Kane (16 page)

I held Snead’s gaze but said nothing.

“Last but not least,” Snead went on, “keeping all paperwork current is essential.  Daily supplementals are a must.  Anyone not turning them in will answer to me.  The chief will demand regular updates, and if I look bad because one of you isn’t cooperating, I’ll pass the grief down the line.  Understood?”

When no one responded, Snead picked up a pile of blue forms and handed them to me.  “Get these back to me tomorrow.”

I looked down at the VICAP analysis sheets Snead had handed me, flipping through a sheaf of pale-blue FBI forms that contained hundreds of laborious, case-specific questions.  VICAP, an acronym for Violent Criminal Apprehension Program, had been established years back to collect and analyze data on violent crime.  Although the nationwide computer center had seemed a good idea at first, over time it had enjoyed only marginal success as a tool for apprehending criminals.  I, like most homicide investigators, considered it a waste of time.

“You have a problem with this, Detective?” asked Snead.

“Nope.  I love filling out worthless forms.”

Snead’s face darkened.  “Good,” he said.  “In that case, you can assemble the FBI profiling materials as well.  In addition to the LAPD psychiatric workup, we’re giving the FBI behaviorists a shot.  Have the profile packet on my desk tomorrow morning, along with the VICAP forms.”

I sighed.  I had procured FBI profiles before.  The process entailed a tedious assembly of victimology reports, submission materials, and case files complete with supplementals, lab results, autopsy protocols, and photos.  In theory, psychological workups made sense, but in my experience, most FBI profiles, like the VICAP program, ultimately proved worthless.

“You have something more to say, Kane?”

“The lab findings won’t be ready till later today.  And the coroner’s report won’t be typed for weeks.”

“Complete what you can.  I’ll get a rush placed on the rest.”

I shook my head.  “Excuse me, Lieutenant, but will we be bringing in a psychic, too?”

“You think this is funny?”

“Funny?  Not really.  More like—”

“We’ve all got a lot to do before tomorrow,” Lieutenant Huff interrupted.  “I suggest we move on.”

“Yes, sir,” I agreed.

“I’m done,” Snead said angrily.

“Okay, then let’s wind this up,” said Huff.  “The LA Coroner’s office is reviewing the OC autopsy reports.  The LA coroner will also handle new occurrences in either jurisdiction.  Same for the lab work.”

“Have you thought about maintaining continuity with the investigating teams?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“If there’s another family murdered, either here or in Orange County, we might consider using the same forensic team that worked the Palisades killings,” I suggested.  “You know, the same criminalist, coroner’s investigator, pathologist, and crime-scene unit.”

“Good idea,” said Huff.  “Anybody else have suggestions?”

When no one spoke, I continued.  “Getting a few patrol officers detailed over here to man the phones would help.  No offense to anyone who thinks the hotlines are going to be useful, but we’ll have plenty to do without handling crank calls, which most of them are bound to be.”

Huff glanced at Snead.  “I’ll see what I can do.  Anything else?  No?  Okay, you can all pick up copies of the crime reports on your way out.  Use the rest of today to study the reports and tie up loose ends on any ongoing cases.  See you here tomorrow.”

“That Snead is sure a piece of work,” said Barrello as he and I rode the elevator down.

“He’s a piece of something,” I noted.

“What’s between you and him?  You two have a problem?”

“You could say that.  I busted his jaw back in the days we were both working patrol.  Small-minded prick’s held it against me ever since.”

“Imagine that.  Did he file charges?”

“Nope.  He was using his baton on some rummy who was so drunk he didn’t know which way was up.  When I stepped in, Snead made the mistake of throwing a punch at me.”

“That’s not gonna make him easy to work with.”

“I’ll manage.  Speaking of which, you didn’t exactly hit it off with him today, either.”

“Thanks to you,” Barrello noted dryly.  “Look, whatever your beef is with Snead, I want no part of it.  I’m taking an early-out next spring.  I can’t afford a screw-up before then.  You understand what I’m saying?”

