James Patterson - Private

But I kept the still shots of Spano, Marzullo, and the refs in my pocket. I had a clever idea. But I couldn’t tell anyone about it yet.

It was three fifty on that same Sunday afternoon.

Justine and Nora Cronin had been parked outside Rudolph Crocker’s white stucco three-story apartment building on Via Marina since eight in the morning. The two of them weren’t exactly friends yet, but no blows had been struck either.

Justine had clipped a “little ears” parabolic dish to the window of the car. She and Nora had listened to Crocker’s morning bathroom noises and later Meet the Press, accompanied by Crocker’s running, ranting commentary.

At a few minutes before two, Crocker had left the building in shorts and a T-shirt, and Nora and Justine got their first live view of the twenty-three-year-old who might have murdered more than a dozen girls.

“Doesn’t look like much,” Nora grumbled.

“He isn’t. He’s just scum, Nora.”

Crocker went for a run up Admiralty Way, with Justine and Nora following behind him at a safe distance in one of Private’s standard-issue gray Crown Victorias.

After returning home, Crocker took a shower, singing “Unbreak My Heart” off-key but with meaning. He watched CNN’s Your Money, and then everything inside his front-facing apartment went quiet. Justine guessed that Crocker might have been working on his computer. Or maybe he’d gone back to sleep.

“Is he in for the frickin’ night?” Nora fretted. “I thought this guy needed excitement.”

“Lean back. Close your eyes,” Justine said. “If he is, then so are we.”

“I can’t catnap in a car. You?”

“How do you like your coffee? There’s a deli at the corner. I’m buying.”

At just after five, Crocker emerged from his apartment building again, this time in a smart blue blazer over a pink shirt, gray slacks, and loafers that looked like they cost a lot.

He walked to a late-model blue Sienna minivan parked at the end of Bora Bora and got inside. He backed out smoothly, then turned up Via Marina.

Justine was a professional stalker and she was good at it. She followed Crocker’s van, staying two to three car lengths behind him.

She almost lost him when a light changed, but Justine gunned the engine and blew through the light.

“Son of a bitch,” Cronin murmured. “Did he make us?”

“Don’t know,” said Justine. “We’ll find out soon.”

They entered Westwood on Westwood Boulevard and cruised onto Hilgard. They saw Crocker pull into a driveway, leave his keys and van with a valet, then take the stairs into the lobby of the W Hotel.

The bar, located at the corner of the building, was visible through the plate glass windows on two sides.

“He’s going to the Whiskey Blue,” Justine said. “It’s a pickup joint for richy singles. Perfect for our purposes, really.”

Their agreed-upon mission was narrow and very precise. They weren’t going to confront Rudolph Crocker. They weren’t going to arrest him. They didn’t even want to meet his eyes, though Justine wouldn’t have minded scratching them out.

They just needed a smear of saliva, a microscopic sample of skin cells, a hair, or a flake of dandruff. That was all it would take.

Easier said than done, though.

“How do I look?” Nora asked Justine.

“Adorable. Use this.”

Justine took a lipstick out of her bag and handed it to Nora while watching the door Rudolph Crocker had just entered. He was still in there.

“Let your hair down,” Nora said. “Shake it out. Open a few buttons.”

Justine did it and said, “Let’s go. Let’s meet the devil.”

Nora slammed the door, showed her badge to the valet, and said, “Our car stays right here at the curb. Police business.”

Justine gave the kid a ten, then followed Nora up the stairs.

“I get it,” said the kid. “Good cop, bad cop.”

Nora turned to him and laughed out loud. “No, this is fat cop, skinny cop!”

“A good laugh always helps,” Justine said as they entered the bar.

Since Justine had last been at the Whiskey Blue, it had undergone a modern makeover. The lounge was swathed in earthy neutrals; there were angular couches in chocolate and umber, and soft lighting over the bar. Techno music pounded out of the speakers, making real conversation impossible.

The place was jammed with young execs and wannabes savoring the remains of the weekend. Still a chance to score. Girls with great hair and tight clothing, breasts squeezed up to their collarbones, laughed into the faces of young guys obviously on their way up in the world. Every other one of them seemed to have dark hair and very white teeth; most wore sunglasses.

Justine felt an unnerving sense of urgency. This was it, all she had. Rudolph Crocker had to be their guy, and he was here.

For too long she’d been working this case as though the murdered girls were her own children. It had been months of frustration and grief, hearing the indelible cries of the girls’ parents etched into her mind like the grooves of an old-fashioned vinyl record.

She and Nora had given themselves a difficult but critical task. If they pulled it off, they might shut down a heinous fucking killer-but there were so many ways this could go wrong.

Justine signaled to Nora with her eyes, and they inched and edged through the crowd.

When they got to the bar, Justine said to a big, bluff twenty-something red-faced guy wearing a shirt that matched his complexion, “Mind if I slip in there and order a drink?”

“What are you having?” said the guy, checking her out from the neck down.

“My girlfriend and I, we’re together.”

The large guy looked at Nora, then quickly back at Justine. This time, her eyes. He sneered, but he backed away.

Justine nabbed a stool, put a hand around Nora’s arm, and pulled her close. She leaned in and whispered, “Got a clear view of him?”

“Yeah. Crocker’s asking for a refill. The bartender just took away his glass.”

The bartender was in his early thirties, sandy hair thinning in front. He was buffed and looked bored, had the name Buddy appliqued on his shirt.

“What can I get for you ladies?”

“Pinot Grigio,” said Justine.

“Perrier,” said Nora. There was a jostling movement at Justine’s back, someone bumping into her.

“What the…?”

“Don’t look now. Crocker’s got company,” said Nora. “Skinny guy, hair down over his eyes. Looks like a total geek.”

“I can’t hear what they’re saying,” Justine said.

“Doesn’t matter,” said Cronin. “As long as we can see them we’re cool.”

The bartender put their drinks on the bar. Justine paid with a twenty, told Buddy to keep the change. The bartender palmed the bill, took a bowl of nuts out from under the ledge, and placed it in front of her.

Justine lifted her eyes and watched Crocker in the mirror behind the bar.

He had the stand-out ears, the memorable nose. The rest of the picture was just un-freaking-believable: how could a guy this ordinary be vying with legendary psychos for a top spot in the killer lineup?

The busboy brought a rack of clean glasses to the back bar, and the bartender took a few orders. Crocker’s friend had a beer from the tap, and the two of them talked without looking around.

Justine dropped her eyes when Crocker signaled to the waiter for the check. She watched him sign it, then both men got off their stools and left the bar.

Buddy moved to clear away the glasses, and Nora slapped her badge down on the bar in a fraction of an instant.

“Don’t touch the glassware,” she said to Buddy. “I need it. It’s evidence.”