The Santa Barbara County Sheriff had jurisdiction over Hope Ranch which, technically, was not within the city boundaries. Their office on Calle Real was about an eight minute drive from the office. Brent met Rick there along with William Branson, a no-nonsense detective with the homicide division. Rick knew William from his days at the FBI. William was dressed in his usual uniform black slacks with a white shirt that needed a little extra bleach on the next wash, and a tie that looked like it was retired in the 70's. Anyway, it matched the style of his dyed hair comb over. After a round of handshakes and introductions, the three got down to business, which centered around a few boxes of materials that were spread out on William's desk.

"Here's what I wanted to show you," Rick proudly said, holding up a report with a bunch of color coded strands.

"What is it?" asked Brent.

"It's a polymerase chain reaction report on a hair fiber found at the crime scene," chimed in Branson, as if that was supposed to mean something to Brent.

"Guys, I'm a lawyer, not a scientist, tell me in plain English what we're looking at and why I'm here," said Brent.

"This is a result of DNA profiling done on the hair found at the crime scene," said Branson. "There was a sampling that didn't match either victim."

"Meaning that the murderer, or someone with the murderer, lost a hair during the struggle," said Brent.

"Very good," said Rick. "We think that April's mom fought back."

"Great work guys," said Brent. "Now all we have to do is find the murderer and we can prove it was him."

"Yeah, that is the hard part," said Rick. "Bernstein doesn't have a criminal record, so we've got nothing to go on. But it's a start."

"Look, I'm going to head home. You guys call me if you find anything else, okay?" Brent left the station, a little peeved at Rick, but he couldn't fault his enthusiasm. He slipped behind the wheel of his blue Jaguar F-Type and peeled out of the parking lot.

If the human brain is really capable of having 60,000 to 80,000 thoughts per day, Brent was living proof, because he never stopped thinking. As he drove home, he had an epiphany and pulled over to the side. He took his cell phone out of his pocket and called Rick.

"Rick, April said Bernstein was a branch manager for Prudent before he made VP, right?"

"Right."

"What about before that?"

"What do you mean?"

"Before he was a branch manager, what did he do?"

"I don't know. Why?"

"Prudent Bank is a major bank. Most of those major banks have a drug testing policy. And some of them use hair follicles. Find out what lab does their testing and see if they save the samples."

"Oh shit, I see where you're going."

If the hair follicles from the drug testing were saved, Brent thought he may be able to obtain them in the discovery process, and then compare the DNA in the hair follicles with the hair found at the murder scene. But to get that far, they needed something more than just April's hunch, nor matter how strongly she felt about it.

10.

Brent checked traffic in his rear view mirror and side mirrors routinely as he headed down the 101 freeway to home. Traffic was typical for a Wednesday afternoon, but there was something strange about it. A white Mustang about ten cars down seemed to be following his every move.

Either he was paranoid, or somebody was following him. To test the theory, Brent changed lanes. A few moments later, the white Mustang also changed lanes. If he was being followed, there was no way Brent wanted to give away where he lived, especially if it was some crazy nut like Joshua Banks. And if it was Banks, Bent wanted to make sure he nailed him on violating the restraining order, so Brent exited the freeway at Las Positas, and turned onto State Street. The white car was still behind him.

Brent turned left on Anapamu, parked alongside the courthouse, and called 911. The Santa Barbara police station was about a half block away, so it wouldn't take long for them to get there. The Mustang was still behind him, parked about a block down, and it looked like it had two occupants in it. Brent described the vehicle, as well as his suspicions that it was Banks, who had violated the restraining order, and sat tight for the cops.

About ten minutes later, two uniformed officers approached the white car on foot, from behind. They must have gone through the courthouse to sneak up on the occupants in the white car to detain them before they had a chance to pull away. When the two officers had the white car covered, another two, a man and a woman, approached Brent's car from the front.

"Good afternoon, sir," said the male officer. The female officer stood by, talking on her small two-way radio strapped to her shoulder.

"Afternoon, said Brent."

"Could I see your driver's license and registration please, sir?"

Brent didn't really like interacting with the police. They seemed more like machines than humans, and, let's face it, they are a civilian's army. An army whose soldiers dressed in costumes and walked and talked like robots, with guns strapped to their waist belts, always looking for an enemy. But he had called them, and, of course, they had to identify him to determine if he posed any threat to their safety.

"Of course," Brent replied, and presented his documents, including the restraining order, which he kept in his glove compartment, and the officer excused himself to talk to his partner. Then, they both returned.

"Sir, we've identified the suspects and neither one of them is the individual in your restraining order," said the male officer. Police officers always referred to people as "individuals."

"Did these individuals threaten you with violence in any way?"

"They were following me."

"But did they make any contact with you at all? Touch you or your car or communicate with you in any way?" Brent knew what was coming.

"No."

"Sir, I'm afraid that, without a restraining order against them, there is nothing we can do." Brent already knew that.

"I understand. Can you do me a favor please? Can you take their names and addresses for your report so I can find out who has been following me?"

"All that information will be in our report, sir, and you can obtain a copy from the station." The officer handed Brent a slip of paper. "This is the report reference number. Just give them that."

"Thank you," Brent said, as he watched the white Mustang roll by. The occupants in the car were white males. He couldn't see any other features as they drove by, trying not to look at him, but he could get all that information from the report.

"You're welcome, sir. Have a nice day," said the male officer, and the two of them walked away.

Brent called Rick on the phone to tell him about the tail. He would pick up the report in the morning.

"Don't go straight home," Rick advised. "Take the scenic route and make sure nobody's following you."

