Jonathan Kellerman - Twisted

Or did it have to do with the challenge? Fun of the hunt?

Even so, there had to be something that tied the six dead people together.

She strained to come up with a unifying factor.

Half an hour later, it was killer six, detective zero.

Seven more days. Had the creep selected his quarry? What criteria did he use? What was it that marked them?

Why crack their skulls? A lot riskier than shooting or stabbing. That had to mean something.

Alex Delaware had told her about cannibals eating their victims’ brains in order to capture their souls. Was this some new-age cannibal thing?

Or was the killer boasting: I’m the brain.

A self-styled genius? Lots of psychos had inflated self-esteem. This one had gotten away with it for years, maybe he really was smart.

If so, her best weapon was a Big Brain on her side. Which she already had. But where was he?

All that youthful exuberance, the way Isaac had latched on to her like a puppy, why keep his distance now? Because she’d put him off? Or was it something to do with that facial bruise? No way did she buy his story about walking into a wall.

Some babysitter I am.

Was Isaac in trouble? She imagined a host of worst-case scenarios, pictured headlines, stories, her name paired with “neglectful cop.”

Councilman Reyes demanding her badge.

Now her stomach was a sloshing sack of acid.

Stop it, he’s fine. Working on his dissertation, gonna be a double-doctor one day. Why hang around here? You’ve given him no reason.

Or was Isaac making himself scarce because he couldn’t figure out June 28? If a genius couldn’t untangle the pattern, how could she hope to?

She placed the six files back in a drawer. Tried to rationalize away the stress-ache by reminding herself that she had produced Omar Selden.

The old-fashioned way. That would be useless for June 28…

She shifted her thoughts to Eric.

She hadn’t seen him since early Wednesday morning when he’d slipped away- limped away- from the station as Lyle Leon was being booked. Drawing Petra into the stairwell, kissing her briefly, then hurrying off.

One call since then. The message slip had greeted her when she arrived this morning.

I’ll be in touch soon. E.

Off doing his thing, whatever that was. Did that mean a prolonged retreat into one of those long, dark silences of his?

She tried to retrieve the taste of his lips on hers. Failed. Satisfaction over Selden began to tarnish. Because collaring the bastard wouldn’t bring back Marcella Douquette and the other Paradiso victims.

She phoned the Biostatistics Department at USC, was told Isaac was rarely in, but she could leave a message.

To heck with it, she’d kill the next hour driving the streets and pretending to be observing her turf. No, better to walk, bleed off nervous energy.

Collecting her purse, she left the station. Out in the parking lot, she saw two guys loitering by her car.

A pair of suits she didn’t recognize. Dark suits, badges on their breast pockets. Then she realized she had seen them before. The pair that had been shmoozing and laughing in the lot a couple of nights ago.

That time, they’d ignored her.

Now, they were waiting for her.

She walked straight up to them. Two mustachioed guys, one fair-skinned, one swarthy. Blue tie, blue tie.

The light one said, “Detective Connor? Lew Rodman, the gang squad.”

All business, no smile. The ’stache above his bloodless lips was the color of summer weeds. His partner’s was a black pencil line so thin it could’ve been grease pencil.

Gang guys wanting to talk to her directly about Selden instead of going through Metro? She had come up with the I.D. Nice to be appreciated.

She smiled. “Good to meet you guys. So what’s the plan on Omar?”

Rodman and Grease Pencil exchanged glances.

Pencil said, “Who’s Omar?”

Nothing appreciative in their eyes.

Petra said, “What’s this about?”

Rodman said, “Can we talk somewhere private?”

“If you tell me what it’s about.”

Rodman looked at Pencil. The dark-skinned man said, “It’s about an intern you supervise named Isaac Gomez.”

“Isaac? Is he okay?”

“That,” said Pencil, “is what we’re trying to find out.”

Their bronze Crown Victoria was parked at the far end of the lot. The car was stifling, meaning they’d been here for a while. Petra got in the back and Rodman and Pencil, identified as Detective II Bobby Lucido, sat in front and cracked their windows. Petra’s was inoperative and they made no effort to give her air.

She said, “It’s sweltering, push the release.” Rodman moved, a click sounded and now she could breathe.

Lucido looked over the seat, checked her out. His hair was gelled and thinning, runways of scalp alternating with thick, black strands. “So what can you tell us about Gomez?”

“Nothing,” said Petra, “until you tell me why you want to know.”

Lucido gave a disgusted look and showed her the back of his head. She heard him breathe. He made eye contact again.

“You’re his babysitter.”

Petra didn’t answer.

Lucido smiled at her, a mustachioed gecko. “Here’s the situation: Gomez has been spotted consorting with a known drug dealer and all-around very bad guy.”

The facial bruise. The kid really was in trouble.

Lucido said, “You don’t seem surprised.”

Petra said, “Of course I am. You’re kidding.”

“Yeah, we’re a stand-up team,” said Rodman. “Doing the Laugh Factory tonight, the Ice House tomorrow.”

Petra said, “Who’s the alleged bad guy?”

“You don’t know?”

She felt her face go hot. “I’m his babysitter for official police stuff. Meaning he hangs around, rides along, plays with his computer at his desk. What I know is he’s a genius, accepted to med school, going to get a Ph.D. at twenty-two for fun. You want to tell me what’s going on, fine. You want drama, go take acting lessons.”

The black line bisecting Lucido’s face dipped, then rose. “A Ph.D. for fun.”

Rodman said, “No telling.”

Petra stared at both of them.

“Well,” said Lucido, “maybe he likes all kinds of fun.”

He turned away from her again and Petra heard paper shuffling. Something passed over the seat.

Eight-by-eleven black-and-white glossy of Isaac and a skinny guy sitting together. Really skinny guy, the sunken cheeks and droopy eyes of a junkie. The two of them huddled in what looked to be a restaurant booth. Plywood booth, no food in front of them. Maybe a cheap bar. The junkie wore black clothes and had a pathetic bit of fuzz over his top lip. Aggressively bizarre haircut: skinned on top, skunk stripes at the side, a very long, eely braid hanging over his right shoulder.

Isaac looked like Isaac: neat, clean, button-down shirt. But different around the eyes.

More intense than she’d ever seen him. Angry?

He and Junkie sat close together. The camera had caught them in the middle of something serious.

Petra said, “Who’s the skinny one?”

“Flaco Jaramillo,” said Bobby Lucido. “That’s ‘skinny’ in Spanish. Flaco Jaramillo aka Mousy aka Kung Fu- ’cause of the braid. His real name’s Ricardo Isador Jaramillo. Known dope dealer and there’s talk he kills people for money though he never got called up for that.”

“Which gang?”

“He’s not a banger,” said Rodman. “But he deals with bangers from East L.A. and Central.”

Omar Selden had bragged to Marcella about doing odd-jobs for various gangs. Could there be some connection?

Petra studied the photo some more. “Where was it taken?”