two of the twelve women—Trent couldn’t have killed. He was in rehab or filming in a different location on those dates

  Anaïca immediately responded. I’ll check Hugh’s schedule for those dates. Send me locations of the two murders

  Farah relayed the update to Kevin, who was at the other end of the table, flipping through the autopsy reports.

  “Let’s make a list of all of the things that don’t fit,” he suggested.

  “With the Iverson/Pepper death or with—”

  “With everything.” He walked over to the whiteboard and uncapped a marker. He raised his brows at her, and Farah stared at him, her mind a blank.

  “Okay, I’ll start.” He began writing on the board in bright blue.

  2 death scenes that Trent couldn’t be at

  Farah’s mind finally clicked into gear. “How did Kerry get to the Iverson house? Dottie says that Trent was alone in the car, so unless she was in the trunk . . .” She glanced down at the files and rummaged through them, looking for the evidence report on Trent’s car. “Did they check the trunk for hair and DNA?”

  Kevin moved beside her and watched over her shoulder as she flipped open the folder. Scanning the contents, she found her answer. “Okay, there was human hair and DNA found . . . but we’re waiting on the results to know whether it was a match to Kerry.” She glanced at him. “If it isn’t, maybe it’s from one of the other victims.”

  “So you think Trent is the killer?”

  “Maybe they both are. It’d be the most obvious answer. The two of them work together. If Trent is in rehab or at a movie, Hugh steps in and vice versa.”

  Kevin returned to the whiteboard and wrote Both? as a column on the right, then moved back to the other side and added Farah’s question to the list of unknown items.

  How did Kerry get into the house?

  “She could have come in with Hugh,” Farah mused. “If they’re both in on this together. He came in at 10:15 p.m., according to the gate report.”

  “And Kerry left the hotel when?”

  Farah shuffled through the folders until she found the one she wanted. “It was 9:47 p.m. I’d say Beverly Hills is about thirty minutes from there, wouldn’t you?”

  “The timing works out. Maybe that’s all a judge would need for a warrant for Hugh’s vehicle. It’s a big SUV. She could have been in the back seat or the way back.”

  Farah warmed to the idea. Granted, it was convenient, maybe a little too convenient, to just pair up the twins as double murderers. Anytime that Hugh didn’t fit, Trent was certain to, and the ease of the transition felt lazy to her, especially in a case like this, where it had been a Christmas-lights tangle right from the start.

  “Okay,” Kevin said. “What else is off?”

  “It’s not that it’s off, but there is Nora’s involvement with Trent,” Farah said. “Anything there we need to root out?”

  “Maybe she found out about the murders. She gave Hugh an ultimatum, he pinned all of the blame on Trent, then killed him so that he couldn’t dispute the story.”

  Farah nodded. “Not a bad theory. I like it.”

  “The problem here is DNA.” Kevin rested his fists on the table and looked over the sea of folders. “The twins have identical DNA, not to mention their looks. How are we going to pin anything on Hugh versus Trent? We could have Hugh on video, slicing a throat, and he’ll just say that it’s Trent.”

  “And a jury would believe it.” Farah walked around the perimeter of the table, needing to get her blood pumping and her brain working. “You’ve got a train wreck on one side and a golden boy on the other. It made sense for Trent to be the killer. I didn’t blink twice at it.”

  Kevin took a seat and studied the board for a while, then shrugged. “Maybe he’ll confess.”

  “Well, if he’s guilty, the timeline will trip him up,” Farah said. “We’ve got twelve murders, and there are probably more that we don’t know about. They’re in different states, so there’s travel involved. This isn’t a blue-collar bachelor in Arkansas. You’re talking about the most recognizable celebrity in the country, and one with staff, agents, managers, drivers, publicists, and a famous fiancée. If he left town, someone knew it. When he was in Los Angeles, there’ll be records of it.”

  “We’re also talking about a master of disguise,” Kevin reminded her. “This is the guy who played Johnny Franks and Thomas Jilt. He could be a thirty-year-old skinhead or a crazy senior citizen, all in the same day. We can’t assume that someone would have recognized him. If he didn’t want to be seen, he wouldn’t have been.”