I raised an eyebrow.  “Why the early retirement?  A fine physical specimen like yourself, seems like you’d want to put in a full twenty-five and go for the big bucks.”

Barrello smiled ruefully.  “Yeah.”  He paused.  Then, “My wife’s doctors aren’t sure how much longer she has.  Whatever time there is, we plan to make the most of it.”

“Sorry,” I said.  “I didn’t know.  I hope everything works out.”

“Thanks.”  With a jar, the elevator bumped to a stop.  “So what do you think of the unit?” asked Barrello, changing the subject.

“I agree with the basic idea,” I conceded.  “It’ll be a clearing house for information, and it should go a long way toward preventing duplication of effort.  Unfortunately, it’ll also add a whole new level of bureaucracy.  Snead will be a mouthpiece for the brass, and if I don’t miss my guess, we’ll be getting a rash of orders coming down from the top like ‘Do this, Detective Kane.’  ‘Go there, Detective Barrello.’  ‘Don’t ask why, just do it.’  Bottom line, we’ll be spending a lot of time running down useless leads instead of hitting the street and following our instincts.”

“You’ve got that right.  By the way, it appears you might have been correct about the stalking angle.”

“You turn up something?” he asked as we exited the building and headed toward the parking structure.

“Possibly.  After you left yesterday, I checked any vantage points the killer might have used to watch the Pratts.  Some construction guys on that ridge overlooking the house recalled a white truck marked ‘Imperial Valley Plumbing’ parked there days before the killings.  There’s no such company, at least not in Orange County.”

“You might consider checking companies that make magnetic signs.  You know, the kind you stick on.  Maybe hit commercial paint shops in the area, too.”

“Good idea.”

“Did the security gate have a record of the truck?”

“One.  Ten days prior to the murders.  No plate number, though.”

“Your lab turn up anything on the door opener?”

“They’re still working on it.  They did match the fibers on the doorknob to the rope found in the bed, like you said.  We also recovered fibers from the kid’s doorknob.  More on another across the hall.”

“Same thing at the Palisades scene,” I said.  “At least we know now why the kids didn’t bolt.  Our guy tied their doors shut.”

“Had it all figured out, didn’t he?”

“Seems that way.  There’s one thing I’m not buying, though.”

“What’s that?”

“Both families leaving their front doors unlocked.  But if they didn’t, how’d the guy get in?”

By then we had reached the parking structure.  Barrello hesitated, looking for his car on the bottom level.  After a moment he spotted his Taurus several rows back.  “That’s been bothering me, too.  Lemme know if you come up with anything,” he added, heading for his car.  “See you tomorrow.”

I nodded, still unable to shake the feeling I was missing something.

I hadn’t come up with an answer by the time I arrived at my Suburban, two levels up.  Instead, I found a problem of a different nature leaning against my fender:  Lauren Van Owen.  “Damn, Van Owen,” I said, plucking a handwritten note from my windshield.  “What do you want now?”

“Two minutes of your time.”

Instead of replying, I read the note, which turned out to be an irate message from somebody on the bomb squad.  “We’ll have to stop meeting like this,” I said, crumbling the note and shoving it into my pocket.  “People will think we have something going on.”

“Let them,” Lauren replied.  Although she had removed a blazer she’d been wearing in the lobby, she still appeared composed and businesslike—gray silk blouse, wool skirt, midheight heels.  Her blond hair, neatly clasped for the news conference earlier, now fell loose on her shoulders.

I fished my keys from my pocket.  As I reached past Lauren to unlock my car door, I smelled a faint hint of her perfume.  Crisp, elegant.  “How’d you find me?”

“It wasn’t hard,” Lauren answered with a slight lift of her shoulders.  I’ve seen you driving this rust-bucket before.  I just checked the parking structures, found your junkmobile, and waited.”

“I hate to disappoint you, this being TV news-sweeps month and all, but I have nothing to say to you.”

