Cody McFadyen - Shadow Man

"Working together?"

"Yeah."

"When do you want me to start?" No hesitation.

"I should be home tonight around eleven. Do you mind meeting me then?"

"No. I'll see you there. Don't worry if you run a little late. I'll wait."

"Thank you, Tommy. I really appreciate it."

"I owe you, Smoky. I'll see you later tonight."

I hang up, musing. Tommy is definitely a no-nonsense guy. I watch Callie finish her phone call.

"So?" I ask.

"I reached Gene, honey-love. He's getting a copy of the report couriered to Dr. Child."

"How long would it take you to put a scene kit together, Callie?"

She raises her eyebrows, surprised. "It depends on whether or not Gene has one already--a half hour?"

"Go see him and get things ready. If it turns out that there is a crime scene, I want you and Gene to do the initial processing personally, before we let LAPD forensics in there. This is our first opportunity to see things fresh."

"You got it, honey-love," she replies, and whirls out the door. And then it hits me. One of my epiphanies. I shouldn't be surprised. I am in the groove, all forward motion and senses turned up to maximum.

"Listen up, James, Leo," I say, excited. "Tell me what you think about this." I sit up and they give me their full attention. "Both times they've killed, they've signed up for access to the members' areas of the Web sites concerned, right?"

"Yep."

"And both times, they chose the same user name and password combination. So . . ."

I see Leo's eyes widen. "Right! So there's a chance that they already picked their next victim and signed up there as well--maybe with the same user name and password. Or, if not the same, along the same lines. The Ripper theme."

I grin. "Exactly. I can't imagine that there are that many companies that will process charges for adult sites."

"No, there aren't. Less than a dozen."

"We need to contact every one of them, James. You and Leo. We want them to search through their systems, looking for that user name and password combination, as well as variants. And then we need it matched up to a Web site. I'm talking about waking people up out of bed."

James gives me a look of grudging admiration. "Competent. Very competent."

"That's why I'm the boss and get paid the big money."

His lack of retort is like a compliment from someone else. I'm talking to Alan on my cell phone. "We got a scene, Smoky," he says.

"Who's the primary from LAPD?"

"Barry Franklin. He wants to talk to you."

"Go ahead and put him on."

There's a pause, and Barry's voice comes through. He's not pleased.

"Smoky. What's with denying us access to our crime scene?"

"It's not like that, Barry. At all. This is just our first chance to see a scene from this unsub fresh. You know how that is."

A pause, followed by a sigh. "Sure. Can I go in, at least? You know I won't fuck things up."

"Of course you can. Can you put Alan back on?"

"Sure thing."

"So he's cool to let us on the scene?" Alan asks me.

"Yep. And I'm leaving with Callie and Gene in about five minutes. We'll see you there."

"Got a name on her, Smoky. Charlotte Ross."

"Thanks." I hang up.

Charlotte Ross. Promiscuous, yes. Of dubious moral character, maybe.

None of these traits merits a penalty of torture, rape, and death.

R USH HOUR ENDEDat 8:00 P.M., so it doesn't take us long to get to the address in Woodland Hills. It is a small, single-level condo, not dripping with prestige, but nice. It fits the neighborhood. I park and we all get out of the car, heading to the front door, where Alan waits.

"Where's Barry?" I ask.

He jerks a thumb toward the door. "Still inside."

"Have you taken a look?" I ask.

"No. I knew you'd want to see it first."

He knows. Years of working together creates this kind of symbiosis. I poke my head in and call for Barry. He appears from inside another room, and he walks toward me, moving out of the house onto the porch.

"Thank God," he says, reaching into his coat. "I needed an excuse to come out and have a cigarette." He pulls out a pack and lights up, inhaling and then exhaling with a blissful expression on his face. "You want one?"

"No, thanks." I'm surprised to find that I mean it. The desire to smoke evaporated somewhere between finding out about Alexa and picking up my gun again.

I feel gratified and lucky that Barry is the primary on this case from the LAPD. I've known him for almost a decade. He's short, pudgy, and balding. Wears glasses and has one of the more homely faces I've ever seen. Somehow, despite these shortcomings, Barry is always dating pretty, younger women. There's something about him; you get the sense that he is larger than the body he wears, and he has a supreme confidence without being arrogant. A lot of women find that combination of self-assurance and a good heart to be irresistible. He's also a brilliant homicide detective. Very, very talented. If he were in the Bureau, he'd be on my team.

"You itching to see the scene?" he asks.

"Tell me the basics first. Before I go inside."

He nods and begins to recount. He doesn't refer to any notes. He doesn't need to--Barry has a photographic memory. "Victim is Charlotte Ross, twenty-four years old. Found tied to her bed, already deceased. She was cut from sternum to pelvis. Internal organs appear to have been removed, bagged, and placed by the body. Tremendous bruising to arms at the elbows, legs at the knees. They look broken. Contusions look like he beat her with something."

"He did. With a bat."

He raises his eyebrows. "How do you know that?"

"He sent me a video of it. This is the second woman--that we know of--that he's done this to."

"There's no official time of death, but I'd guess it has to be at least three days. She's pretty ripe."

"That fits with the general timeline."

He draws in another lungful. Gives me a look of thoughtful regard.

"So what's this about, Smoky?"

"What's it always about, Barry? A psycho who thrives on pain and terror." I rub my eyes. I'm tired. "This unsub targets women who run personal adult sites on the Internet. He . . ." I hesitate. "This all has to stay between us for now, Barry. I'm not ready to release anything to the press."

"No problem."

"First of all, 'he' is a 'they.' There's two of them. We think one is primary, dominant. And they're obsessing on me and my team. The first victim was a friend of mine from high school. My best friend. Something they knew."

Barry's face falls in dismay. "Ah, shit, Smoky."

"What you've described looks to be their MO. They killed my friend by cutting her throat--that's different from here--but the removal of the organs, that's their signature. The one we think is dominant says he's a descendant of Jack the Ripper."

A look of distaste flicks across Barry's face. "Bullshit."

I nod. "It is. We even have proof of it."

"So how do you want to work this?"

"I want to see the scene alone. And then I want Gene and Callie to give it an initial forensic once-over. Then your crime lab can process it in depth. I just need it done fast, and I need a copy of the results."

"Got it." He walks the cigarette out to the street to put out. So as not to contaminate the crime scene. He walks back up to me and indicates the doorway. "You want to see her now?"

"Yeah." I look at Alan, Callie, and Gene. "Alan, go home to your wife. There's no reason for you to be here right now."

He seems to hesitate, but ends up nodding. "Thanks." He turns and leaves.

"Callie, I'll probably be twenty, thirty minutes. After I'm done, you guys can go inside."

"No problem here, honey-love. Do your thing."

I move to the doorway and stand there for a moment, listening with my mind's ear. After a second, I hear it: chug-a-chug-a-chug-a-chug-a . I feel the coldness moving over me and the distance around me widen to a windless, open field. I can hear the dark train, and I'm ready to see it. Now I just need to find it again. Trace how it rode through this place. I step inside. The condo isn't elegant, but it is simple and clean. It has the feel of someone who used to try too hard but had decided to drop the pretense. A faint, sad feeling. Disappointment wasn't a way of life yet, but that day was coming.