Last Breath (8 page)

“As I recall”—his expression was bland—“our song was ‘She’s Always a Woman.’ That’s in Billy Joel’s repertoire, not Emmylou’s.”

“I didn’t mean our, uh, official song. I meant the other one. The one that was playing when—never mind.”

Had he really forgotten? Or was his studied blankness only a mask to hide what he was feeling? There was a time when she had thought he couldn’t deceive her, but events had proven her wrong.

“So it’s not a date?” she asked, returning to the main issue.

Adam lifted his shoulders a little too casually. “Just two pals out on the town.”

“Two pals,” she echoed.

“Right.”

“Who used to be married to each other.”

“There’s no law that says you can’t be friends with your ex. I’m an attorney, I ought to know.” That smile again. What was Tanner’s word?
Rakish
. “Anyway, I want to catch up on what’s been happening in your life. And I, well, basically I want to brag some more about my career. So you want to do it?”

Some part of her wanted to say no, but she couldn’t decide if it was her more sensible self or merely the dull, cruel side of her that nursed a grudge.

“Well,” she said finally, “as long as you understand—”

He held up both hands in mock surrender. “I understand. Just friends.”

“Okay, then.”

He flashed another smile, his teeth very white against the tanned planes of his face. “I’ll call you with the details later this week. It’ll be fun, C.J.”

“Fun,” she repeated. She hoped so.

Adam insisted on paying for the lattes. Outside the coffee shop, she said good-bye to him.

There was no hug when they parted. He sketched a salute, a habit he’d picked up the first time he saw her wearing a uniform, and she returned it with a smile. Then he disappeared down the street, and she stared after him and wondered if she should have listened to the inner voice that had wanted to turn him down.

But he couldn’t possibly think there was any chance of reconciliation ... could he?

Well, one night with Adam wouldn’t kill her. And she had always liked his company, even if, in the end, he’d shown himself to be someone other than the man she’d thought he was.

Her car was in the station house parking lot. She walked back to the station and entered through the lobby.

Delano was still at the desk. He smiled when she came in. “That’s your ex, huh, Killer?”

“None of your business, but yeah.”

“I was talking to him before. Seems like an okay guy.”

“He
is
an okay guy. As long as you don’t trust him too much.”

Autopsies weren’t the only things Walsh hated. Running a meeting was another. He sometimes wondered why he had ever accepted a promotion to the rank of Detective-3. What he loved was being out in the field, and now, in his supervisory capacity, he rarely had time to investigate a case personally. Then again, at fifty-two, he supposed he had better leave the legwork to the next generation.

At the moment he was surrounded by representatives of that generation, who crowded three desks pushed together to make a single long table in the Robbery-Homicide squad room at Parker Center, the LAPD’s downtown headquarters. He had called a meeting of the Hourglass Killer task force, or at least its core members. Over the past two months, since the abduction of Nikki Carter, the task force had grown to include liaison personnel from the Homicide Bureau of the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department—Carter’s body had been dumped in an auto graveyard in East LA, territory which was under the Sheriff’s jurisdiction—as well as miscellaneous bureaucrats from the County Probation Department and the State Department of Corrections.

So far the FBI had been kept out of it, except for the obligatory psychological profile of the killer supplied by the Behavioral Science Section at Quantico.

If everybody connected with the investigation had been assembled, the squad room would have been filled to capacity. Walsh restricted most meetings to the LAPD Robbery-Homicide detectives who did the heavy lifting on the case.

Today’s meeting had been scheduled to start promptly at 4:00 P.M. Naturally it was almost four-thirty when the last stragglers wandered in. Walsh knew he ought to dress them down for their tardiness, but he had never been much good as a disciplinarian. He had reared three kids without once raising his voice, and he figured he could handle a half-dozen Metro detectives with equal self-restraint.

“Okay,” he said, silencing the chatter around the table, “now that we’re all here, we can get started.” Crisply he summarized the autopsy of Martha Eversol. “Anything new on the tats?” he asked when he had finished, directing his inquiry at Detectives Stark and Merriwether, who were working that angle.

“Nothing much,” Stark answered. “We’ve visited every tattoo parlor in town, and I mean every goddamn one. No hourglass patterns. A lot of snakes, flags, hearts with arrows through them.”

“And the style isn’t recognizable,” Merriwether added. “Most of the pros say it’s an amateur working with a homemade stencil, applying the ink by hand.”

“Like jailhouse tats?” Len Sotheby wondered. “Could mean our guy has a rap sheet.”

“No, not jailhouse. Those are almost always gray and black, ’cause the scratchers can’t get hold of any colored pigments. It’s what the experts call blackwork. What we’re looking at here is bold color in a geometrical design. They tell me it’s similar to the original tattoo technique used in the Pacific—the Philippines, Samoa, Tahiti, places like that. In Samoa it’s still done.”

“What is the technique exactly?” Walsh asked, jotting down notes.

“Traditionally, the artist takes a piece of bone and files one end to, like, a serrated edge—you know, like a comb. Then he attaches it to a wooden handle, dips the pointy end in pigment, and drives it into the skin with a mallet.”

Expressions of dismay and a grunted “ouch” made their way around the table.

“They tattoo every part of the body that way,” Merriwether went on imperturbably, “even the genitals. It’s a test of manhood.”

“Really?” Donna Cellini said with a smile. “That’s a test none of you guys would pass.”

Laughter broke through the temporary discomfort in the room.

