Michael Prescott - Riptide

The second victim, seven months ago, was Elizabeth Custer, a teenage runaway living on Venice Beach. She was found strangled in an alley off Ocean Front Walk, Venice’s concrete boardwalk. Her time of death was estimated as two AM. Again, no mutilation or molestation, no theft-not that the ragged seventeen-year-old had owned anything worth stealing.

Jennifer listened, saying nothing. She was acutely aware that twelve years ago it could have been her own name in a police report, her body found beneath an underpass or in the utility room of a shopping mall.

The police had not connected the two murders. The M.O.’s were different-blunt force trauma, strangulation-as were the victim profiles and the neighborhoods in which the crimes occurred.

It was assumed that Mary Ellison had been the victim of a mugging gone bad; when the assailant realized he’d killed her, he panicked and fled. Elizabeth Custer’s death was obviously intentional. Given the people she associated with-junkies, prostitutes, johns-the most likely explanation was that someone in her circle of acquaintances had turned violent.

That was how the LAPD saw it. They might be right. But if Richard were roaming the streets and choosing victims at random, based on an opportunity to strike, these were the kinds of victims he would select. Women, alone, unprotected, at night.

The third homicide was the Diaz case. Jennifer knew about that one. She didn’t think it was part of any pattern. The threat message argued for a killer who knew the victim, someone who lived or worked near her. And the body could not have been moved without a vehicle. Richard had no car.

Besides the murders, there were assaults and disappearances. Most of the assault victims were male. Jennifer thought she could rule them out, at least for now. Edward Hare had killed only women, as had the Devil’s Henchman, and she was guessing that Richard-if he was guilty-would do the same.

Of the assaults on women, only one could conceivably fit the pattern she was looking for. A year ago, around midnight, Ann Powell let her terrier outside in the fenced backyard of her duplex. When the dog didn’t come in, she tried switching on the flood light, but it didn’t work. Later it was established that the bulb had been unscrewed. She went out to check on the dog and found the rear gate open. That was when she sensed someone behind her in the dark. A fist struck a glancing blow to her head. She staggered inside and called the police. By the time they arrived, the assailant was gone. The dog turned up unharmed an hour later.

The incident could be meaningless; there was no shortage of crazies roaming Venice at night. Or it could have been an attempt to duplicate the Ellison killing, this time without the benefit of a blunt instrument.

That brought Sandra to the disappearances. Two of the vics were male; they could be ignored for now. One of the women had been having marital problems; her husband was an unofficial suspect, according to Sandra’s inside info. That case could be set aside also.

Then there was Chatty Cathy.

That was the name by which she was known in the pocket park where she lived. Her worldly goods were stashed in a shopping cart. She talked loudly to herself day and night. Even the other homeless people kept their distance.

One night three months ago she disappeared. Her cart was still there, but she was gone. It seemed unlikely she would leave without the collection of junk she prized. But her body never turned up, and there were no signs of foul play.

“Would the body have to be transported by car?” Jennifer asked.

“Not necessarily. There’s a big old dump bin in the alley right across from the park. A body wrapped in trash bags could be tossed in there, and if the sanitation crew wasn’t paying attention-and why would they? — it could be dumped into the garbage truck without anybody noticing. By now, Chatty Cathy could be in a landfill.”

All the crimes had occurred within the last year and a half. Jennifer asked if the cutoff date was arbitrary.

“No, it really seems like more bad things than usual started happening around eighteen months ago. Not all at once, mind you. But that’s when the cream started to curdle.”

“Any idea why?”

“Pacific Area lost two detectives around that time. Reassigned downtown. Not replaced. Less manpower means lower solve rates. That’s why I say they need to prioritize this district. Allocate the personnel.” She produced one of her heavy sighs. “Hell, you know how the song goes by now. I’ve been singing it long enough.”

“You sing it well.”

“A little off-key, but at least you can make out the words.”

“Are there any leads in the cases that interest me?”

“Not really. There was a sighting of a person unknown, probably a vagrant, near the spot where Elizabeth Custer was killed. No description, except the guy was hooded. Might’ve been the killer. Might’ve been nobody. Witnesses heard a noise the night Chatty Cathy went missing. A woman’s cry, from the park. Was it her? Did it mean anything? Who knows?”

“So basically all those cases are dead ends.”

“Unless you’ve got a new angle. Do you?”

“I’m not sure. I need to see if I can find a pattern.”

“Your buddies in the department are treating each case as a standalone. They’re probably right.”

“Probably,” Jennifer said, hoping it was true.

“This suspect of yours-”

“Possible suspect.”

“Whatever. This guy-I’m assuming it’s a guy-does he live in Dogtown?”

“Yes.”

“Got any priors?”

“No.”

“Why put a spotlight on him, then?”

“He’s mentally ill.”

“Violent?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

Sandra was unimpressed. “Lots of head cases in Venice, and not just in Dogtown. Lots of violent, antisocial males. Gangbangers, sociopaths. Druggies who’d kill you for the dollar in your pocket or the sneakers on your feet. No shortage of suspects. Or possible suspects, if you prefer.”

“So you think I’m imagining things?”

“That’s the way I’d bet.”

“I’d be happy to find out I’m being paranoid.”

“Of course, if you are wrong, those cases will continue to be unsolved.”

“That’s the downside.”

“On the other hand, there could be an even bigger downside to being right.”

“Which is?”

“If the bad guy knows you’re on to him-you could be next in line.”

Jennifer thought of the note on her windshield. “That’s a chance I’ll have to take.”

“See, that’s what I mean. You’ve got spunk.”

“And you hate spunk.”

“No, that was Mr. Grant. Me, I like spunk. As long as it doesn’t get you killed, honey.”

The words lingered in Jennifer’s mind as she picked up the tab and said goodbye. Before leaving the restaurant, she took a chance on using the ladies’ room. It was surprisingly clean.

Leaving the bathroom, she spotted Draper eating alone in the rear of the restaurant. From where he was seated, he had a decent view of the table she and Sandra had shared. She approached him, unsmiling.

“Spying on me?” she asked.

Draper dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “Just grabbing a bite.”

“And you just happened to pick this place?”

“It’s close to the high school. I assume that’s why you picked it.”

“So you did know I was here?”

“I saw you. Talking with Sandra Price. I didn’t realize the two of you were friends.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

“No doubt. It could be a problem, though.”

“Meaning what?”

“Sandra isn’t exactly in tight with the department. She’s regarded as a thorn in our side. If you’re associating with her, it might make it difficult to continue hiring you.”