“I promise I won’t bother you after this,” begged Lauren.  “Just hear me out.  I think we can help each other.”

“Oh, sure.  You say you want to help, but you’re wearing that look you news types get just before asking some unwary schmuck how he likes clubbing defenseless baby seals.”

“You don’t like me much, do you?”

“What’s to like?”

Something flickered in Lauren’s eyes, something I couldn’t decipher.  She glanced away before I could nail it down.  When she turned back, it was gone.

“Let me tell you something,” she went on, her voice hardening.  “I’ve been scrambling all my life.  I got where I am because I’m willing to do whatever it takes to get a story, even if it means stepping on a few toes.  Maybe even a whole roomful of toes.  And if I wind up offending a couple chauvinist pricks like you in the process—tough.”

“Nice speech, Van Owen.  Did you practice it in the mirror?”

Lauren’s cheeks flushed.  “You can be a real bastard, Kane.”

“There’re plenty who would agree with you on that.”

“You realize we’re not all that different, you and I.”

“Excuse me?” I said.  “To the untrained ear, it sounded like you just said we have something in common.”

“We do.  You think what you’re doing is important.  Well, I feel the same about my job.  Like you, I work a twenty-five-hour-a-day job that’s never done, busting my hump doing more than any other three people combined—all the while taking orders from higher-ups with half my ability.”  Lauren gazed at me angrily, then shifted gears.  “Don’t get me wrong.  I’m not complaining.  I love what I do, but it’s cost me.  I’m a single mother with no social life and a few more wrinkles than I had last year, a three-bedroom condo with a leaky roof and a big mortgage, and a nine-year-old daughter I don’t have time for.  Sometimes I get up in the morning and wonder what I’m doing with my life.  Sound familiar?”

When I didn’t respond, Lauren continued.  “I’ll level with you.  This story is my ticket to network.  I want it so bad I can taste it.”

“Yeah?  What’s it taste like?”

Lauren smiled.  “Chicken.”  Then, more seriously, “Look, when this is over, I could be in Washington, maybe New York.  But I need an angle.  Network is sending their top guys down here to cover the story.  Unless I come up with a lock on this thing—something they don’t have or can’t get—I’ll get lost in the shuffle.”

“Van Owen, I don’t understand why you’re telling me this.  Just because you have problems, you expect me to be your source?”

“No.  At least not the way you think.”

“What, then?  You know that all task force releases have to go through channels.  Some pencil pusher named Snead is the unit’s sole news liaison.  Even if I wanted to, which I don’t, I couldn’t help.”

“What’s Snead like?” asked Lauren, playing for time.  “Off the record.”

“Off the record?  Grab a dictionary and look up dickhead.”

Lauren smiled again, then said, “Listen, I don’t have it all worked out yet, but if these murders continue, there’ll be a news blitz like you won’t believe.”

Again I didn’t respond.  Unfortunately, I knew she was right.

“And if the killings aren’t stopped, heads will roll.”

“What are you getting at, Van Owen?”

“I’m saying that if things get nasty, it might be helpful for you to have a friend in the media.  And vice versa.”

“You scratch my back, I scratch yours?”

“Something like that.  What do you say?”

Without answering, I opened my car door and slid behind the wheel.  I started the engine, but before pulling away, I rolled down my window.  “I’ll think about it,” I said for the second time that morning.  “It won’t make any difference, but I’ll think about it.”

11

S
he was magnificent.  Jewels of sweat sparkled on her chest and shoulders, staining her leotard in revealing patches from breasts to abdomen.  She had a dancer’s body:  long, shapely legs, small breasts, and lean, muscular arms.  Weeks earlier she’d cut her hair in a medium-length pageboy, and as she moved, her honey-colored locks rose and fell like golden wings.  Her stunningly beautiful face was set in concentration as she exercised with others in the aerobics class, her expression betraying nothing of her thoughts.  But occasionally, if he watched closely, he could see her lips lifting in a fleeting smile as she found her image in the mirror.