They found her body high above Santa Monica Valley. Under wisps of white clouds, among a mountain’s majestic monochromes, deep dark grays, lucid livid light and nestled in vibrant vegetation, there she laid, young, beautiful and dead.

Cannon and Storm arrived as uniforms were roping off a large area of Griffith Park. The morning’s haze had all but lifted. They slowly scouted the scene of the crime.

James Cannon placed a soiled hat and handbag into a cardboard container. “It’s ironic that a impoverished woman perished here.” Turning to his partner he continued. “Lavishly large letters, fitting for a pompous municipality! A sign of wealth? A social symbol recognized the world over? – No, just a tombstone.”

“Really now, Detective, who’s to say that she wasn’t one of the wealthy and famous?” Ann Storm turned toward the foot of the mountain. “As one of thousands fighting for fortune and fame, she tired of tearing her way to the top. Perhaps she snapped?”

“Or someone snapped her? – Her neck in fact. Look here.”