santa Fe. Is that money still there?”

“Yes, of course.”

“See that it doesn’t disappear. You may have to open that safe for the police, before this is over.”

“I get it,” Wells said.

Eagle hoped he did.