  Farah stopped in place by the whiteboard. “Yeah, remember what I said when we left their house that day? How we couldn’t believe anything an actor said?”

  “I remember.” Kevin shook his head and smiled. “Hey, that’s the problem with Hollywood. We’re in a sea of professional liars and seducers.”

  “And killers.”

  CHAPTER 92

  THE DETECTIVE

  8:47 a.m.

  This time, when Kevin and Farah pulled up to Dottie’s gate, they weren’t on the list and were armed with a warrant for Hugh Iverson’s vehicle and home. It had taken an early-morning meeting with Judge Coolidge and a lot of him hemming and hawing, but the old man had come through, and now the LAPD just needed to keep mud off their face.

  Dottie reviewed the paperwork and raised an eyebrow in skepticism. “They with you?” She nodded at the evidence van behind Kevin’s SUV.

  “Yep. One car will be staying here with you, just to make sure that the residence isn’t alerted,” Farah said.

  The woman let out a sharp laugh of incredulity and shook her head in disgust. “Good luck,” she said as she pressed the button to raise the gate.

  “You know, it’s like people don’t realize that we’re trying to save lives,” Farah mused as they rounded the first manicured curve.

  “Naw, they just don’t like being babysat. I don’t blame her. I’m betting these owners are pretty generous at Christmastime. They don’t wanna bite the hand that feeds them.”

  He had a point, but still. Catching a serial killer was a pretty worthy reason to nibble away. Not that Dottie realized that they were doing that. She looked over at Kevin. “How are we getting in?” Farah asked. “Think they’ll just open them for us?”

  “Let’s give it a try.” He turned into the drive and stopped at the keypad. Pressing the “Call” button, he waited, then turned to Farah with a smile as the gates began to part. “Easy peasy.”

  They pulled in slowly, their second vehicle following closely, and as the mansion came into view, she was surprised to see Hugh and Nora standing on the front porch.

  “And . . . it gets weirder,” Farah muttered. “Why does it feel like they were expecting us?”

  Hugh and Nora looked as if they’d been through a war zone. They took the warrants without reading them and didn’t flinch at the group of officers who filed in behind Farah and Kevin and started to systematically go through the home.

  “We have some questions for you, Mr. Iverson,” Kevin stated.

  Hugh nodded. “We can use my study.”

  Study, Farah thought as they left Nora behind and followed Hugh up the stairs and down a hall. Not an office, but a study. Such precise word choices. Where did rich people learn it from? She’d read up on Nora after finding out about her Story Farm connection. Annie Bayors had been full-bred white trash yet now spoke like she was the product of an Ivy League orgy. No wonder no one had ever connected her with the chubby hick from the show. It wasn’t just the looks; it was the entire act, and Nora had it down to a science.

  Once they were alone in the study, Farah started her voice recorder, and Kevin read out the Miranda warning. Hugh seemed resigned to the process and sat in a rolled leather chair, his hands linked together and resting on one crossed knee. Farah waited for him to call his attorney, but he didn’t mention it, and she wasn’t going to do the work for him.

  “Nolan Price left a note behind, one that implicated you in the Kerry Pepper murder.” Kevin started out swinging.

  “That’s ludicrous.” Hugh snorted.

  “It’s ludicrous that he would leave a note, or ludicrous that you’re involved in the Kerry Pepper murder?” Farah pressed.

  “I don’t know anything about the former and didn’t have anything to do with the latter.”

  “Are you familiar with any of these women?” Kevin unfolded a page of the confirmed victims’ names and pushed them across the desk.

  Hugh studied the list briefly, then shook his head and returned it to Kevin. “I don’t think so.”

  Well, that was helpful. Farah tried another tactic. “Mr. Iverson, at the cabin, we found videotapes of twelve women who were tortured and killed. Were you aware of those tapes?”

  He considered her carefully before answering. “I’ve seen tapes at the cabin. I’ve never played them.”

  “Did you film them?” Kevin asked.

