About the Book

The serial killer is dead; the expected seventh victim is alive, and the Santa Monica detectives and the FBI agents are shaking their heads.

“Who-done-it” meets “why-done-it.” The result: A twisty mystery, spiked with psychological and cultural implications, all playing out in sun-drenched Santa Monica.

Police Detectives Mollie Granger and Greg Nichols respond to a call near the world-famous pier. A dead male, shot in the forehead at close range, is posed in the sand. He’s Keith Victor, a serial killer who’s murdered six persons and kidnapped a possible seventh, Chrissy Weeks.

Meanwhile, six miles away, Weeks walks into a police station, says, “I think you've been looking for me,” and claims Victor dropped her off outside an hour earlier. Quite the trick, given the coroner says Victor’s been dead for thirty-six hours. Weeks, a narcissist with a complex backstory, views most people as chess pieces to be played. And she’s playing at mega speed, even though her never-ending lies and moves – some of which backfire – quickly turn her into a suspect from a victim.

The case comes at a difficult time for Granger, a middle-class white cop having relationship problems with Gwen Seward, a wealthy African-American civil rights attorney. They’ve drifted apart since the George Floyd murder shined a bright light on their differences and challenges. They’ve even tabled plans for marriage and kids.

Granger focuses on Weeks even as she and Seward attempt to repair their relationship. In the process, the detective learns that families, love, truth, and understanding overcome personal and professional challenges and bring unexpected second chances.

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Excerpt

Waves slapped at the sand. Emergency lights flashed and rotated. Lookie-loos pressed up against yellow crime-scene tape.

But the Ferris Wheel, one-third filled on this July evening, rotated uninterrupted as if nothing was happening just yards away.

The Santa Monica Pier was off to her left as the detective – badge hanging from a lanyard around her neck – slipped on her gloves.

The male body was lying atop the sand; head tilted to the right with his chin resting on his shoulder. A hole began at his forehead and ended at the back of his head.

Shot someplace else and placed here. Why? Santa Monica Police Detective Mollie Granger knelt to get a closer look and spotted a wallet sticking out of his t-shirt’s front pocket.

Too obvious.

She removed it. Granger expected it to be empty, stripped … the regular deal around these parts. But when she grasped it, she could tell it was still full. She unfolded it, saw cash and some plastic, and removed his driver’s license.

Keith John Victor.

Seriously? Keith Victor? Are you kidding me?

“You need to see this,” she called over to her partner of four years, Sergeant Greg Nichols, who was a few yards away talking to another officer. Granger and Nichols were both detectives in the Criminal Investigations Unit of the Santa Monica Police Department.

Nichols approached. “What’s up?”

Granger said, “Jackpot. Keith Victor.”

She handed him the wallet; Nichols looked at the license and quickly rifled through the rest of the contents.

He knelt and looked at Victor. “Someone did us a favor,” he said. “Easiest case we’ve ever had. The only thing better would have been if they dropped him on your desk.”

Granger nodded. “Yeah. Maybe too easy?”

“Could be, I guess,” Nichols said, standing. “He is kind of gift-wrapped.”

Granger looked out at the ocean and then back toward Nichols. “Old wound, no blood anywhere, shot elsewhere, posed, full wallet. He doesn’t even have any sand stuck on his hands, face, or clothes. I don’t remember this example in any of my training classes.”

Nichols laughed. “Not one of our case studies, huh?”

He paused, “Also, Mol, it’s interesting that someone chose to dump him in Santa Monica. None of his vics were grabbed here, nor were their bodies found here. But he pops up in Santa Monica at the pier.”

Nichols handed the license and wallet to Alan Coleman, the patrolman who initially found Victor’s body and called it in. Coleman went to the patrol car, typed Victor’s name and details into a computer, scanned the license, and carefully placed the license and wallet into an evidence bag. Finishing, he picked up his cell phone and called SMPD headquarters on Olympic Boulevard.

At the same time, Nichols called the local FBI office. They had been the lead on the case for two years and needed to know Victor had been found.

The takeaway from both offices was quick and consistent: Don’t do anything.

Granger and Nichols didn’t need to be told. This guy had already killed six people, and there may be a seventh, Chrissy Weeks, who’d been missing for several weeks.

Wait for reinforcements.

Within minutes, Granger’s phone rang.

“Detective Granger? This is Sergeant Waller, LAPD West LA. I just heard you’re with a dead Keith Victor. Yes?”

“Standing over him now,” she said, glancing quizzically at Nichols. “News travels quickly. What’s up?”

Waller hesitated. “Well, a woman just walked into the station here, said her name was Chrissy Weeks, and asked if we were looking for her.”

Granger signaled for Nichols, who was talking with Coleman. He walked toward her. “Weeks just walked into LAPD’s West LA station on Butler.” She said it loud enough so he could hear.

Nichols shook his head. “Interesting destination. Five miles away. And it’s not even a full moon.”

Granger nodded and put her phone up to her mouth. “Put her in a room and kill some time. FBI will be here soon. We’ll call you back. Thanks.”

About the Author

Former Wall Street Journal, BusinessWeek, Associated Press and Dallas Morning News writer and editor; Wall Street executive; best-selling author; communications/crisis consultant and university instructor (University of Southern California’s Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism). Also author of Futures: The Anti-Inflation Investment. Lives in Scottsdale, Arizona with his wife, Lisa.

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