James Patterson - Private

Sci took the stairs to the basement lab. He found Mo-bot in her druid cave of an office, incense burning. It smelled like perfumed garbage to him.

Mo didn’t look up from the computer. She said, “Morbid has hijacked a screen name and launched a text message to the target.”

Sci rolled a chair up to Mo’s desk and studied the screen. The stealth program they’d created was awfully good. It could hack calls wirelessly once the outgoing number was plugged in-but it also picked up chatter.

“Highlight Morbid and Lady D,” Sci said. “Let’s make it easier for us.” He pulled his cell phone off his belt and called Jack.

“Morbid’s making small talk with the target,” he told Jack. “The little fuck is using the handle Lulu218. His text to her says ‘C U after school.’ Doesn’t say where.”

Sci said to Mo, “Can you get a better fix on Morbid’s location?… Jack, he’s in West Hollywood. That’s all I can tell you right now. We’ll track the pings until we can refine his location.”

“Can’t you trace him?” Jack asked.

“Nope,” Sci said to Jack. “We can’t intercept the call, and that poor girl will be dead before the cops can get a court order.”

“I’m working on it!” Jack practically shouted.

Sci said, “Okay. We’ll keep trying,” then disconnected from the call to Jack.

“Text Lady D,” Sci said to Mo.

“I tried. We’re blocked. She’s being so careful, poor lamb. She knows there’s a killer out there, so she lets in the wolf wearing her girlfriend’s screen name-and she locks us out.”

Lieutenant Nora Cronin sped up Figueroa, jerked the wheel to the right, and double-parked in front of the obscure five-story white building that housed Private and its many secrets. Justine walked out of the glass front doors at a smart clip, got into the squad car, and buckled in.

“Pisses me off,” Justine said.

“You know, even though Bobby’s a complete prick, you gotta give him points here, Justine, because he’s right. We don’t have probable cause.”

“Crocker and his buddy are going to kill someone tonight, another girl. That’s my ‘probable cause,’ damn it.”

The car radio sputtered: a hit-and-run on Cahuenga and Santa Monica Boulevard.

Nora dialed down the volume and said, “I say we hit Rudolph Crocker’s office unannounced. You stand there looking like you look. Like a prosecutor with a stick up your ass. I badge Crocker, ask him nicely to come downtown. He’s not under arrest; we just need his help with a case we’re working on. Good-citizen kinda thing. Say he could have witnessed a crime.”

“Okay,” Justine said. “He comes in. Now he’s in the box. You say he was identified driving past the street where Borman was kidnapped five years ago.”

“Sure. That could work. Maybe he gets nervous and says something incriminating. Or maybe he leaves his DNA on a Coke can,” Nora said. “Maybe coming into the station throws him off. So he cancels the kill tonight, and then, partner, we’ve bought more time, at least.”

Justine nodded. “He works on Wilshire, near Fairfax. At ten forty a.m. he should be there.”

Nora hit the gas and drove for fifteen minutes up Wilshire, located the address easily, and parked. Then she and Justine entered the chilly office building with a vivid barn-sized Frank Stella construction in the lobby.

Nora badged the blade-thin receptionist at the long green marble desk on the second floor. She asked to see Rudolph Crocker.

The receptionist said, “Mr. Crocker isn’t in. He’s taking a vacation day.”

“Fuck!” Nora said, and banged her fist on the desk.

Back in the squad car, Nora drove toward Crocker’s apartment building. “If he’s not home, we wait for him like last time,” she said to Justine.

“Or why don’t you put out an APB on his stinking minivan?”

Nora said, “Fine. Good call, Justine.”

Nora gave dispatch Crocker’s name, said that he was driving a late-model blue Toyota Sienna minivan, and requested an all-points bulletin on the vehicle. “I want that van,” she said, “in connection with the Schoolgirl murders.

“Watch. He’ll be parked right outside his apartment,” Nora said to Justine.

But the blue van wasn’t in sight, and the doorman said that Crocker had left the building early that morning, around seven, and no, he had no idea when Crocker would be back.

Nora and Justine settled down in the squad car parked across from Crocker’s apartment building. Nora continued with her litany of “fuck this” and “fuck that.” More than four hours later, Nora got the call from dispatch.

“Lieutenant, that blue Sienna van is in Silver Lake. It was last seen heading north on Alvarado. Our unit was traveling south, then lost him in the turnaround.”

Nora barked, “Tell all units to find that van, Sergeant. I want the driver pulled over under any pretext and held until I get there. The suspect may be armed and dangerous. He’s our primary in a series of homicides.”

“Jack,” Mo-Bot said in a voice that was unusually tame for her, “so you can keep this straight, we don’t know the real names of any of these people.”

It was almost four thirty Monday afternoon. I was driving a fleet car, Cruz was riding shotgun beside me, and I was talking to Mo-bot, who was back at the office.

I put Mo on speakerphone so Emilio could hear this too.

She said, “ ‘Morbid’ is texting the unknown target, ‘Lady D,’ with a name he hijacked off her phone. It’s a friend of hers.”

“Gotcha.”

“So Morbid just texted: ‘I got something big to tell you. Can you meet me at Slommo’s.’ ”

“What’s Slommo’s?” I asked Mo.

Cruz said, “I know it. Newsstand on Vermont.”

Mo jumped back in. “Lady D texted again. ‘I can’t girlfren. I’m cookin tonite. Goin shoppin.’ Morbid writes back: ‘This is major. I need to meet you at the store.’ ”

“What store?” I asked.

“Jack, you know everything I know. Uh-oh. The target says ‘OK. C u in 15.’ She disconnected the call.”

“Got a location, Mo? On either party?”

“Morbid is on Montrose, closing in on Glendale. That’s as close as I can make it. Wait, Morbid’s signal is moving. Heading north.

“Jack, he stopped on Glendale. He’s either at a light or, no, his speed tells me he’s now on foot.”

Cruz was cracking his knuckles obsessively. He said, “There’s a Ralph’s Supermarket on Glendale. What are we looking for?”

“Justine said he’s white, skinny. Early twenties.”

“We’re on our way,” I told Mo-bot. I felt like I was back in combat, like I had a second chance for everything to turn out right.

Eamon Fitzhugh, aka Morbid, spotted Graciella Gomez standing outside Ralph’s Supermarket.

The pretty girl was wearing denim short-shorts and one of those baby-doll tops, a pink one. He came across the parking lot toward her, his hands thrust into the pockets of his jeans, his head down, hair covering his eyes, which were definitely lusting for this little doll face.

“Lady D” didn’t look up. Why would she? She was waiting for her girlfriend Lulu Fernandez to meet her and tell her some major news.

Morbid watched Graciella looking at her wristwatch, and then he walked right up to her, called her by her nickname. This is where he had to be a good actor, which he was. That was why he was on point.

“Gracie?”

“Yes?”

A little shy. “I’m Lulu’s friend. I’m Fitz.”

“Yeah? I never heard her saying she knows any Fritz.”

“It’s been our secret so far. Forget about that. Lulu sent me to meet you because she has to go to the hospital. She’s in trouble.”