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Barnes said he would have Kardosian brought to an interview room next door.

The room to which they escorted her was scarcely larger than a broom closet, furnished only with a metal table and chairs; another two-way glass.

Through the glass Claudia could see a room that was a mirror image of this one. A tape recorder had been set up on the table. A video camera mounted high up on the wall was focused on the chair where the suspect would be seated. The one bolted to the floor.

Barnes came through the door, followed by Zuniga, and a minute later Kardosian was brought in by a deputy who had to be at least six-five, built like a bull. No chance of Kardosian making a break for it with that guy standing guard, Claudia thought with satisfaction.

The suspect cradled his cast-wrapped right arm in his left hand and stared brazenly at the mirrored wall.

“Why don’t you go in there with them?” asked Claudia, noting that Jovanic’s body was straining toward the window.

“More than two of us at a time makes it look like coercion. I’ll have a crack at him later.”

Zuniga leaned against the door, his arms folded across his chest. Barnes hit the record button and spoke into the tape recorder, stating the date and naming all who were present.

“Mr. Kardosian, at the time of your arrest, were you advised of your rights?”

Kardosian stayed silent, his face a blank. They knew from the arresting officers that the suspect had already been given the Miranda warning, but Zuniga proceeded to read him his rights into the tape to ensure that everything was clean.

Barnes wedged his rear on the edge of the table, making himself comfortable. “You know, Nasrin... okay if I call you Nasrin? We’ve got your bloody prints at the scene of a homicide. It would go a lot better for you if you’d cooperate and tell us what happened.”

Kardosian’s body twitched ever so slightly.

Barnes was clearly the one in charge of the interview. He became more insistent. “You beat a guy to death, Nasrin... a Beverly Hills guy at that. Third strike, man. With your record, you’re looking at lethal injection.” He turned to his partner. “I think the DA will see this as a third strike, don’t you, Zunie?”

Zuniga gave a big shrug. “No doubt about it.”

“Look, Nasrin, we’ve got witnesses who can put you at the apartment building where you killed that guy. You got no alibi. You’re fucked.”

Kardosian twitched again, more obviously.

Claudia turned to Jovanic. “Who’s he talking about? What witnesses?”

“He’s lying,” Jovanic replied. “We hoped the guard at Lindsey’s apartment could ID him, but that flower arrangement hid his face; the guard assumed he was legit. There were plenty of flower deliveries after the funeral.”

Claudia gave him a look of withering scorn. “How many of them delivered at nine o’clock at night?”

“Yeah, well, he wasn’t much of a guard.”

“You’re not doing yourself any good, keeping your mouth shut,” Zuniga said, continuing to press him. “We’ve got you, Kardosian, whether you talk or not. We’ve got plenty of evidence. We don’t need a confession to convict you.”

Kardosian met Zuniga’s threats with stony silence, doing a fair imitation of a statue. The detective softened his tone persuasively. “Listen, dude, we know you were working for someone else; you were just doing a job. Give us a name, maybe we can talk to the DA for you.”

Kardosian’s dead eyes sparked with scorn. “You think I’m crazy, motherfucker? I want my lawyer.”

Jovanic let out a groan. “Shit.”

“What?” Claudia asked.

“Once he asks for an attorney we can’t question him any further. These guys aren’t about to jeopardize the case.”

“You sure you want to do that?” Zuniga was saying. “Once the attorneys get involved we can’t offer the same kinds of arrangements.”

“Get me my fucking lawyer!” Kardosian screamed. “I’m asking for my lawyer, and you gotta let me see him.
Now!
”

“He’s not ready to deal,” Jovanic said, stepping out of his grey flannel trousers and tossing them over the back of a chair, along with his shirt.

Friday evening, Kardosian’s second day as a guest of the LA County Jail, Twin Towers.

Claudia took her Cleopatra costume out of the plastic bag hanging over the bedroom door and laid it on the bed.

Jovanic watched appreciatively as she peeled out of her stretch pants and T-shirt. “How about a quick shower?” he asked hopefully.

“We showered an hour ago. I don’t get any cleaner than this.”

“Cleanliness was not my first concern,” he said, reaching for her. She ducked aside and started working her way into a pair of pantyhose. He gave up and sat on the edge of the bed, tugging off his socks.

“What are Kardosian’s chances of getting off?” asked Claudia.

