T. Parker - Cold Pursuit

"Just one set?"

"No evidence of more than one, not in the blood. But this could have been a team thing- I understand there were some fairly large paintings possibly taken. One to do the deed. The other to help with the booty."

McMichael thought about two or even three people pulling off this job. It still made no sense that they'd take art when there were electronics that would fetch a quicker price. And the simple explanation for the blank wall spaces were the gifts to Sally Rainwater.

Flagler took a swig of milk and pressed the last cookie up through the plastic. "Here's the kicker. Erik found a bird feather under the table where the wineglasses were. Yellow, but not dyed. Naturally yellow, like a canary or a parakeet. Funny shape- about an inch long and slender, with kind of a bloom or blossom at the end. Under the scope we got louse sheddings and excrement. So it didn't come from a hat or feather earrings or something like that. It came from a plain old bird. Harley told me Pete didn't have a bird."

"Neither does the nurse," said McMichael.

"Someone does. Maybe he works in a pet store. Patronized a pet store. Eats songbirds for breakfast."

"Why 'he'?"

Flagler smiled. "Possible. The fish billy is weighted aluminum. Really packs a wallop. It could have been a woman. You don't have to be strong, just accurate. A first strike would help, too. It looked to me like Pete never got up from his chair. Maybe he was dozing. Maybe the basher was quiet. But now, thanks to the yellow feather, when you collar this creep you can tell him or her-"

"Don't say it."

"A little birdie told me."

"I thought you would."

"We're still working up the wine to see if Pete's might have been spiked. We've also got a dermal sample for DNA from inside the glove, but that's two days to cook. We'll run an HIV test, mainly to protect the nurse. Bring me a warm body, Detective- I've got prints galore."

"Bring me the feather. I'm going to ID it."

"Bob Eilerts out at the zoo is first-rate."

"Thank you, Arthur."

"Tweet-tweet."

McMichael walked into the Homicide area, deserted now at six on a Thursday night. It was often empty, in a city of 1.2 million with only four teams to work murder- everyone out, doing the job. There used to be seven teams, but budgets were budgets and the four teams were coming up with good cancellation rates.

At his desk in the Team Three pen, McMichael listened to Barbara Givens's message: the notary said yes, he'd witnessed Pete Braga's several signatures over the last few months, transferring certain property to Sally Rainwater. Barbara had checked Rainwater's documents against the notary's log and everything looked right. The notary himself was in good standing with the California licensing board.

McMichael sat back. He'd lost a suspect and a motive in about half an hour. So, why bash Pete and run away with little or nothing? Was the creep surprised by the nurse, never getting to finish his job? A thrill killing? Some kind of vengeance or jealousy? Did he swipe something they hadn't realized yet? But in some way, McMichael wasn't surprised: it hadn't felt like a home invasion from the start. Bludgeon murders were usually personal. The more times the victim was hit the more he or she was hated. You looked at the husband, the wife, the lover. Thieves don't take the time to keep on hitting. Strangers don't hate like that. Unless they're just insane.

Patricia Hansen had dropped off a folder containing Sally Rainwater's references. McMichael scanned through the sheets: five previous caretaking jobs for the elderly, three character testimonials from college professors, one from a Methodist minister. They all spoke highly of her competence and personality. She'd moved a little, he saw- Virginia, Florida, Texas and California.

He logged on to his computer and waited for the FBI Violent Criminal Apprehension Program to verify his entry code. While the hourglass icon urged patience, he turned and looked at the pictures of his ex-wife and son at the beach. During their seven years of marriage he and Stephanie had rented an oceanfront bungalow in Oceanside for one week each summer. Every year, McMichael had taken a vertical shot of his wife and son standing on the pier, framed them and lined them up at his work station as a nutshell history. The growing collection had traveled with him from patrol to Metro/Vice to Homicide. He could see how Johnny had grown bigger and stronger, and Stephanie had grown bigger and unhappier. So easy, he thought, to see now what I couldn't see then. Last year's picture was just after the divorce. It showed McMichael and Johnny standing somewhat awkwardly together while a tourist snapped the shot. It had been a rough week.

VICAP finally gave him access and McMichael ran a like-crimes check using residential robbery, bludgeon attacks and Southern California as his parameters. He asked the database to go back ten years.

There were twelve unsolveds, two in San Diego. McMichael remembered both. The first was four years back, an older woman in the Lemon Grove area who was raped, robbed and beaten. She'd survived, but there had not yet been an arrest. Witnesses had placed a "white male, 20-30 years of age, medium height and weight, dressed as a housepainter" near the scene of the attack. McMichael recalled that no one on the block had had painting done that day.

The second was two years ago. Homicide Team One had gotten it. McMichael had heard just bits and pieces over the months, less and less as the case remained open and the leads shrank to nothing. The victim was a seventy-two-year-old white man- Richard Appleton- who was found by his daughter. He'd been beaten with a ten-inch piece of steel pipe that had been discarded near the scene. And robbed of a watch, cash, a handgun.

It had happened in Kensington, east of downtown, late at night, mid-September. The killer had either come through an unlocked door or had a key- no signs of forced entry. No suspect, no warrants issued. Neighbors, friends and family all checked out clean.

But one neighbor reported an unidentified subject loitering outside Appleton 's home at approximately nine P.M. that night. White male, medium build, wearing a dark jogging suit and cap . Both San Diego homicide detective Ed Drake and the FBI believed that robbery was the motive. Appleton had been sitting in a chair, watching TV.

Boom, thought McMichael.

He went to the Team One pen, found the Appleton murder book and carried it back to his desk.

First he read the witness interview to make sure the Bureau had gotten it right on the VICAP synopsis. It had, word for word.

Next he read the detective-in-charge's crime scene notes, neatly transcribed from his tape recording. Ed Drake had headed up this one and Ed Drake was a detail man. He'd even made a note of the thunderstorms that night over the city. Rain, thought McMichael. Rain in mid-September and rain in early January. Old men sitting in chairs while storms blow through. Hard to hear because of the rain and wind, maybe. Easy to break and enter. Covers tracks. Keeps people inside. Two scenes, two joggers.

Appleton never made it out of his chair. Three of his teeth had landed on a windowsill ten feet across the room. The estimated total value of the watch, cash and gun came to less than five hundred dollars.

No prints. No flesh, blood or fluid samples for DNA.

McMichael flipped forward to the interviews. Neighbors and relatives had said that Appleton was quiet, friendly and often home. He was a widower, a retired machine shop foreman.

No one came up with anything even mildly unusual- except for the jogger. McMichael read the description again, thinking about the time of night and the rain. The neighbor who had seen the jogger was Kyle Zisch, twenty-six, who lived across the street and two houses down. Zisch said he was making tea for his girlfriend when he looked out the kitchen window and saw "a man loitering in front of victim residence." Zisch told the police that he thought it was interesting that the man was in the rain, dressed for jogging, but not really jogging. Zisch said the man finally began running down the sidewalk, slowly, after "appearing to case the house."