"So, what do we got?" I ask the short, Police Officer Laura Markin, as she, eagerly, leads me over to the scene—all the while thinking to myself: Where did the unwritten height requirements go, where joining the force had been concerned, when I had first become a cop? Or, is it just that I'm damn tall at six feet, four inches, to Markin's five-foot, two-inch height?

She's a great asset to the department, though.

"Prepare yourself, Lieutenant," says the petite officer, continuing to inform me. "It's pretty gruesome."

I eek out a low sigh. "This couldn't wait until tomorrow?" I utter to myself.

As I step along with my guide, toward the roadside crime scene, at the Ocean Avenue and Alta Avenue intersection, the buildings to my right don't catch my full attention. The quaint, roadside, Palisades Park, to my left, though, does. 

I think of the "Pacific Coast Highway" beyond the green grass-, tree-, and pedestrian-loved park, and of how it—in conjunction with that "Highway 1" roadway below, and house-lined beachfront—separates me from touching my past.

The blacktop of Ocean Avenue, down which I'm now stepping, is not far from the exact spot on the Santa Monica Beach, where Sabrina and I had gotten married, fifteen years ago. This is the first time that I've been anywhere near it, since then, and I picture that location in my mind. 

I pass my hand over my bleary eyes, to bring myself back to the present. Still, it had been a very long night and early part of the day for me. For some reason, yesterday evening, I couldn't stop thinking about Sabrina. That spilled over into earlier today.  Is our wedding connection with this crime scene's site now, somehow, the reason why?

I peer up at the sun. Its glaring, hot light is bathing down on all, from behind a mixed sky. I lift a pair of Foster Grant Iron Man Sunglasses from my ReadeREST magnetic-eyewear holder clip on my shirt, and set them into place over my eyes. Damn, I think. Where's a cold Manhattan Special when I need one? Those newly-purchased bottles of it, in my car, are still warm.

Drinking has not been my thing—not even beer—ever since Sabrina's death. Even though a drunk driver hadn't killed her, I could never shake the fact that many drunk drivers do, "accidentally," kill with a car. That fact might not be the best reason, for some, for why I stay away from booze; matter of fact, it's only half of the reason why.

True, if you can believe it, I've taken some ribbing about my position on booze, from my so-called police friends. Buddies like those, though, one doesn't need. That's why I'm a lone wolf—both in civilian and law-enforcement life. Ever since Sabrina died, I'm a no attachments, strictly work kind of a guy.

As for the remaining reason why I stay away from booze? Had I not had a couple of drinks, on the night of my wife's death, I believe that I could have saved her. That's because I would have been sober enough to have realized the oncoming danger—and able enough to have pushed her out of the way—of the car that had both hit and run her over. You don't like my reasons for not bending my elbow today? Take a hike. I don't enjoy wasting my breath on cement heads.

I still enjoy something non-alcoholic with a kick, though. That's why my fridge is always stocked with that espresso coffee soda called Manhattan Special. My dad had introduced it to me, so many years ago. I've never lost the taste for it. Damn, I could use one right about now. If only there were a convenience store around here that carried it, like the one in the hills—not far from the mansion where both Sabrina and I had lived—I'd give Officer Markin here a swift kick in the ass, to run and get me one.

No, not really. That's just my tongue-in-cheek humor. I want to make sure that you're paying attention to me. I can get quite upset at those who don't—especially at a murder scene.

Still, my steps are a little cockier than usual here, as I saunter alongside my shorter female lead. I guess it's just that I'm not in the mood to see a dead body—after a night of having struggled with thoughts about Sabrina.

Now that I'll be dealing with a "roadkill"—my off-the-record term, for a dead person found on the roadside—I wonder about that word. Had my sweet Sabrina, fifteen years ago, also been considered a "roadkill," by the police at her scene?...