  “No.” His voice was calm and resolute. With a normal person, Farah would have been convinced that he was telling the truth. With Hugh, she didn’t know what to believe.

  “Were you on the videos?”

  “No.” He paused. “Well, since I haven’t seen them, it’s hard to say. But if they’re videos of any violent behavior, then no, I’m not on them, and I haven’t had any part of their filming.”

  Again, Farah’s bullshit meter was silent. From the glass cabinet behind him, Hugh’s Academy Award glinted at them, as if reminding them of his abilities.

  “So you’re saying it’s your brother on the videos? He tortured and killed twelve women?”

  Hugh’s features tightened. “If that’s what you’re seeing on the videos, then yes.”

  “Why would he do that?” she asked.

  “You asked me that question a few days ago, in regards to the woman in the guesthouse. I quoted Isaiah then, and I’ll refer to it now. My brother wouldn’t have killed someone without a reason. I’m not saying it was valid or right, but that’s the only answer I have for you.”

  “The problem is that Trent couldn’t have committed these crimes, at least not on his own.” Kevin laid down the first trap.

  Hugh rested his elbow on the chair’s armrest and regarded Kevin thoughtfully but stayed silent.

  “Two of the deaths happened on dates that Trent was in rehab or filming,” Farah elaborated.

  “Okay. Did you have a question?”

  “If Trent didn’t kill those women, and you aren’t on the videos, then who is this?” Kevin pushed forward a screenshot taken from a video, one that showed a slightly blurred photo of Hugh, looking down at a woman.

  He studied the photo, then looked from Kevin to Farah. Sitting back, he crossed his arms at the wrists and rested them behind his head. “Trent didn’t kill any of those women, and the man on this video isn’t him.”

  “We know it isn’t him,” Farah said impatiently. “It’s you.”

  “No, it’s not.” The edges of his mouth curved in an almost playful smile, like he knew a secret that they didn’t. “It’s Hugh.”

  “What?” Farah said stupidly. “What do you mean?”

  “This is Hugh. All of the tapes are of Hugh.”

  “Is this a third-person reference, or are you saying that you’re not Hugh?” Kevin asked.

  “I’m saying that Hugh killed all of those women and that I’m not Hugh. I’m Trent.”

  CHAPTER 93

  THE DETECTIVE

  “You’re Trent?” Farah repeated.

  This was ridiculous and, at the same time, feasible. They were, after all, identical twins. But there was medical evidence proving that the dead body was Trent. So, no. No. No hot potatoing the blame here.

  “I’m Trent.” He nodded, and that smirk—Trent’s smirk that she had drooled over as a teenage girl—suddenly bloomed across his face, as sexy and cocky as ever. Farah stared at him, unsure of what to trust because the Hugh facade—only two minutes earlier—had been just as convincing.

  “So you’re saying that Hugh is dead?” Kevin clarified.

  “I’m not saying it—it’s true. Hugh’s dead. Guess he finally felt bad about what he was doing.”

  Red flags were firing like automatic weapons in Farah’s brain. She looked at Kevin, and any line of questioning that they had planned was thrown in the trash.

  Farah spoke tersely, her anger mounting as she went. “If this is true, you realize that you’ve obstructed a police investigation by not sharing this until now, right? You’ve wasted dozens—if not hundreds—of hours of police work and—”

  “Send me the bill.” The man shrugged, and now his legs were uncrossed, splayed open, his seat in the chair more of a sprawl. He was changing right before their eyes, and how could she have ever thought he was Hugh before?

  “It’s more than money, Mr. Iverson,” Kevin snapped. “It’s an obstruction of justice. A young boy’s life was at stake, and you were toying with us.”

  Farah wondered if Nora knew. Had both of them been laughing at their investigation this entire time? What about the staff?

  His grin dropped and he leaned forward, sobering. “Look, I’m sorry. I was processing what had happened and what to do. I have a deep loyalty to my brother. The desire to protect his legacy was warring with my civil duty. I’m sorry if I chose the wrong side.”

