Steve Gannon - Kane

“Good idea. I’ll set it up with Metro.”

“In addition to talking with the Orange County investigators, I’ll be contacting NCIC to check for similar crimes in other states,” I went on, referring to the National Crime Index Computer, a system created in the mideighties to facilitate communication among disparate law-enforcement agencies across the country. “It’s another long shot, but in the absence of informants or witnesses, it’s worth a try.”

Again, Long nodded.

“I don’t know, Lieutenant,” I said, winding it up. “I get the feeling I’m missing something. I’m not sure what, but there’s something. Anyway, I let the brother clean out the fridge and take the bunny home, but I’m keeping the scene sealed for the time being.

“Fine. What other ongoing cases do you have?”

During my earlier recitation I had proceeded without reference to either notes or the crime report. Again I answered from memory, giving updates on a half dozen cases-some mine, some being handled under my supervision by other members of the squad-rattling off dates, personnel allocation, and court appearance schedules for the entire unit.

Long stared at me, then shook his head. “I’m constantly amazed by that memory of yours. You remember everything?”

I shrugged. “Mostly.”

Long stared a moment more, then moved on. “As I said earlier, we have a problem brewing. Mayor Fitzpatrick, Chief Ingram, and our very own Captain Lincoln have been tying up my phone all morning. They want this investigation closed, and closed fast. With the exception of court appearances on pending cases, you and Deluca are on this full-time.”

“Right.”

“And if it turns out you’re right and there is a connection with the killings last month in Orange County, and I mean even a hint of a connection, I need to know immediately.”

“Agreed,” I said. “About that-I got in touch with the investigator handling things down there. Some guy named Barrello. I’m meeting him this afternoon.”

“Did he say anything?”

“Not much. The switchboard had to patch me through to his car, and he didn’t want to talk over the radio,” I replied. “Well, if there’s nothing else, I’d better get on the road-try to beat the traffic.”

“There is something else. Something I don’t want going outside this room.”

“What?”

Long considered his next words carefully. “I’ll tell you something, Dan,” he said, lowering his voice. “I command a lot of good men in this department. You may have more than your share of faults-your screw-ups with the press, your disdain for anybody wearing gold braid, your abrasive-”

“You going somewhere with this?” I broke in with a grin.

“What I’m getting at is this,” Long replied soberly. “I could count on one hand the detectives I’ve worked with over the years who are capable of actually detecting anything, and I’d have fingers left over. Despite your faults, you’re one of those guys. If anybody can find this scumbag, it’s you.”

I remained silent. I appreciated Long’s confidence, but I had my doubts on this one.

“Between you and me, I have a feeling that before this is over, things will get a lot uglier than anyone can imagine,” Long continued, his eyes narrowing. “So here’s what I want. I want you to catch this son of a bitch, and I want you to take whatever steps are necessary to do it. You understand what I’m saying here?”

“I understand.”

“Good. One more thing.”

“Yes, sir?”

“If this is the same guy who killed that family in Orange County, find him before he does it again.”

After leaving Lt. Long’s office, I took a moment to phone my house in Malibu, hoping to catch Catheryn before she went out. No one was home. Next I tried her cell. She wasn’t answering, so I left a message saying that I planned to stop by later that evening to take her and the kids out for a final bon-voyage meal-someplace close and casual.

I had spent most of my spare moments that morning thinking about Catheryn. Missing her, actually. Although I knew the previous evening had been a step in the right direction, I had no illusions about the fragile nature of our truce, and before she left I wanted a chance to solidify whatever progress I’d made.

Deciding to let taxpayers pay for the trip to Orange County, I made my way to the parking lot behind the station house and checked out one of three “city cars” assigned to the West LA Division. The unmarked vehicle I got, a late-model Chevy, was a piece of junk. Worse, apparently it hadn’t been serviced in a while, and halfway to Orange County I noticed the temperature gauge climbing into the red. Realizing I didn’t have time to stop if I wanted to make my meeting, I rolled down my windows and turned on the Chevy’s heater. Although making a sweltering day even hotter, my tactic bled off enough engine heat to keep the car running… barely. Cursing the LAPD motor pool, I drove the slow lanes of the 405 Freeway to the Interstate 5 Interchange, turned south, and crawled the remaining distance to Mission Viejo.

After exiting on Alicia, I nursed the Chevy east through the crowded Orange County streets, passing a procession of unfamiliar shopping malls and housing developments that had mushroomed since I’d last visited. Irritated and sweating, I finally arrived at my destination. Wheeling past a brace of flower beds and a carved wooden sign reading “Villa del Sol,” I pulled into a “Visitors Only” lane and eased to a stop before a flagstone-faced guardhouse. Beyond the gate I could see rows of model homes marching to the end of a pennant-lined street, with the blue of Lake Mission Viejo sparkling through trees farther in.

“Can I help you?”

Flipping out my shield, I addressed a young man who had stepped from the guardhouse. “I’m meeting somebody inside.”

The guard, a sallow youth with lank blond hair, gaped at my badge. “This about the murders?”

“That’s right. Open up.”

The youth swallowed nervously, reached into the guardhouse, and grabbed a clipboard. After jotting down the Chevrolet’s license number, he thrust a visitor pass through my window. “Here you go, sir,” he said.

The gate lifted. But instead of proceeding, I inspected the rectangular white card I’d been given. “You do this for every visitor coming through?” I asked, watching a gray Ford enter through a keyed gate marked “Residents Only.” “You write down every license?”

“Uh… yes, sir.”

“And you collect these cards on the way out?”

“No, but-”

“So I could give this pass to somebody else and you’d wave them by.”

“I… I guess,” the guard stammered. “But it’s no good after the expiration date.”

I tossed the card onto my dashboard. “How many gates are there into this place?”

“Three, but this is the only one staffed past nine PM. After that you have to have a keycard to get past the others.”

I watched as a young couple strolled into one of the model homes across the street. “Seems like you have a fair amount of construction going on. I’ll bet it gets busy around seven in the morning, with all the trade guys coming through.”

“It sure does,” the youngster conceded. “Sometimes they’re backed up around the block.

“So with everybody trying to make it to work on time, traffic jamming up and all, maybe not every license gets written down.”

“Sometimes,” the guard admitted.

By now a line of cars had formed behind me. “Thanks,” I said, heading through the gate. “You’ve been helpful.”

After rechecking my directions, I arrived minutes later at a two-story Mediterranean-style home with arched windows and a three-car garage. A gray Taurus sat in the driveway. Lounging against the fender, a heavyset man with a pronounced potbelly and the flattened nose of a prizefighter watched as I rolled to a stop.