“Slim to none. With his prints at the scene and your ID, he’s going down. We know he didn’t act on his own, but until he cops to who’s behind the whole magilla, we’re basically fucked.”

“Do you think he
knows
who hired him?” Her voice was muffled by the white silk sheath as she slipped it over her head. Next came a long linen dress, split up the front from hem to mid-thigh. “There had to be a middleman, but Kardosian’s at the bottom of the totem pole. It’s not in his best interests to spill his guts. DA’s gonna to have to come up with a damned attractive offer before he gives up anything interesting. Somebody’s paying Kardosian a lot of money to keep his mouth shut. And somebody’s paying a high-priced attorney to represent him.” Carefully draping a collar of fake lapis lazuli beads around her neck, Claudia planted herself in front of Jovanic, back-first. “Who’s he got?”

“Robert Big-Ass-Money Sanders.” He fastened the clasp for her and held her against him for a moment, burrowing his face in her hair before releasing her. “You
sure
we don’t have time?”

“We board the barge in less than an hour, Marc. But if you behave yourself, your queen will make sure you’re well rewarded tonight.”

Jovanic eyed his Marc Antony costume with disfavor. “Lemme see this thing you’re making me wear.” Without much enthusiasm, he grabbed the red tunic and threw it on, tugging it as low as he could around the hips. The hem stopped about six inches above his knees. “It’s a goddamn miniskirt!”

Claudia whistled. “Nice gams.”

“That’s supposed to be
my
line.”

She laughed and helped him secure the clasps on his breastplate and cape. “Sanders is the next best thing to Johnny Cochran,” she said, dragging him to the cheval mirror so he could admire the results. “I hope the DA doesn’t let him plead out.”

“Not a chance.” He gave her a look of surprise. “Hey, I don’t look too bad. What are the odds that Senator Heidt’s actually gonna show up at this shindig?”

“He’ll be there.” Claudia bounced her eyebrows at him. “Maybe if we get lucky you can beat a confession out of him.”

Jovanic twisted around with a scowl. “You think it’s a joke? Listen, Claudia, I know I’ve taken you on some interviews with me, and to the dungeon, but I’m telling you, stay away from him.
I’ll
do any confronting there is to be done tonight.”

Throwing him a non-committal smile, she went into the bathroom and closed the door. She would need to tread lightly if she found an opportunity to get close to Senator Heidt. Remembering how Bostwick had ripped her blouse when she’d confronted him, she would guard against goading the senator as blatantly as she had the doctor. Bared breasts and buttons scattered on the deck was more drama than she desired that night.

Rummaging in the bag of cosmetics she’d picked up from the drugstore, she applied alabaster foundation, then dusted her cheeks with blush and glued on false eyelashes. A swipe of emerald eye shadow made her lids shimmer and brought out the green of her eyes. She leaned close to the mirror and outlined her eyes with thick black strokes, ending in a broad outward sweep that made them look enormous. Crimson lipstick completed her disguise.

Satisfied that she’d done a creditable job, she twisted her auburn mane into a ponytail and stuffed it under a nylon cap, which she clamped to her head with bobby pins. Last, she took the black pageboy wig from its Styrofoam form and slipped it on.

When she looked in the mirror again, Claudia Rose had disappeared, leaving behind an exotic Egyptian queen. The makeup was every bit as good as a mask.

Pleased with the results, she snapped on a coiled-snake bracelet and re-entered the bedroom. Jovanic looked up from buckling his sandals. His jaw dropped gratifyingly. “Holy shit! I wouldn’t have recognized you, and I’m a damn good detective.”

“As long as our buddy the senator doesn’t recognize us, we’ll be fat city.”

“What about our hosts? They’ll know who you are.”

“But they don’t know who
you
are, so they can’t blow your cover.”

Jovanic flared his cloak and pulled on the gladiator helmet Claudia had rented. The metal armor was designed to cover nose and cheeks, and offered a better disguise than a Roman officer’s headgear would have.

She gave him an appraising look and put thumb and forefinger together in an OK gesture. “Got your sword, Marc Antony?”

He fiddled with his cloak to conceal his shoulder holster. “I’m not taking a goddamn plastic sword.”

“Who’re you gonna shoot at a Halloween party on a yacht?”

“My piece goes under the cape or you can count me out.”

