"Normally, I would think that could be motivation.”
"Sorry to disappoint you, but I kicked his ass to the curb. I just won't tolerate infidelity."
I tried to contain my reaction. It didn’t make any sense. "You just told me you had a thousand partners in a day for the world record."
"That doesn't count."
"It doesn't count?”
"I didn't feel anything for those guys. I was just doing it for work. Just like any other actress. I was playing a part. A publicity stunt.”
"I think it counts," I said in a matter-of-fact tone.
"It only counts if I say it counts. What does it matter anyway?”
I shrugged. "I don’t know. Did your boyfriend get toactwith other girls on camera?”
“No. Just with me. He's not in the business. Not really. Nobody's paying money to see his junk." She laughed.
"Vanessa, we’re ready," the photographer said, having re-lit another section of the pool by the Jacuzzi.
"If you'll excuse me, gentlemen, I need to get back to work," she said with a flirty glint in her eyes. She spun around, peeled off the robe, and tossed it to Natalie. She strutted to the Jacuzzi, her hips swaying in hypnotic ways, teasing us for fun.
I pulled a card from my pocket and left it on the table. I told her to get in touch if she's thought of anything helpful.
We may have lingered around for another moment or two before leaving the backyard and walking down the driveway to the street.
Vanessa had certainly left an impression.
I called Isabella and asked her if she could dig up her cell history.
16
"Vanessa's phone was off the grid during the time of the murders," Isabella said.
I lifted a curious eyebrow.
"As to your prior question, Andrew Holt's wife has been in Los Angeles since Monday of last week. Flight records confirm that, and her phone pings the tower from an apartment in West Hollywood. So I think you can rule out the theory of her shoving her husband into shark-infested waters."
“What about Ethan Rexrode?”
She told me some interesting details.
"Thanks, I appreciate the info.”
"Any time.”
I ended the call, and we headed across the island to find Ethan. According to the records, he lived aboard a 78-footstarteryacht in Sandpiper Point. It was an upscale marina full of tech types, business magnates, and trust fund babies.
Jack pulled into the lot and found a place to park. We strolled the dock, looking for theObsession. It was a sleek boat with a navy hull, white trim, and windswept lines.
We crossed the gangway to the teak swim platform and climbed the steps to the aft deck. It had a large sun pad, a dining area, a bar, and port-side steps that led up to the flybridge. I banged on the glass door to the salon.
A few moments later, a guy in his mid-20s with curly sandy-blond hair climbed a companionway, padded across the airy salon, and greeted us at the door. He had brown eyes, a square jaw, and the ripped physique of a surfer.
"What do you want?"
I flashed my badge and made introductions.