As I step closer to the woman in this crime scene—who's faced down on the roadside—my stomach drops. Haphazardly, I listen to the words of my guiding, petty officer, as a worst nightmare of mine begins to take shape in my mind.

I don't know the dead woman's identity yet, but, there's something about her hair that strikes me—it's a perfect, shoulder-length, frizzy-like coiffure.

Passing an agitated glance to Officer Markin, as she proceeds to prattle, aimlessly, to my deaf ears about the scene, I think of Betty—Greg Fanson's wife. The media had tagged her "The Girl with the Golden Hair." Is this dead woman her?

Stepping in front of Markin, I gaze at the woman's hairstyle thinking, No one in Hollywood has natural, shiny hair as beautifully as Mrs. Fanson.

"It's Betty Fanson, Lieutenant," says Officer Markin, interrupting my thoughts, confirming them.

I gawk back her way.

"The thriller producer's wife—you know, first TV, now feature films," Markin, easily, adds, with a happy facial expression that of a dog's, as though it were awaiting praise and a biscuit, after having done some kind of a neat parlor trick for its master.

I slip off my sunglasses, glance back down at the woman's body, then at Markin again.

"Apparently," she continues, "the brakes on their Mercedes-Benz GLS 550 SUV failed."

"What do you think, Markin?"

"Me?" she asks, a little stunned.

I nod.

"Well, I...I really don't know. I can't get a straight story from her husband."

That's not the answer I was hoping to get from her. Still a rookie, I think.

She points over my shoulder, toward a patrol car that's situated on the park's pathway, just off the street. "Maybe you can."

Had Officer Markin not been correct about the identity of the deceased woman, I, too, would look at this murder scene as ordinary. Then I would interview the man—whom Markin had pointed out—and, not long after, been on my way.

I "knew" this dead woman, though. I had followed her successful modeling career. I was aware of her troubled marriage with Greg. I read all about those things in the tabloids and movie magazines.

"No witnesses, Brock."

Laura's the only field officer I allow to address me by my first name. She doesn't always, but, when she does, she knows that I'm not going to reprimand for having done so.

"Keep looking." 

"But no one's talking, Lieutenant."

Showing no signs of relenting, my facial demeanor holds steady on Laura, with my jaw clenched.

"At least not yet," she says, reading into my silent instruction.

I grunt a reply with sarcastic amazement, then look over to the police vehicle that had been pointed out to me. Mr. Fanson's in the back seat, with the door open. "I'll talk with him in a minute," I say, then glance back over Mrs. Fanson's body, with unfiltered eyes.

"Okay, Brock," comes Markin's dutiful reply, as she stands, almost at attention, holding out a box of Nitrile gloves.

I set my sunglasses back into place, pull a pair of gloves from the box, and squeeze my hands into them. As I crouch down beside Mrs. Fanson, I see that her "hair title" is never more befitting.

The harder that I stare at her blonde hair, the silkier it appears. The strands of the hair are bountiful and vibrant and—even in death—their golden color is unlike any that I have ever seen before. I understand, even more now, why she's called the woman with the best hair in Hollywood. I realize, too, for the first time, why she's the most popular endorser of women's hair products—her locks are spectacular!

Reality hits me hard now: the owner of such beautiful hair, spokeswoman for hair beauty products, and the envy of women around the world, is dead. It's my job now to find her killer!

With those thoughts computing through my brain, I notice Mrs. Fanson's crushed skull on the right side. Her wound is not difficult to miss. Slowly, I shake my head, as my shaded eyes follow the blood trail toward and onto her trendy, short-sleeved, pullover top. The white garment, now saturated blood red to her right shoulder, chills me to the core. She never should have met her end this way.

I peek around, with an investigative look, taking in all that I see on the roadside. Who would have done such a thing to this beautiful woman?

My eyes settle back onto Mrs. Fanson, then, suddenly, I look away. Heinous, senseless murder can get to a hardened homicide Lieutenant, too—especially if it's someone whom he feels he "knows."