Wisps of mist floated close to the road, curling around the Jaguar like the cotton cobwebs the neighborhood children had draped over garden bushes. Passing Ballona Creek, Claudia lowered the window a few inches to breathe in the reedy scent of the wetlands at night. She did not bother to respond to Jovanic’s grumbling about his helmet scraping the car’s headliner.

Ten minutes later they arrived at the marina and found the parking lot alive with guests in designer Halloween costumes.

Joining the crowd making their way to the Graingers’ yacht,
The Lilliana,
Jovanic and Claudia followed the music and laughter spilling from the boardwalk. Jack o’Lanterns glowed above them along the bow of the yacht, their carved faces menacing in the moonless night.

Jovanic gazed at the yacht with frank admiration. “It’s gotta be well over a hundred footer,” he said as they strolled down the ramp to the gangway. “How many million you think this baby set them back?”

Claudia shrugged. “What do luxury yachts cost? Three, four? The party planning biz must be booming.”

“Actually, Martin Grainger has his fingers in
several
profitable pies.”

Somehow, that surprised her. “You checked out Martin Grainger?”

“It’s what detectives do, honey,” he replied smugly. “They detect.”

It hadn’t occurred to her to view Martin as a suspect. He had behaved so clumsily at Lindsey’s funeral reception when he’d stomped on her foot, she had never taken him seriously. “Well, what do you think about him?” she asked.

“Ask me later.” They had reached the head of the red-carpeted gangway, where private security checked their invitations. Jovanic surreptitiously flashed his ID wallet and they were allowed to proceed without further question.

The Graingers stood at the head of the gangway dressed as Elizabeth I and Sir Walter Raleigh, welcoming their guests aboard. Despite her small stature, Lillian managed to look commanding in her bejeweled gown and a tightly curled red wig, a stiff lace ruff encircling her neck. Her husband, sporting a fake goatee, towered over her in puffy red breeches and green tights.

He could pass for a giant candy apple.

As Martin Grainger leaned over Claudia’s hand in what he probably thought was a courtly bow, a blast of alcohol hit her. That explained his unhealthy plum-colored complexion. Affecting a bad British accent, Lillian took Claudia’s hand. “Cleopatra, Queen of the Nile, I greet you as one monarch to another. I’m delighted that you could attend our little party.”

“Thank you, your majesty,” Claudia said, dipping her head. “May I present Marc Antony?”

“Wait a minute, I know that voice.” Lillian dropped the accent and lapsed into her usual lazy drawl. “It’s Claudia Rose, isn’t it? Bless your heart; I wouldn’t have known if you hadn’t spoken. You make a
fabulous
Cleo!”
Passed the first test.

Claudia introduced Jovanic simply as “Joel,” and they exchanged a few friendly words with the Graingers before moving on to the lounge.

They got drinks from the bar and people-watched: Frankenstein and his Bride; a Roaring Twenties flapper with a fat man in a hula skirt and lei, a pink orchid tucked behind his ear.

Jovanic drew Claudia’s attention to a two-legged black-spotted cow and milkmaid. She leaned close and spoke in his ear. “And you were worried about wearing a
tunic?
”

He tossed back a swallow of beer and reached up to adjust his helmet. “Just because he’s making an ass of himself doesn’t mean
I
have to.”

“That’s a cow,” she teased. “Not an ass.”

“Cow, ass, it’s all the same.”

“Lighten up, Columbo.” She reached up and planted a kiss on the edge of his mouth. He rolled his eyes, but she knew he was amused. “I don’t see anyone who looks like Heidt or Bostwick, do you?”

“It’s a costume party, grapho lady; you’re not supposed to recognize people.” Jovanic jerked his head at a tall, black-robed figure standing by the bar. Edvard Munch’s
The Scream
face chatting with Princess Leia. “What about that one?”

“Probably some little old lady on stilts.”

“Maybe it’s Doctor Bostwick, hiding his face behind that mask in shame.”

“He
should
be ashamed.”

Jovanic’s cell phone rang.

Claudia’s heart sank like a cement anchor. Even as she listened to him giving a couple of “uh huh’s,” and before he snapped the phone shut, she knew what he was going to say.

“Sorry, honey.” He was suddenly jazzed, far more than he had been at the idea of a Halloween party on a yacht. “That was Zuniga. Kardosian’s ready to deal and they want me there.”

Suppressing a sigh, she mustered a rueful smile and got her car keys out of her evening bag and unhooked her house key. “Take my car, but you’d better hurry, we’ll be setting sail any minute.”