Michael Prescott - Last Breath

“We’re doing it now.”

“Should we, uh, get offline so the computer’s not busy? You know, so the message can get through?”

Walsh thought he heard Rawls chuckle. “You’re not really an Information Age type of guy, are you, Detective?”

“How’d you guess?” Walsh said sourly.

“The message will go through whether you’re online or not. Let me give you my cell phone number.” He recited a number with a Baltimore area code, and Walsh scribbled it on his desk blotter. “Once you’ve received the images, call me back and we’ll discuss our options.”

“Right. Thanks, Agent Rawls. This is a break. This is our only break.”

Walsh hung up, then briefed Cellini on the news. “You think this is legit?” she asked.

“We’ll know when we see the pictures.”

Cellini logged on to her e-mail account and found a message from Rawls. She opened the attached files and tiled them across the screen. Nikki Carter, Martha Eversol, and a third woman stared at them.

“It’s him,” Walsh said. “It’s our guy.”

“No doubt. Victims one and two.”

Walsh tapped the last picture. “And three. Unless we find her right away.”

“Any ideas?” Cellini asked.

“We print out her picture, photocopy it, distribute it throughout the divisions. Maybe we’ll get lucky and someone will know her.”

“What if we put her on TV?” Cellini was already sending the image to the printer, which went to work churning out pages. “Get her picture on KTLA, KCAL, KTTV, and KCOP at ten o’clock, follow up with the eleven P.M. broadcasts on channels Two, Four, and Seven. If enough people see it, someone will recognize her. She may even watch the news herself.”

“Could work,” Walsh said slowly. He was thinking of the panic that would ensue if people knew that a serial killer was not only stalking his victims but putting them on public display over the Internet. “Or we could try to track her down ourselves. Is there anything in her bedroom that might give us a clue to where she lives?”

Cellini guided the Web browser back to the video feed. “Nothing I can see. No windows, so we can’t look at any outdoor landmarks. No indication of whether it’s an apartment or a house.”

Walsh saw an unmade bed. Beyond it, the door to a bathroom. That was all.

“Could be anyplace,” he muttered.

“God, this is sick. Guys have been watching this woman. She’s been on the Web all month.”

“Looks that way.”

“Her bedroom on public display.” Cellini shivered.

“He exhibits them before an audience before he moves in for the kill.”

“Some of the visitors to the site must have recognized the victims once the reports showed up in the papers.”

“At least one of them did. That’s how the FBI guys got on to this. An anonymous tip-off, presumably from a visitor who caught on.”

Cellini looked away. “Well, thank God for that much anyway. It may have saved this one’s life.”

Walsh wasn’t prepared to be so optimistic. “Only if we get to her before he does.”

He had rarely felt so frustrated-to have the next victim almost within reach and to be unable to protect her, warn her, even know her name.

“Still busy,” Chang said, clicking off the cell phone.

“Don’t worry about it.” Tanner spun the steering wheel, guiding the cruiser north on La Brea Avenue. “We’ll call him later.”

After talking to C.J., Tanner had instructed Chang to dial the number on Detective Walsh’s card. Walsh’s line had been tied up for the past few minutes, while the squad car sped from the Harbor Freeway to the Santa Monica Freeway, and now along the surface streets of the mid-Wilshire district.

“How far is it now?” Chang asked.

“Another six blocks. We’re almost there.”

“I thought she told you she wouldn’t be home.”

“Maybe I can catch her on her way out.”

“But why? What’s the emergency?”

“I don’t know. It’s just… She sounded funny.”

Chang frowned. “What do you mean, funny?”

“Not herself. Just… off. You know?”

“Could be your imagination, man.”

“I don’t have that much imagination.”

Chang considered this, then nodded soberly. “That’s true.”

“I’m just worried, is all.”

“Because she sounded funny.”

“It’s a feeling I’ve got.”

“A feeling that originates in the general vicinity of your crotch. You’re hung up on this girl. Rick. You’re reading too much into every little thing.”

“Maybe. But Hyannis isn’t hung up on her, and he was worried too. Anyway, we’re almost there. In fact”-another spin of the wheel-“here’s her street. Look for number eight-twenty-four.”

Tanner slowed the squad car as Chang studied the rows of Craftsman-style bungalows drifting past on the right.

“That one.” He pointed.

Tanner pulled into the driveway in front of the detached garage. He and his partner got out.

“See if her car’s there,” Tanner said in a low voice.

Chang approached the garage and shone his flashlight through a side window, then returned to Tanner’s side. “White Dodge Neon.”

“That’s her vehicle.” Tanner had seen it in Newton Station’s parking lot. “She must still be home. Come on.”

He and Chang circled around to the front door. Tanner rang the bell, then rapped hard. “C.J.? You in there? It’s Rick Tanner.”

No answer.

“C.J.? Hey, C.J.?”

Still nothing. Tanner and Chang exchanged a glance.

“It’s the police,” Tanner added for the benefit of anyone else who might be inside. He tested the door. Locked.

“Now what, boss?” Chang inquired. He called Tanner boss only when he was feeling a little stressed.

“We go in,” Tanner said calmly, unholstering his 9mm.

“We’ve got no jurisdiction here.”

“Screw jurisdiction.”

“We’ve got no grounds to enter.”

“We have exigent circumstances.”

“Like hell we do. She told you she was going out.”

“Her car’s still here.”

“Maybe somebody picked her up.”

“Or maybe she’s in trouble. You didn’t see Hyannis’s face when I mentioned the Four-H Club.”

“We can’t go busting in there. It could cost us big-time.”

Tanner hesitated. He needed Chang with him if he was going to search the house. On SWAT call-ups Tanner was the team leader and Chang was the scout.

“How about a compromise?” Tanner said. “We check out the doors and windows, look for signs of intrusion.”

Chang drew his service pistol. “What the hell. I never figured on making pension anyway.”

Together they moved around the house, labeling the different sides SWAT-style-side one for the front, side two for the wall facing the garage.

On side three, the rear of the bungalow, they found the back door standing open.

“Still no exigent circumstances?” Tanner asked.

Chang merely frowned.

They kept their distance from the open door. There was only dim light beyond.

“Stealth entry,” Tanner whispered. “I’m gonna slice the pie. If it’s clear, we roll out.”

He moved past the doorway in a wide arc, focusing on each section of the interior hallway as it came into view. By the time he had passed from the right side of the doorway to the left, he had scanned as much of the interior as it was possible to see.

There was no suspect in sight, but the hall was dark, illuminated only by the glow from the front of the house and by faint ambient light from outside.

Tanner hugged the left door frame while Chang took up position on the right. Chang looked for the “clear” sign. Tanner gave him a thumbs-up.