Brent did, running all the way down busy State Street and turning right at the entrance to the Pier onto Shoreline Drive, passing the beautiful beach and coastline, all the while checking his mirrors for any sign of a tail. By the time he turned right on La Coronilla, he was sure that nobody had followed him.

Pulling up to his home on Harbor Hills Drive, the expansive view of the ocean and shoreline behind the house reminded him of why he had bought the place. It was always pleasant to come home to. Brent pressed the button to open the garage door, and pulled in.

When Brent opened the front door, Calico greeted him right away. The orange and white cat with the round smiling face was as much a part of his home as the house itself. But there was something strange about her today. She seemed a bit nervous, flighty, and wasn't purring as usual.

"Hey Callie, what's wrong girl?" The cat flitted about, wagging her tail vigorously. Then Brent saw what had made her so nervous. In the middle of the living room, there was a stone. Underneath Calico's favorite windowsill were shards of broken glass.

Once he took a closer look, Brent could see that there was a paper attached to the stone. Brent went to the kitchen to put on some latex kitchen gloves so as not to disturb any evidence. He carefully untied the twine that held the paper wrapped tightly against the stone, and, holding only the edges of the corners, straightened it out so he could read it. It read, Stay away from April Marsh. Brent immediately called Rick. He was sure there would be no traces of fingerprints on the note, but you never know.

11.

"No prints on the paper," Rick reported, as he kicked back in the client's chair and put his feet on Brent's desk.

"What a surprise," said Brent, adding "Get your grungy feet off my desk!"

The cops had spent over two hours at his house. It wasn't quite his idea of a quiet evening at home with the cat. Rick took his feet off the desk, and plopped them against the other client's chair.

"There's more bad news, I'm afraid."

"Great. Give it to me."

"Prudent Bank does have a drug screening policy, but they use blood tests, not hair follicles."

"Wonderful."

"But I've got the police report on the tail," Rick continued. "The car is registered to the driver, a Kevin Suskind, age 26, crack head, and his buddy, the passenger, was William Conlan, 30, a hefty body building freak. Any idea who these guys might be?"

"None at all."

"I'm going to talk to them and see what I can shake out. But first, I'm going to pay a visit to our Mr. Bernstein."

"What for?"

"If anything else, I can probably tell if he's guilty just by looking at him. Then we'll know if we're on a snipe hunt or not."

Rick had looked into the empty eyes of enough criminals (the murderous kind) to spot them right away. Brent had too, for that matter. When he first went into private practice, Charles Stinson got him on the private counsel list to defend parole violators when the public defender had overflows or declared a conflict. It was the eyes that gave them away. A hardened criminal cannot make eye contact with you, and, if you are able to look him in the eye, you see the windows to a most evil soul. Rick was used to it, having worked on serial killer task forces on more than one occasion, but it always gave Brent the chills.

12.

Rick strolled into Steve Bernstein's Century City office at Prudent Bank unannounced, telling the receptionist he was from the FBI, and flashed his business card holder, which passed for a badge with most people. That usually broke all the ice. The office was an impressive spread, taking up the entire 37th floor of one of the Century Plaza Towers, with marble floors and wood paneling, befitting of any royal palace.

As he was shown into the "king's" office, an enormous spread with a glass wall showing a panoramic view of Los Angeles, Steve Bernstein met Rick with a fake smile and handshake. His palm was sweaty, like a horse after a quick run. Rick got a read on him right away as a phony, but his criminal radar was not going off.

"So what can we do for the FBI?" asked Bernstein. Rick continued to size him up. He was beady-eyed, cocky, short, balding, maybe in his early 40's, and tried to disguise his fear and anxiety with friendliness. He was the type of guy who never said, "hello." It was always "how are you." Rick didn't have a stomach for that type.

"Well, I'm here for a routine investigation, sir. It's about April Marsh."

"Marsh? Doesn't ring a bell." Bernstein drew his fuzzy eyebrows upward for a split second, causing short lines to appear across his forehead; a micro expression that gave away the fact that he was lying. Rick could see beads of perspiration forming on his neck and in between the hairs of his finely trimmed moustache.

"You sure? You wrote her father a mortgage loan; George Marsh?"

"George Marsh. Really don't recall that name either."

Bernstein leaned back in his chair and swallowed. Another micro expression. He was definitely lying.

"Well, let me show you a copy of the loan app. That should refresh your memory."

Rick put the file on Bernstein's desk. Bernstein glanced at it, and then looked away.

"That's my signature, still don't recall the name."

"Mr. Marsh was attacked two years ago, in his home. His wife was murdered."

Bernstein's knuckles were turning white, digging into the armrests of his leather judge's chair.

"I think I remember something about that from the newspapers. But, again, sorry, I just don't recall the person. Is there anything else I can do for you, Agent?"

"...Mr. Penn, here's my card in case you remember anything."

"Thank you," said Bernstein, shaking Rick's hand and taking the card. As Rick turned to leave, Bernstein remarked, "This says you're a private investigator. I thought you were from the FBI."

Rick turned and smiled. "I don't know whatever gave you that idea," he said, and left Bernstein standing in the middle of his panoramic office like a deer in headlights.

"So, is Bernstein our guy?" asked Brent.

"Don't know. Didn't get that far. Says he doesn't know Marsh. He's lying about that, though."

"What's your gut feeling?"

"He's definitely the criminal type. Whether he's a murderer, I can't really tell at this point."

"So, what next?"

"You want to file your complaint with the 'M' word, right?"

"Yeah."