Private: #1 Suspect by James Patterson, Maxine Paetro Read Free Book Online Page B

pulled back in a short ponytail. Clean shaven, dressed in black. Former middleweight boxer. Former cop and investigator for the DA. Currently a senior investigator on the fast track at Private.
    “After. I was so starved for a woman by that time, I can’t tell you. A kiss could send me to the moon,” Del Rio said.
    “Here’s our match,” said Cruz, pointing to the number on the screen. “Bingham called an escort service called Phi Beta Girls.”
    Del Rio tapped the name of the escort service into his browser, and a website filled the screen.
    Cruz read the sales pitch at the top out loud: “‘Beautiful girls of every ethnicity. Not just beautiful but very intelligent,’ blah, blah. ‘Each one loves her work as an escort,’ har-har. ‘Matched by our placement experts.’ Oh, sure. Matched to your credit card, more like it.”
    Del Rio said, “Chelsea wanted implants, so, you know, took about three dates for her to pay for those, and then she wanted another ‘special gift.’ She wanted a car . I didn’t have a spare fifty grand, so Chelsea dumped me for a gift daddy who owned a luxury-car dealership. Now she drives around town in a Bentley.”
    Cruz laughed. “Not bad for a few hours’ work.”
    “You woulda thought my looks and my fine skills in the rack would’ve meant something to her,” Del Rio said. “I was a definite keeper.”
    “You’re not still hooked on this girl?” Cruz asked.
    “Yeah. She was the love of my life,” Del Rio said. “I’m kidding, you jackass. Chelsea was a ho.” He laughed and turned his attention back to the screen. “Okay, Phi Beta lists about a hundred escorts. Look at these girls. Jessie. Six hundred an hour. Two-hour minimum. Three grand for an overnight. ‘Diana, Playboy Bunny, a known celebrity…’ ”
    “Here’s Phi Beta’s address,” said Cruz. “Let’s take a ride.”

CHAPTER 23
     
    DEL RIO GOT out of the passenger seat of the Mercedes fleet car. He walked between the six-foot-high concrete gateposts dripping with flowers and up the crescent-shaped brick drive to the glass front doors of the Beverly Hills Sun.
    The doorman opened the door, and when Del Rio got to the desk, he said to the girl in the black suit with the choppy hair, “There’s a package waiting for me. Rick Del Rio.”
    The girl, name of Amy Kang pinned to her jacket, said, “May I see your ID?”
    Del Rio thought that Cruz could come in here and say the same thing and the girl would pout and hint around for his phone number. If he looked like Cruz, or like Jack, for that matter, he could own the world.
    He showed the girl his driver’s license. She ducked under the black marble and came up with a sealed manila envelope with his name on it.
    He said, “Thanks, little Amy,” swiped the package off the countertop, and a moment later got back into the car with Cruz.
    As the car shot west on Wilshire, Del Rio slid the CD into the tray of the dash ’puter and booted up the twenty-four-hour-long surveillance video of the fifth floor of the Sun.
    The video was time dated, so Del Rio fast-reversed to Sunday afternoon, five o’clock, put it in fast-forward, and watched people getting in and out of the elevators, walking woodenly up and down the hallway, taking the one-way exit up to the pool deck.
    “Christ,” he said to Cruz as the car took a right onto Westwood Boulevard. “They call this security?”
    “Did ya see that?” Cruz said.
    “What?”
    “I think that was Sandra Bullock shot past me like I was stopped at a light.”
    “The exit to the roof. Supposed to be one-way only, but it’s two-way if someone holds the door open for you. Like they all do.”
    “Red Jag,” said Cruz. “I’m pretty sure that was her.”
    “Room 502 is kinda far from the camera,” Del Rio said, “but I think this is our vic. Gets out of the elevator, walks away from us. Dark pants. White shirt, sport jacket. Yeah, that’s him. He was alive at five-thirty-eight last night.”
    “Let me