Guns and Roses (21 page)

“Maybe you’re right, but—”

“Either you believe me or not. There is no
maybe.”
Joe’s distrust hurt far more than I expected. I liked all the detectives on the sex crimes squad, but Joe had always been my favorite. A friend. But maybe that trust was misplaced. How could he think I was lying?

He said quietly, “Maybe you don’t think you over-stepped, Selena. And I get it—I do. I want him too. But what is it about this case that has you so twisted? It can’t just be because of who he is.”

Except that it was, partly. It was because people in power got away with crimes all the time simply because they were in power.

I sidestepped his question. “Ashley Young is dead. Back to the basics.”

Joe knew I was hedging, and he let me. He sat down at his desk and went to work on the phone. I stared at the computer, but didn’t see much of anything.

Twelve years ago I was a college freshman. I hadn’t been naïve or stupid—I couldn’t have been, being raised by my cop dad and hard-ass brother. But I was stupid when the teaching assistant of a popular professor raped me on a date and I didn’t report it for twenty-four hours. After I showered. After I got drunk. After I tried to make it all disappear, to believe it had never happened.

Except it had, and when I went to the campus police, they talked to the T.A. and he said it was consensual. Then I learned that the T.A. was the son of an alum who’d given enough money to build a half-dozen state-of-the-art buildings. The powerful son of a powerful donor.

I’d said
no
. I’d told him to stop when he put his hands under my shirt, but I didn’t fight back hard enough. Maybe because I’d had two beers, maybe because I didn’t think he’d actually hurt me. When he was taking off my pants, I knew he’d drugged me. I couldn’t fight back. I couldn’t use any of my self-defense tactics.

It was my fault for being so naïve, so stupid, and I didn’t want anyone to know.

That’s what I thought then, at nineteen, blaming myself for getting in the bad situation in the first place. Twelve years of training and working this job and I knew I wasn’t to blame. I knew it was all on
him
, and I hoped and prayed his next victim was stronger and braver than I had been.

I never told my brother the truth about why I dropped out of college. I couldn’t face my own failures. And I joined the police academy, became a cop, and vowed to protect the weak from those who would prey on them.

Just because someone is in authority doesn’t mean they can get away with rape.

Or murder.

Chapter Six

Ashley’s employer wasn’t sending in the guest list from the event at the Railroad Museum.

The information stunned me as much as it made me furious.

“Let me talk to him,” I said to Joe. “Did you explain—”

Joe cut me off. “I know what I’m doing, Selena. They are protecting their donor list. He was very nice about it, just said we’d have to get a warrant. I’ll let homicide know.”

“Ramirez hasn’t even taken us off the case yet.”

“He will; face it. It’s theirs.” Joe slapped his hand on the tall stack of files on my desk. “What about these victims? Don’t they deserve some of your time?”

The verbal slap hurt. I hadn’t neglected any of my other cases, but right now Ashley Young was at the top of my pile. “Doesn’t Ashley deserve more than twenty-four hours?”

“I’m on your side,” Joe said.

Maybe, but not today. Today, Joe had hedged everything from how he responded to Keller this morning to how he was dealing with the investigation now.

“Maybe if you’d been on call last night, you would understand.”

“I wasn’t on call, but neither were you.” He stared at me, accusing. “Didn’t think I wouldn’t find out? You called in that you were in the area and took the case.”

“I knew it was him.”

“But you didn’t have to go. Why were you out at midnight?”

“Mondays are big event nights downtown. We know his M.O.”

“So that’s why you’ve been so exhausted these last few weeks? You’ve been out hunting him?”

“Hunting? Try
tracking.
” Keller hunted his prey. I wasn’t the bad guy here. “I need some air.” I left, fearing if the conversation deteriorated any more, Joe and I would never be friends again.

I didn’t know if we would regain the respect.

I sat in my car because I didn’t know what else to do. It was nearly three in the afternoon, which reminded me that I had asked Officer Sampson to keep an eye on him after I found out Ashley was dead. I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep surveillance on him for long—he’d fight it in court if he had to, and my bosses wouldn’t authorize it without some evidence. I had no reason to pull resources into my case, and the free help from cops like Sampson wouldn’t last forever, either.

Keller had surprised me this morning in Healy’s chambers; I’d return the favor. But the surprise would be in him
not
seeing me. I had one shot; I had to do it right.

It was no longer raining, but the air was heavy with moisture and I suspected by sundown the downpour would resume.

Sampson was “patrolling” near the Attorney General’s office. He wasn’t on duty until four, but had been happy to watch Keller for a few hours off the clock. Most cops were like me, they didn’t like assholes like Keller acting like they were above reproach.

“Anything?” I asked Sampson when I approached.

“Quiet. I got here at one, he entered the building with a group of people at one-thirty, I assume returning from lunch. I haven’t seen him exit.”

I slipped him a Starbucks card. “I’ll keep an eye on him for a while.”

“Get him.”

I found a clandestine bench shielded by bushes near the entrance, where he wouldn’t be able to easily spot me. While Keller was unpredictable after dark, during the day, he had a regular pattern. I’d pulled in favors to have uniformed cops tail him during his daily coffee break. Between four and four-thirty every afternoon, Keller left the AG’s office by the side door and walked two blocks to a local coffee joint. There, he ordered a large coffee, poured in extra cream, and often met with a reporter. Then he’d walk back to his office and not leave until after six p.m.