  “Don’t act like you’re choosing the right path now,” Farah said tartly. “You’re backed into a corner and flipping over to show your underbelly. The only reason you’re saying this—and I’m not saying that we believe you—is because we’re getting ready to arrest you for these crimes, and this is your easiest way out.”

  “Detective Anderson makes a good point,” Kevin said. “Can you prove that you’re Trent and not Hugh?”

  The actor—whoever he was—paused and seemed to consider the question. “Not really,” he said. “I mean . . . our genetic blueprint is identical.” He shrugged. “I don’t believe that either of us have ever been fingerprinted. But line up ten people in this room, and someone would be able to find a question that only I, and not Hugh, would know.”

  “Trent has a savings account,” Farah said, testing him, “with a beneficiary that recently changed.”

  “Not that recently.” He squinted and looked toward the ceiling. “About six months ago. Added Kaitlyn Mercer.”

  Farah didn’t have the beneficiary list in front of her, wasn’t prepped for this line of questioning, but he seemed to know what he was talking about, so she plowed forward. “Why did you add Kaitlyn?”

  “My brother killed her mother. It was a penance of sorts.”

  “A penance she won’t get now,” she pointed out. “Given that Trent is, apparently, still alive.”

  He grinned, and despite everything, her knees grew a little woozy at the sight. “You don’t believe me. That’s funny.”

  “Our job is to not believe you,” Kevin cut in. “Don’t take it personally.”

  For a moment, his grin dropped and his tone sobered. “I’m sure you think of me as a monster, for knowing what Hugh was doing and not stopping him. I get that. Trust me, no one thinks worse of me than myself. As I told you before—Hugh dealt with his guilt and demons one way; I took a different path. I don’t drink and do drugs for the high. I do it for the lows. I do it for the punishment and destruction that it brings to my life.” He rubbed a hand roughly over his cheek, then looked at them. “He was my brother. That probably doesn’t mean anything to you, but it meant something to us. There was good there, even in the bad.”

  Kevin spoke up first. “Look, the truth is—”

  “The truth is that you don’t know your asses from your elbows, and it’s going to take months to try and piece everything together.” He sat back. “I’ll fully cooperate and solve your whole case for you right now.” He slung one arm over the back of the chair. “Sound good?”

  “Sure,” Farah said. “Hit us with it.”

  “In exchange for immunity.”

  Kevin was already shaking his head, but Farah was interested in at least riding this pony to the opening gates. “Immunity for what?”

  “A few counts of assisting with remains. Failure to report a crime to the authorities. Whatever”—he waved his hand in the air to encompass their past—“obstruction I did by not clarifying which one of us was in the guesthouse.”

  “So you’re saying you were an accessory to murder?” Kevin asked.

  “Accessory after the fact, and only in a few cases.” He shrugged. “I’m not asking for a lot. Without immunity, my crimes would plead down to a misdemeanor and a year or two of jail time, tops.”

  “It’s a little more serious than that,” Farah said—though would it be? He was right. With the best legal representation money could buy, he could probably avoid jail time altogether, though he’d pay a hefty fine and be on house arrest and parole. Where his punishment would really lie would be the court of public opinion, though Hollywood had already branded Trent as trouble. Hell, this might even make him more of a legend.

  “I could make this case a legal nightmare and clam up, or I could open the vaults.” He made direct eye contact with Farah, and no wonder Nora had hopped into bed with the man. Same looks as Hugh, but Trent was a flip of the switch, one that turned the sexual attraction to level gazillion.

  “We can’t make a deal on our end,” Kevin objected, and at least he was immune to his charm. “We need to get the DA involved.”

  “Sure.” He nudged the phone on the desk. “Take your time. I’ll take a walk.”

  Farah watched as he strolled toward the hall and tried to understand what in Cinderella’s castle was happening. Were they actually going to call the DA and try to get a plea deal for a man who had lied about his identity for the past four days?

  He shut the door behind him and Kevin sighed, then pulled his cell phone from the front pocket of his shirt. “I’m going to call the chief.”

  For once, Farah was grateful for their gruff figurehead. There wasn’t a better strategy player in town, and he was a golf buddy and confidant of the DA. The chief would know how to handle this.