“Pretty soon a guy is going to walk into the Delgado Photography Studio over on Pine and find his boss, James Delgado, dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound. That stuff you have there was locked inside his desk. When you get a look at what’s on it, you’ll know why he chose to off himself. There are two client lists—one for his regular photos, and one for photos he was distributing illegally according to U.S. federal child exploitation laws.”

CeeCee made a face. “How charming.”

“Yeah. I think a good thing for you to say in the story you write about it—before you turn all this stuff over to the police—is that you found it in a padded envelope on your doorstep this morning. You have no idea who could have left it there, but you assume it was Jimmy himself, out of shame and remorse for all the terrible things he did. But that’s for the police to determine, of course.”

One of the many things I liked about CeeCee Webb was that she didn’t waste time asking stupid questions. Her sense of morality was well honed, but highly flexible. And she was professional to the core.

She also knew a good thing when it walked up and was presented to her at the breakfast table.

“Great,” she said, her gaze never leaving the screen in front of her, even as she occasionally reached over to consume a mouthful of grits. “No problem. One thing, though. What if they ask me for the envelope?”

“Sadly,” I said, “you threw it away, and it already got taken to the dump. How could you know it contained something so incredibly important?”

“True. So I take it, since you’re involved, this Delgado didn’t really commit suicide?”

“Oh, no, he really did. Maybe you could mention in your story how there’ve been a number of studies suggesting people like him would rather die than face the social stigma of having their crimes exposed—or quit committing them.”

“Nice line, thanks, I’ll use it.” She continued to type. “What was that other thing you mentioned you wanted to speak to me about?”

“Oh, yes. Well, considering I’m giving you this truly enormous story, I was wondering if you could stifle another one.”

Now she did look up from the screen, her violet eyes playful. “Susannah Simon, are you trying to impede the freedom of the press?”

“Absolutely. Since you write the local police beat, could I ask you not to report in it that Jesse got arrested last night for assaulting Paul Slater?”

The look in the violet eyes went from playful to gleeful.

“He did? How delish! Were you there? Did you see it? Tell me everything. Was the carnage extensive? What did Paul say to get him so angry? What in God’s name were you even doing with Paul in the first place? And why didn’t you invite me?”

“If I promise to tell you everything,” I said, “in excruciating detail, will you promise to do everything you can to make sure the whole thing stays off the Internet and out of the paper? I think it would mortify Jesse if his colleagues at the hospital found out.”

“Cross my heart.” She made a slash with her finger across the faded gray Mission Academy sweatshirt she wore. “And hope to die. Are you going to eat your tofu bacon?”

“No. It’s disgusting. Why can’t they serve turkey bacon here, at least?”

“Aunt Pru won’t allow animal by-products in her establishment. That’s soy milk you’re putting in your coffee.”

I uttered a four-letter word, nearly dropping the metal pitcher.

“Sorry. Now tell me everything. Where did it—”

“Hello, girls.” Aunt Pru swooped down on our table, her many bangles jingling. “Did I hear my name?”

CeeCee slammed down the cover to Jimmy Delgado’s computer. “Good morning, Aunt Pru.”

“Busy working, I see.” She kissed the top of her niece’s head, which was turning pink beneath CeeCee’s snow-colored hair. “She’s so industrious, isn’t she, Susannah?”

“Like a busy little bee,” I said, standing up and gathering my messenger bag. “Which reminds me that I, too, have work to do, and must run.”

“Oh, how sad.” Pru looked regretful while CeeCee scowled, angry that I was escaping without having shared the tale of Jesse’s arrest. “But it all turned out the way I said it would, didn’t it?”

“What did, Prudence?” I was busy digging through my wallet for cash. I figured treating CeeCee to breakfast was the least I could do.

“With the little girl. She never meant to hurt anyone. She was only frightened, and in pain. But you helped her, didn’t you?”

I froze, staring at her, then finally managed a smile. So “the lost child” had been Lucia all along. I ought to have known. Paul Slater had never been lost a day in his life. He’d always known the exact path he was taking.

Too bad it was the wrong one.

“I think so, Pru,” I said. “Thank you. But I didn’t do it alone. I had a lot of help from my friends.”

treinta y tres

I don’t know what I was expecting when I pulled up in front of the house where Becca Walters lived. I knew the Walterses were wealthy, of course.

But I didn’t think the Walterses’s domicile would be one of the $20 million mansions on 17-Mile Drive that Jesse and I had made fun of on our way to Sacred Trinity the day before, joking that it was the kind of place Dr. and Mrs. Baracus would live in.

With the Pacific as its “private” beach, stunning oceanfront swimming pool and spa, ten bedrooms and baths, and multiple “guest cottages,” Becca’s house looked more like nearby Pebble Beach Resort than a private home.

But that illusion was shattered when I had to speak into an intercom in front of a private gate in order to enter. Even then I was worried—because for once I’d used my real name—that I wouldn’t be granted access, particularly since it was Kelly who answered.

“Suze Simon?” she echoed. It was hard to tell if she was more surprised or annoyed.

“Yes, hi, Kelly, it’s me.” I had to lean very far out the side of the car to reach the intercom, which was built into one of the colossal columns that flanked either side of the long driveway leading to the house.

Of course the Walterses had named their abode. All the really chic properties along 17-Mile Drive had names. A plaque on one of the columns outside Becca’s house said it was called CASA DI WALTERS.