The top result was a business called Olive and Sal.
Cara clicked through to a page toutingpremium organic olive oil and sea salt, and clean, enlightened southern European food and beauty products.These were apparently sold retail from a high-end boutique on fashionable Abbot Kinney Way in Venice, along with an impressive array of tea, organic honey, nuts, dried fruits, chocolates, and olive oil-based skincare.
On the About Us page was a short biographical statement:In the Mediterranean, the olive once symbolized wealth, and salt was a valuable trading commodity. As a young girl growing up in Albania, these two food staples symbolized so much more to me: daily life, family, income, and the bounty of the harvest. I am always looking for ways to reap, share, and grow. Please contact me for more information or to join my team.
When Cara’s eyes found the photo of Ajila Gioni under the text, she suddenly found it difficult to breathe.
The owner of Olive and Sal sat at a sunlit table with her face turned mostly away from the camera.
Her hair was long and blond.
Cara’s head throbbed so hard she had to close her eyes. She saw herself at Johnson’s Point. Saw Karl. Saw the long, blond hair. Saw the swinging hammer.
She opened her eyes and forced herself to breathe. Had she finally found Karl’s killer?
Was the marketing copy over the photo code forwe lend money at usurious rates on penalty of death?
After creating another fake email under the name Cora Conrad, Cara used the store’s contact form to request an appointment.
Dear Ms. Gioni,
I would like to speak to you about an opportunity worth its weight in salt. 10 AM tomorrow?
Best,
Cora Conrad
Cara felt hopeful as she logged off the computer.
And hungry.
In the kitchen, she opened the beadboard-fronted Sub-Zero refrigerator and pulled out the half-full bottle of white wine, single green apple, and wedge of brie Stephanie had left behind after her last showing. In the pantry, she found an unopened box of rice crackers only a month past their best-by date.
A feast.
Grabbing a wine glass from the living room’s wet bar, she carried everything out to the expansive wooden deck. While other homes were crowded in on either side, Malibu was all about laid-back privacy, and every lot had strategically placed walls. Neighbors couldn’t see into each other’s spaces unless they walked along the beach or swam out into the vast expanse of ocean.
As she uncorked the wine and poured herself a glass, Cara felt small, unremarkable, and reassuringly anonymous. She sipped the slightly sweet wine, then cut a slice of apple and dipped it into the brie. Before she took her first bite, she dialed Dylan.
She owed him a thank you.
SEVENTY-TWO
JORDAN
FACT: Sheriff Jordan Burke let Cara Campbell escape from Madera County. Do you want a sheriff who says, “Not my job?”
—Silverman for Sheriff Facebook page
Stretched out on the bed at the Starlight Inn, Jordan swiped through pictures on his phone of the documents he’d found at the Campbell house. Why had Cara left them behind? What had she taken with her?
He took a long pull on the half-empty bottle of beer sweating on his nightstand. After Wen dropped him off, he had walked to a nearby 7-Eleven to pick up a six-pack and a couple of sandwiches. The other five bottles were cooling in the sink under a mound of ice.
It had been a long, fruitless day. After their latest close call with Campbell, Jordan and Wen had pounded the sidewalks and knocked on doors until they found an eyewitness who said “two chicks in a red Porsche Carrera took off like they were in Formula One.” The car was right, and the time was right.
Cara Campbell was with Stephanie van der Lind.
While Ellett, ensconced at some mysterious site, searched traffic-camera video and frustratingly sporadic hits from license-plate readers, Wen and Jordan drove to van der Lind’s home off Sunset Boulevard. Crosby and Hart had already checked out her Wilshire Boulevard office and reported there was no indication she had visited it in days.
