room, giving her statement to a detective.
The video was taken outside the Slumberland Motel, a purple-painted cinderblock eyesore near the intersection of the Pacific Coast Highway and Kanan Dune Road. Mark and Steve had driven past it a thousand times and wondered how it had survived on such a valuable piece of "Malibu-adjacent" property. The Slumberland had always looked like the kind of place that had condom vending machines in the front office and vibrating beds in each room.
The date and time the video was shot was stamped in the corner of the screen. It was the day of the double murders. The time was 3:13 P.M.
Lacey McClure drove up in her vintage Mustang and parked beside a huge Cadillac Escalade in front of the last room at the far end of the low-lying, one-story building. The number on the room door was 16. She got out wearing the same tight black tank top and gray shorts she'd been wearing when Mark and Steve first met her. The only slight attempt she made to obscure her identity was a pair of dark sunglasses and a baseball cap.
There was an excited, girlish bounce to her step as she hurried to the room and knocked on the door. It was opened an instant later by a man in his late twenties with the chiseled, blow-dried good looks of an aftershave model.
The man swept Lacey up in his arms, lifting her off her feet as they embraced in a deep, passionate kiss. She wrapped her legs around him and they tumbled back into the room, the man closing the door with a swift kick.
There was a quick cut in the film, and then they saw the motel from a different angle. The cameraman was on a hill side at the end of the building, looking down on the back window of the last room on the end. The shades were half-drawn, leaving just enough of the window open to see Lacey, her naked back to the camera, straddling her lover on the bed and grinding rhythmically against him. When she bent over to kiss him, her body resembled the poised tail of the scorpion that was tattooed on her lower back.
The time was 3:47 P.M.
There was another cut, and then the motel room was seen from the front again, only from an angle that also showed the gas station across the Pacific Coast Highway and an LAPD patrol car speeding past, lights flashing.
Lacey emerged from the motel room, gave her lover a long, languorous kiss, then got into her car and drove off. The time stamp was 4:35.
The tape ended. Mark stared at the blank screen as if he still saw images flickering past. He was replaying the video again in his mind, time stamps and all. Steve studied the rigid expression on his father's face. It was an expression Steve had seen many times before. His father had become a guided missile locking on to its target. The only way to stop him now would be if he self-destructed.
"Now I know Lacey McClure killed Cleve Kershaw and Amy Butler," Mark said.
"Why are you so certain?"
"Because now confusing facts of the murder make perfect sense," Mark said. "It was all contrived to give her this airtight alibi."
"This video doesn't prove anything. Whoever made this could have stamped any time and date on there if he wanted," Steve said. "It could have been taken two days, two months, or two years ago."
Mark shook his head. "The time and date are accurate, I guarantee it. You'll be able to corroborate everything. I'd start by checking the number of the patrol car we saw going by. I'll bet it was the two officers responding to my 911 call."
"If you're right, and the time stamp on this video is accurate, then there's no way Lacey McClure could have fired the shots you heard," Steve said. "Or even the shots you didn't hear an hour earlier."
"That's why there's no question she did it."
Steve stared at his father. "I'm not sure that's the best argument to make in front of a jury, assuming this case ever gets that far."
"It will," Mark said, his eyes blazing with determination. "I'd like a copy of that tape."
"No problem," Steve said. "You think she arranged
The video was taken outside the Slumberland Motel, a purple-painted cinderblock eyesore near the intersection of the Pacific Coast Highway and Kanan Dune Road. Mark and Steve had driven past it a thousand times and wondered how it had survived on such a valuable piece of "Malibu-adjacent" property. The Slumberland had always looked like the kind of place that had condom vending machines in the front office and vibrating beds in each room.
The date and time the video was shot was stamped in the corner of the screen. It was the day of the double murders. The time was 3:13 P.M.
Lacey McClure drove up in her vintage Mustang and parked beside a huge Cadillac Escalade in front of the last room at the far end of the low-lying, one-story building. The number on the room door was 16. She got out wearing the same tight black tank top and gray shorts she'd been wearing when Mark and Steve first met her. The only slight attempt she made to obscure her identity was a pair of dark sunglasses and a baseball cap.
There was an excited, girlish bounce to her step as she hurried to the room and knocked on the door. It was opened an instant later by a man in his late twenties with the chiseled, blow-dried good looks of an aftershave model.
The man swept Lacey up in his arms, lifting her off her feet as they embraced in a deep, passionate kiss. She wrapped her legs around him and they tumbled back into the room, the man closing the door with a swift kick.
There was a quick cut in the film, and then they saw the motel from a different angle. The cameraman was on a hill side at the end of the building, looking down on the back window of the last room on the end. The shades were half-drawn, leaving just enough of the window open to see Lacey, her naked back to the camera, straddling her lover on the bed and grinding rhythmically against him. When she bent over to kiss him, her body resembled the poised tail of the scorpion that was tattooed on her lower back.
The time was 3:47 P.M.
There was another cut, and then the motel room was seen from the front again, only from an angle that also showed the gas station across the Pacific Coast Highway and an LAPD patrol car speeding past, lights flashing.
Lacey emerged from the motel room, gave her lover a long, languorous kiss, then got into her car and drove off. The time stamp was 4:35.
The tape ended. Mark stared at the blank screen as if he still saw images flickering past. He was replaying the video again in his mind, time stamps and all. Steve studied the rigid expression on his father's face. It was an expression Steve had seen many times before. His father had become a guided missile locking on to its target. The only way to stop him now would be if he self-destructed.
"Now I know Lacey McClure killed Cleve Kershaw and Amy Butler," Mark said.
"Why are you so certain?"
"Because now confusing facts of the murder make perfect sense," Mark said. "It was all contrived to give her this airtight alibi."
"This video doesn't prove anything. Whoever made this could have stamped any time and date on there if he wanted," Steve said. "It could have been taken two days, two months, or two years ago."
Mark shook his head. "The time and date are accurate, I guarantee it. You'll be able to corroborate everything. I'd start by checking the number of the patrol car we saw going by. I'll bet it was the two officers responding to my 911 call."
"If you're right, and the time stamp on this video is accurate, then there's no way Lacey McClure could have fired the shots you heard," Steve said. "Or even the shots you didn't hear an hour earlier."
"That's why there's no question she did it."
Steve stared at his father. "I'm not sure that's the best argument to make in front of a jury, assuming this case ever gets that far."
"It will," Mark said, his eyes blazing with determination. "I'd like a copy of that tape."
"No problem," Steve said. "You think she arranged
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