James Patterson - Private

Cruz said, “He was going to kill that girl-”

“So you say,” Fescoe interjected.

“So I say,” said Cruz. “All I did was tackle him with conviction. He’s a bantamweight.”

Fescoe’s eyes were wild with anger when he looked at me. “Jack, this is crap. You’ve got unnamed sources. Putting guys in the hospital. Arrests without cause. I want you in my office in half an hour. Bring Cruz and Smith. If this disaster isn’t explained to my satisfaction, I will be pulling your license.”

As he walked off, I asked Justine, “You say that blood is Crocker’s?”

She nodded. “Yep.”

There was shattered glass all over the seat of the Sienna. Before the uniform could tell me not to, I put on a latex glove, picked up a few shards with blood on them, and folded the pieces into another glove. I handed the impromptu evidence bag to Justine along with the keys to my car.

“Get this to the lab, pronto. I’ll meet you in Fescoe’s office. Should be fun.”

Justine didn’t exactly smile, but her look softened. “Thanks, Jack.”

Chief Michael Fescoe’s office smelled of yesterday’s lunch.

The blinds over the interior glass walls were opened halfway so that Fescoe could see the squad room. The smudged windows peered onto Los Angeles Street, where cars rushed by like phantoms in the dark.

The tension in the room was electric and not in a good or positive way.

There wasn’t a person sitting there who could say with confidence that as a result of today’s operations, he or she wouldn’t be sued or fired or jailed-or all three.

As Private’s sole proprietor, I would be the first to face the firing squad. I was just a contractor. Private would be blamed for everything in the first round. We were guilty of using electronics that would be illegal except that laws against this advanced technique for remote wiretaps hadn’t even been written yet.

On our say-so and at our urging, Lieutenant Nora Cronin had arrested a man who’d been injured by one of our operatives during the arrest, and our evidence against Rudolph Crocker was based solely on the five-year-old memory of a teenage girl who might not be willing to testify.

True, Fitzhugh had left DNA on the clothes of the murder victim five years before, but DNA on an ankle sock wasn’t proof that he had killed her.

If we didn’t prove a connection between Crocker and Fitzhugh and the deaths of any of the schoolgirls from Borman through Esperanza, their lawyers would get them out of jail free.

Petino and Fescoe both had a lot at stake, but the police chief in particular had his cajones in a waffle iron. One of his cops was involved. As Fescoe uncapped his coffee container, Petino paced at the back of the room. Because of his relationship with Justine, he’d brought Private to Fescoe and had vouched for us all. If we went down, Bobby Petino would never eat lunch in this town again-let alone become governor of the state.

People took their seats. Nora Cronin sat between Fescoe and Justine. Justine sat to my right, Cruz to my left.

“I want to go over all of it,” Fescoe said. “But keep it simple. Justine, you first. Let’s cut through all the bullshit-at least inside this office.”

Justine used her most professional voice, but I knew her well enough to see and hear her fears. She held it together as she told Fescoe about Christine Castiglia, the witness to Wendy Borman’s abduction, a claim that had been borne out by the results from our lab.

“Two single-source DNA samples were recovered from Wendy’s clothing,” she said. “One of those samples absolutely matches Eamon Fitzhugh. The other sample doesn’t match anyone yet. But from Castiglia’s eyewitness report, Rudolph Crocker was the second boy who hustled Wendy Borman into the van.”

Fescoe asked how Wendy Borman linked up with the Schoolgirl killings, and that’s where it got dicey. I jumped in eventually and explained that the MOs were similar if not identical. “We think Wendy Borman was the first victim.”

“If not the first victim, certainly an early one,” said Justine.

I explained that Crocker and Fitzhugh hadn’t made any substantial mistakes until Fitzhugh recruited Jason Pilser, possibly to raise the stakes of the game.

“We intercepted Pilser’s electronic footprints. This bastard was bragging to his virtual friends about a club he was inducted into called the Street Freeks. And that the Street Freeks were doing killings in real life.”

“You’re losing me a little bit,” said Fescoe.

“You asked for the simple version, Mickey. The point here is that we intercepted messages from Crocker to Pilser, and again from Crocker to Fitzhugh, describing a plan for them to kill another girl tonight. The girl he named was the girl Fitzhugh was talking to when Cruz brought him down.”

“I see dots all over the place and zero connections,” said Fescoe. Storm clouds were forming in his eyes. “Everything you’ve told me is either circumstantial or inadmissible or too damn obscure to convince a jury of our inferiors. I want murder weapons. I want forensics that match up. I want eyewitnesses who weren’t eleven years old or who didn’t jump or get pushed off their terraces to their deaths.

“Do you people understand me? Beri Hunt is going to represent Crocker. If we don’t button this up, this case will never even go to trial.”

“You have to keep Crocker and Fitzhugh apart,” I said. “We need a little time to run Crocker’s DNA against Wendy Borman’s clothes.”

I turned to Bobby Petino, who was still pacing a rut in Fescoe’s carpet behind me.

“We need search warrants for Crocker’s and Fitzhugh’s homes and offices, Bobby. You think you can help us out? Don’t let these two walk.”

Nora eased into Crocker’s apartment with her gun in hand, turned on the lights, slapped the warrant down on the hall table, then checked off what she saw in the one-bedroom apartment.

No visible computer in the main room.

Windows closed.

Air conditioning on.

Apparently no one home.

“Don’t be sorry, Justine,” Nora said over her shoulder, answering Justine’s apology, delivered on the way up in the elevator. “I’m not the one going down. I can’t speak for you, but seems like little Nora is the low man on the totem pole. I’m just your whatchacallit. Pawn. Clear,” she said.

Justine entered the apartment and followed Nora into the kitchenette, the bedroom, the bath.

Nora cleared all the rooms and closets, then put her gun away.

“Nobody here but us chickens. You take the bedroom and the bathroom,” Nora said. “Shout if you find anything.”

Justine stood in the bedroom doorway, studying the place. The room definitely showed an active brain. It was painted dark blue and had woodwork in different neon colors-pink, green, yellow-and orange baseboards and moldings. There was a California King platform bed for the young killer.

His books covered the full range of human knowledge, from arts and sciences to politics and ecology. His nightstand held a flashlight, an unopened box of rubbers, ChapStick, TV remote control, batteries.

There was a desk, and Justine went to it. No computer on the surface. The drawer was locked.

She took a pair of scissors out of the pencil cup and pried the lock as quickly as a B and E artist could. That was probably illegal, but what the crap? She’d bashed in his car window. That had to be worse.

Crocker’s desk drawer was a disappointment, though. Six Krugerrands in an empty paper clip box. A baggie with some loose dope and rolling papers. The rest was office supplies. Not even any photographs.

Justine closed the drawer, went to the dresser, and opened every drawer.