Shadow Man (51 page)

“You know, when two male serial killers are working together, a lot of times they’re fucking each other. Well—the dominant one is doing the
312

C O D Y M C F A D Y E N

fucking. That the case here? That why you’re protecting him? ’Cause you like catching while he’s pitching?”

Street’s eyes pop wide open. He’s quivering in rage.

“I’m no fucking fag!”

Alan leans in, till they’re almost nose to nose. Street is shivering. He belches again. “That’s not what the little girl said. Bonnie? Remember her? She said that one of you was gobbling the other one’s johnson like he was at a sausage-eating contest.”

Street is apoplectic. “She’s a
lying little cunt!
”

“Gotcha,” Barry says.

Alan doesn’t let up. “You sure? She said that one of you was sucking the proverbial golf ball through the garden hose. She gave a lot of detail. Details a girl her age wouldn’t have.”

“She’s
lying!
She probably knows about cocksucking because her mother was a whore! We never touched each—”

He stops, realizes what’s happened. What he’s said.

“So you
were
there,” Alan states.

Street’s face goes red. Tears are running down his cheeks. I don’t think he realizes this. “Fuck it! Yeah—I was there! I helped kill that cunt! So what? You’ll never catch him. He’ll get away, you’ll see. He’s too
smart
for you!”

“That’s a confession from one of them,” I say.

Barry nods. “He just bought himself a one-way ticket to the gas chamber.”

Alan moves back, just a bit. He keeps his knee where it is, threatening. Street is unraveling before our eyes.

“You know, Robert, we have guys on their way to your apartment now. Robert, I’m betting there’s something there that’ll help us find out who he is, isn’t there, Robert?”

Street’s eyes go to the right. Remembering. Then: “No! Nothing!

Fuck you! Stop saying my fucking name over and over!”

“Did you see that?” Barry murmurs, excited.

I had seen it, and a thrill had gone through me when I did. When he’d said no, the eyes had gone down. Down and to the left. He’s lying.

There is something in his apartment he doesn’t want us to find.

50

W
E ARE STANDING
in Street’s apartment. Barry and I had watched as Alan continued to break Street down, inch by subtle inch. He was unable to get him to give up Jack Jr.’s identity, but he had given up everything else. How Jack had contacted him, how they picked their victims, other facts. He’d signed a confession and was a sweat-soaked, broken, blubbering mess by the time Alan left the interview room. Alan had destroyed him.

The dragon approved.

My cell phone rings. “Barrett.”

“It’s Gene, Smoky. I thought you’d want to know that Street’s DNA is a match to the DNA found on Charlotte Ross’s fingernail.”

“Thanks, Gene. That’s good news.”

He pauses. “Is Callie going to be okay?”

“I think so. We’ll have to wait and see.”

He sighs. “I’ll let you go.”

“Bye.”

“Place is clean,” Alan notes.

I look around. He’s right. Street’s apartment is not just clean—it’s spotless. It’s the clean of the obsessive–compulsive. It’s also devoid of personality. There are no pictures on the wall, not of Street or family or
314

C O D Y M C F A D Y E N

friends. No paintings or prints. The couch is functional. The coffee table is functional. The TV is small.

“Spartan,” I murmur.

We wander into the bedroom. Like the living room, it is spotless. The bedsheets are tight, the corners military-sharp. He has a single computer on a small desk facing the wall.

And then I see it. The one thing that’s out of place here, that doesn’t fit. A small locket, arranged with precision next to a college textbook. I bend over to get a closer look. It’s a woman’s locket, gold on a gold chain. I pick it up and open it. Inside is a miniature photo of a striking older woman. Someone’s mother, I think.

“Pretty,” Alan remarks.

I nod. I put down the locket, open the textbook. It’s a basic college English text. Inside is an inscription:
This book belongs to Renee Parker. It
might not look like much, but it’s actually MAGIC—ha ha!
L
It’s my magic car-
pet. So don’t touch, boobie heads!

It’s signed and dated.

“That’s . . . what? Twenty-five years ago?”

I nod. My heartbeat is quickening. This is it. This is the key. This will show us his face.

I touch the book, running my fingers across the inscription. Perhaps it really will end up being magic.

51

I
STAND AND
listen to Alan. He’s excited. I have the sense that everything is moving faster and faster, heated molecules coming to a slow but inexorable boil.

“We got a hit on VICAP with the name Renee Parker. A doozy.”

VICAP stands for Violent Criminal Apprehension Program. Conceived by an LAPD detective in 1957, it didn’t become operational until 1985, when it was established at the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime at the FBI Academy. The concept is brilliant. It’s a nationwide data center, designed to gather, collate, and analyze crimes of violence. With an emphasis on murder. Any and all information on both solved and unsolved cases can be supplied by any member of law enforcement participating, at whatever echelon. Taken as a whole, this mountain of information enables a nationwide cross-referencing of violent acts. He refers to the papers in his hand. “It’s an old case—twenty-five years ago. A stripper in San Francisco. Found strangled in an alleyway, and—get this—some of her organs were removed.”

My tiredness disappears in a flash. I feel as though I have just snorted caffeine. “That has to be him. Has to be.”

“Yeah, and it gets better. They had a suspect at the time. They couldn’t find enough evidence to make it stick.”

316

C O D Y M C F A D Y E N

I jump up. “Leo, you’ll stay here to act as a contact and coordination point. James and Alan—let’s go to San Francisco. Now.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” Alan says, and we are moving toward the door, filled with a second wind concocted of adrenaline, excitement, and a little bit of fury. We get outside and I see Tommy, sitting in his car. Still and watchful.

“Give me a second,” I tell Alan and James. I walk over to the car. Tommy rolls down the window.

“What’s happening?” he asks.

I tell him about the VICAP hit. “We’re going to San Fran now.”

“What do you want me to do?”

I give a smile, reach over and touch his cheek, once. “Get some sleep.”

“Sounds good,” he replies. Mr. Laconic, as always. I turn to walk away. “Smoky,” he says, stopping me. I look back at him. “Be careful.”

I have time to see the worry in his eyes before he rolls up the window and drives away.

For some reason, Sally Field at the Oscars jumps into my mind.

“He likes me, he really, really likes me,” I murmur in falsetto. Hysterical bubbles.

52

T
HIS DREAM IS
new. The past and the present have merged, have become one thing.

I am asleep in my bedroom when I hear a noise. Sounds of sawing, squishy sounds. I get up, heart beating fast, and grab my gun from the nightstand.