All I needed was that coffee cup. If he tossed it in a public bin, I could grab it and get his DNA. It was 50/50 that he would throw it away on his way back to the AG’s office, and I’d trail him every day this week. One day he’d dump it, and I’d be there, ready to collect.

Being a plainclothes detective was a positive; the fact that Keller knew who I was, a big fat negative. I’d gotten in his face after Maggie Van Allen’s rape—where he’d cut her face so deeply even the most brilliant plastic surgeon couldn’t fix the nerve and muscle damage. He’d been so calm, gloating, taunting me.

I stormed out of the courthouse that day, furious with the judge who’d denied the search warrant. The DA himself had argued for it, but the judge wouldn’t budge—he claimed the victim’s ID of the suspect had been given under extreme duress because not only had I only showed her Keller’s photo, it was while she was still in shock and being treated by the paramedics.

DA Elliott had precedents, but the judge said they weren’t valid, and unless I had another witness, or physical evidence tying Keller to the crime scene, the warrant was denied.

I stood next to the fountain on 8
^th
Street, my back to the courthouse. Justice had been denied. I’d almost gotten another contempt charge—third? Fourth?—when I questioned the judge under my breath. I didn’t know he had such good hearing. Warrants were given liberally, and they should be—they were specific and focused. I only wanted to search his car and house for the knife that had been used to cut open Maggie Van Allen’s face, and take the clothes he’d been wearing that night.

“Bad day?”

I jerked my head up. Keller stood only feet from me. I hadn’t heard or seen him approach, my anger the only sense I had anymore.

“Get out of my face,” I said. I had a niggling sense that something was wrong.

He smiled. “You have the wrong idea about me. Let’s go get some coffee.”

I stared at him, not knowing how to respond. Then that sense of wrong hit me:

There was no reason he should be here. Minutes after the judge tossed my warrant request.

“You knew.”

“I’m smarter than you.”

“I’ll stop you.”

He leaned in. “You fuck with me, you’ll be sorry.”

He walked away, leaving me stunned. And committed to putting him in prison.

If I were to be honest with myself, last fall after the first two rapes, I’d let the case slide. No real evidence, no match on the DNA, no witnesses, only vague descriptions. I’d always suspected that the rapist cut his victim’s faces because he had contact with them at least on a periodic basis. Seeing the scar would give him another surge of power and lust, he’d consider them his chattel, his secret.

It wasn’t until after the third victim that I put the connection together about the political and charity events. But by the time I had the few common names, he’d struck again.

Luck had it that when I responded to Maggie Van Allen’s crime scene, I had photos of three men. They weren’t in a line-up, which was the judge’s complaint, and Greg Keller had been on top. She positively ID’d him; I had no doubt.

And everything he’d said and done since confirmed I was right.

Another suspect, a more lenient judge, I would have gotten the search warrant off Maggie’s ID. I had surveillance footage, could ask for the clothes he was seen in, search his car based on the fact that he most likely drove from the crime scene and there could be a knife or blood in the car. All I needed was evidence that tied him and the victim together. A strand of hair. Her blood on his sleeves. And then I’d get the DNA warrant and nail him—because he
had
the rapist’s DNA.

But Keller
knew
we had his DNA and still he continued preying on young women, scarring them for life, marking his victims so he could relive his crime every time he saw them. They ran in the same circles. That was part of the thrill for him. To talk to his victims after the attack, to see their faces, to watch their eyes dart about in fear. He was brazen and bold; he wasn’t going to stop until I put him in jail. He wasn’t scared of me or the Sacramento police department. And that cockiness would be his undoing.

At 4:07 p.m., Greg Keller left the Attorney General’s office and walked down 9
^th
Street toward a small, but popular coffee and teahouse near J Street. I noticed how young women followed him; more, I noticed that
he
noticed them. He loved the attention.

He’d have plenty of attention when he was a criminal defendant.

I didn’t follow too close because I didn’t want him to notice me. For the last month, I had wanted him to see me all the time, thinking the pressure would make him cave or slip up. But instead, he seemed to thrive on it.

Now, I wanted to blend.

I waited on the corner of K and 9
^th
, loitering with the homeless, my eye on the shop halfway down the street. Rain that had drizzled all morning now came down in erratic, fat droplets. My umbrella offered a shield from the rain and if held at an angle, obscured my face. I stayed flush against a closed business front and pretended to talk on my cell phone while waiting for Keller to emerge. Seventeen minutes later, Keller walked out with a guy I recognized, a reporter for the last remaining local newspaper. They shook hands and went in opposite directions, Keller heading back to the AG’s office.

Now I had to risk getting closer, but the umbrellas made it difficult to keep my eye on Keller. The lighter morning foot traffic also made it more likely he’d spot me.

At the light across from the AG’s office, he stopped and looked right at me, twenty feet away. He smiled broadly, licked the cup lid, and held it over the trashcan. Then he shook his head and sipped again. The light turned green and he crossed the street.

I don’t know when he spotted me, but he was enjoying the game. I wonder if he even knew about Ashley Young. If he knew what he would be facing now that one of his victims was dead. Maybe I could push him into unwittingly giving me a clue to follow up, another path to travel. Make him angry enough to screw up.

I ran after him. “Congratulations, Keller, you’ve graduated.”

He turned and looked at me with a smirk, fearless. “Thank you.”

“You’ve officially qualified for special circumstances.”

The smile disappeared. He glared at me and I saw the anger that fueled his attacks on women. Now I had his attention.