Page 29 of Wild Sentinel

"What’s Stephanie's last name?"

"Harlow." Then he added. "There's somebody else you should look into. Rachel Langford. She's a talent agent at a competing firm. There's always been bad blood between the two. I don't think she would murder Vivian. But I’d put her on the list.”

I took notes on the pad on the bar counter. "Was Vivian married?”

"Widowed. Harold died 10 years ago. Heart attack. There was no one else for her."

"What about the guy the West Beverly PD pinned this on?”

“Lucas Reed. Committed suicide before the cops could arrest him. A neighbor ratted him out. Seth Porter. They said ballistics from his gun matched the slugs pulled out of Vivian.”

"That sounds pretty solid," I said.

"That's the official story. But I'm hearing through the grapevine that the results are inconclusive.”

"Where are you getting your information?”

Joel hesitated a moment. "If I tell you, you’ll go talk to him. He'll get spooked, and he'll never tell me anything again."

"You want to find out who killed your friend, or do you want to preserve your contact?”

"Both. Let me see if I can get some more information out of him.”

I sighed. "Look, I've gotta run down a lead on another case, then I'll hop on this.”

"Thank you. I really appreciate this. I'm sorry to ask you to do this. It’s just that… Vivian meant a lot to me, and the official story is bullshit.”

"It’s my pleasure. I just hope I can get somewhere with it."

"If anybody can, it's you."

I appreciated the vote of confidence. “Where did Vivian live?”

“In one of the most desirable neighborhoods in West Beverly. Classic Hollywood. I’ll send you her address.”

I said goodbye and ended the call.

After catching Jack up to speed, we told Vincent to tell Scarlett we had errands to run. We borrowed her red Ferrari Spider and headed to Marina Del Ray to catch up with Brooke’s mother, Holly. Jack may have neglected to tell her we were taking the car. I’m sure she heard us leave. The sound of the engine was unmistakable.

18

With traffic, it took an hour to get down to Marina Del Ray. It was insane. Just running a few errands would put you in the car all day. We parked in the lot and strolled the dock, looking for the Pacific Spirit.

The morning sun sparkled the water, and a gentle breeze rocked the boats. It was the start of a perfect California day at 72 degrees.

We found the nice 42-foot sailboat tied up in a slip. It had a twin-helm station, a hardtop sunshade with solar panels built in, and a swim platform at the stern. Full of modern technology, it was a sleek cruiser, but I don't think it spent much time outside of the marina. Possibly runs to Catalina here and there.

I banged on the stern and shouted, "Ms. Larson, county sheriff.”

I neglected to say which county.

Holly poked her head out of the salon a moment later. She was an attractive woman in her late 50s with auburn hair that hung to her shoulders, baby-blue eyes, and a fit physique. Everyone in Los Angeles looked like they spent time in Pilates or spin class.

"We're investigating a string of murders and disappearances that may be connected with your daughter's case.”

Holly climbed into the cockpit, more than eager to talk to us. She welcomed us aboard, and we joined her.

“Other cases?" she asked, her brow knitted with confusion.