Robert Crais - L.A. Requiem

Serial killer.

Little by little, the night shift drifted away, and the day shift arrived. Samantha Dolan turned in driving a dark blue Beemer. Her license plate frame read I WANNA BE BARBIE, THAT BITCH HAS EVERYTHING. Most of the other cops were driving American sedans or pickup trucks, and almost all of their vehicles had a trailer hitch because cops like boats. It's genetic. Dolan didn't have a trailer hitch, but none of the other cops had Beemers. Maybe that made them even.

I followed her down, and parked next to her. She saw me as I parked, and raised her eyebrows, watching me as I got out of my car, then climbed into hers. The Black Forest leather went nicely with her Piaget watch. “Guess the TV series wasn't so bad, Dolan. Nice car.”

“What are you doing here this early, for chrissake? I thought you private guys slept in.”

“I wanted to talk to you without Krantz around.”

She smiled, and suddenly looked very pretty. Like the bad girl next door.

“You're not going to talk dirty to me, are you? I might blush.”

“Not this time. I read through those reports you gave me and saw that some facts are missing, like the little bit of plastic the criminalist found and the white particulates that the ME IDed in Karen Garcia's wound. I was hoping maybe you could help get me the real reports.”

Dolan stopped smiling. A maroon leather daybook was in her lap, along with a briefcase and a Sig Sauer 9-millimeter. The Sig was in a clip holster, and had probably been under her front seat. Most cops carry Berettas, but the Sig is an easy gun to shoot, and very accurate. Hers had glow-in-the-dark sights.

I said, “Do us both a favor and don't say you don't know what I'm talking about. It would make you look ordinary.”

Dolan abruptly took a cell phone from the center console and put it in her purse. “I gave you the reports Krantz gave me. If you've got a problem with that, you should talk to him. You may not remember this, but I work for him.”

“And who does Krantz work for, the FBI?”

She continued gathering things.

“I followed the guy with the white crew cut, Dolan. I know he's FBI. I know why they're on the case, and I know what you're covering up.”

“You've been watching too much of The X-Files. Get out. I've got to get in to work.”

I took out the sheet of paper with the five names and gave it to her.

“If I'm Mulder, are you Scully?”

Dolan stared at the five names, then searched my face. “Where did you get this?”

“I'm the world's greatest detective, Dolan. This isn't early for me. I never sleep.”

Dolan handed back the sheet as if she didn't believe this was happening, and by handing it back could pretend she hadn't seen it.

“Why did you come to me with this? Krantz is the lead.”

“I figure you and I can do this off the record.”

“Do what?”

“You guys have been feeding me bullshit. I want to know what's really going on with this investigation.”

Dolan was shaking her head before I finished, raising her hands. “Absolutely not. I won't have anything to do with this.”

“I already know who the victims are, how they were murdered, and when. By the end of the day I'll have their life histories. I know you're sitting on Dersh, though I don't know why. I know Robbery-Homicide has been running a Task Force, that the FBI is involved, and that you've got the lid clamped.”

Dolan watched me as I said it, and something like a smile played on her lips. Not the bad-girl smile; more like she appreciated what I was saying.

When I finished she said, “Jesus.”

“No. But almost.”

“I guess you're a pretty good investigator, Cole. I guess you're pretty good.”

I spread my hands and tried to look modest. No easy task. “The world's-”

“-greatest. Yeah, I know.” She took a breath, and suddenly I liked her smile a great deal. “Maybe you are. You've been a busy boy.”

“So talk to me, Dolan. Tell me what's going on.”

“You know what kind of spot you're putting me in?”

“I know. I don't want to come on like an adversary, Dolan, but Frank Garcia is going to ask me what's happening, and I have to decide whether or not to lie to him. You don't know me, and you probably think nothing of me, but let me tell you, I don't view that lightly. I don't like lying, I like lying to a client even less, and I will not do so unless there's a compelling reason. Understand this, Dolan, my obligation here isn't to you or Krantz or the sanctity of your investigation. It's to Frank Garcia, and later today he's going to ask. I'm sitting here right now so you can tell me why I shouldn't give this to him.”

“What if you don't like what I tell you?”

“We'll take it a step at a time.”

A sharp vertical line appeared between her eyebrows in a kind of scowl as she thought about what to tell me. I hadn't seen many women who looked good scowling, but she did.

“Remember David Berkowitz, the Son of Sam?”

“Sure. Shot people in parked cars back in New York.”

“Berkowitz just walked up to cars, shot whoever was inside-male, female, it didn't matter-then walked away. He got off on shooting people, and it didn't matter who. The Feebs call guys like that ‘random assassin killers,’ and they're the hardest type of killer to catch. You see why?”

“No connection to the victims. No way to predict who he might go for next.”

“Right.

“Most killers kill people they know, and that's how they're caught. Husband kills wife. Junkie kills dealer. Like that. Most murders aren't solved by clues like you see on Murder, She Wrote , or forensics like you read about in a Patricia Corn-well novel. The easy truth of it is that almost all murders are solved when somebody rats out somebody else, when some guy says, ‘Elmo said he was gonna shoot him,’ and the cops go to Elmo's place and find the murder weapon hidden under Elmo's bed. It's that cut-and-dried. And when there isn't anyone to point the finger at Elmo, Elmo gets away.

“That's what we've got here, Cole. Julio Munoz was the only one of the vics with a sheet. He was a former prostitute who'd cleaned up his act and was working as a counselor in a halfway house in Bellflower. Semple was a roofing contractor who lived in Altadena. Totally unlike Munoz. No record, deacon in his church, the wife, the kids, the whole nine yards. Vivian Trainor was a nurse, a real straight arrow like Semple. Keech, a retired City Parks custodian, lived in a retirement home in Hacienda Heights. Now Karen Garcia. So we're talking about a street hustler, a Sunday-school teacher, a nurse, a retired custodian, and a wealthy college student. Two Hispanics, two Anglos, and a black, all from different parts of the city. We've gone to each of the families and floated the names of the other vics, but we haven't been able to link them. We're trying to tie in Garcia, but we're coming up empty there, too. Maybe you can help with that.”

“How?”

“Krantz is scared to press the girl's father, but we need to talk to him. Krantz keeps saying to let him cool down, but I don't think we can afford to wait. I want to run the names past him. I want to look through the girl's things.”

“You go through her apartment yet?”

“Of course. We didn't need his permission for that. But she might've left things at her father's house. I did, when I moved out.”

“What do you want to find?”

“Something that puts her with one of the other vics. Anything like that, and we're not talking random anymore. That makes this asshole a lot easier to catch.”

“I'll talk to Pike. We can make that happen.”

“This guy's smart. Five head shots, all with a .22, and none of the bullets match. That means he's using a different gun each time. He probably chucks them, so we won't find the murder weapons in his possession. Each shooting takes place in an isolated location, three of the five at night, so we have no wits. We've recovered two .22 caliber shell casings. No prints, both fired from different semiautomatics, and different brands. We've found shoe prints at three of the murder scenes, but, get this, three different shoe sizes, ten, ten and a half, and eleven. He's playing mix and match with us.”