“Anyway,” Merriwether said, “instead of chiseled bone, our guy has needles, and instead of soot and water, which the Polynesians and the Samoans used, he buys ink. It would take him maybe half an hour to apply the tattoo postmortem. He uses a 0.3-inch diameter needle for line work, 0.36 for coloring. Standard sizes, don’t lead us anywhere. The ink is standard too—couple hundred thousand bottles sold each year.”

“How about the hourglass design?” Walsh asked.

“It could be a stencil, which would speed up the process, but if so, it’s one he made himself, not a commercially available variety. The fact that it’s a geometric pattern—two triangles—might or might not be significant. The Polynesians were really into geometrical designs. They had this pottery done in what’s called the Lapita style, and they used the same designs when making tattoos. So our guy might be knowledgeable about ancient Polynesian culture, but it’s just as likely to be a coincidence. Most of the Polynesian designs were a lot more complicated than an hourglass. It was a real art form, the way they did it.”

“Sounds like you’re really getting into this stuff,” Ed Lopez remarked. “You sure you haven’t got ‘To Protect and Serve’ tattooed on your butt?”

“Ask your wife,” Merriwether responded placidly, to general amusement.

“Okay,” Walsh said, “since the tats are a dead end, I want you two to go back to working the index cards.”

“Shit,” Stark groused, “that got us nowhere. They’re ordinary three-by-five cards. You can buy ’em in any stationery store.”

“Work them anyway.” Walsh sank back in his seat. “Ed, Gary, you have any better luck with the victims’ background checks?”

Ed Lopez fielded the question. “We haven’t found anything that ties Nikki Carter to Martha Eversol.” Eversol had been assumed to be the Hourglass Killer’s second victim even before her body was found; the date of her disappearance had fit the pattern begun by Nikki Carter. “Checked out their doctors, dentists, employers and their colleagues at work, neighbors, landlords, boyfriends, ex-boyfriends, every damn thing we could think of. No links.”

“There’s supposed to be six degrees of separation between any two people on earth,” Gary Boyle added, “but not here.”

Walsh shook his head. “Donna and Len, give me some good news.”

Len Sotheby simply threw up his hands and said, “Nada.”

Donna Cellini was more forthcoming. “There are unsolved stranglings all over the map, obviously. But we didn’t find any parallel with the tattoos anywhere. Either our guy is new at this, or the tats are a new twist. I’m guessing the latter.”

Lopez asked why.

“Didn’t you read the profile?” Cellini sounded irritated. “It said the unsub was experienced.”

“Unsub,” Stark echoed with a smirk. The term was FBI jargon for Unknown Suspect. “Maybe you’ll be enrolling in Quantico before long, huh, Cellini?”

“At least I’d associate with a better class of people.”

“Any of the unsolved cases look promising?” Walsh asked.

Cellini consulted her notes. “There’s a bunch of stuff that has possibilities. Serial strangulations of prostitutes in Portland, Oregon, 1996 to 1998. A coyote—you know, a guy who smuggles illegals across the border—suspected of strangling female clients in the southern Arizona desert near Nogales, circa 1995. Never caught. Guy named Charles William Baron, real estate broker in Philadelphia, strangled his wife and his mistress in the same night and disappeared. Still at large. That happened in 1993.”

“He’s probably in South America by now,” Sotheby interjected. “He had a passport and overseas bank accounts.”

“Anything else?” Walsh pressed.

“Janitor who strangled three female students at a junior college in Nebraska, 1989 and 1990. Still on the loose. Strangler of children who roamed the Mojave Desert, 1985 and ’86—never apprehended. In 1982—”

“Okay.” Walsh raised his hand. “We don’t have to go back that far. Bottom line is ...”

“Nada,” Sotheby said again with stubborn pessimism.

“Any clue how he got access to the strip mall so he could dump the body there?” Boyle asked Walsh.

“We’re still working on that,” Walsh said, aware that everyone present knew this answer meant no.

“Security guard check out okay?”

“He looks clean. West LA is handling that angle. Checking out the building’s owners, the guard—anybody who had a key.”

Merriwether asked if there was any hope on the hair-and-fiber front.

“Nothing new,” Walsh said. “Martha Eversol was covered with some of the same gray rayon fibers we got off Nikki Carter, but they’re too generic to help nab this guy. They’ll help convict him when he’s caught, at least.”

“If he’s caught,” Sotheby said.

“When,” Walsh repeated.

No one disputed him this time. But no one met his gaze either.

Time to wrap up. Walsh leaned forward.

“All right, everybody. We know what today’s date is. We know what it means.”

There were a few unnecessary glances at the calendar on the wall, where Wednesday, January 31, was circled in red.

Nikki Carter had been abducted on November 30th. Martha Eversol, on December 31. Always the last day of the month.

“Tonight’s his night to howl,” Walsh said. “We don’t know where he’ll strike, but we know it’ll be within the next eight hours. There are extra squad cars on the streets, extra plainclothes officers working bars and nightclubs. Stark and Merriwether, I want you covering the club where Nikki Carter disappeared. Lopez and Boyle, you cruise the neighborhood where Martha Eversol was rear-ended.”

“He won’t return to the scene,” Stark said. “He’s too smart,”

“You’re probably right. But we’ll do it anyway. Maybe we’ll catch a break. Christ knows, we need one.”

Nobody could argue with that.

C.J. noticed the white van on Western Avenue as she headed north into the mid-Wilshire district. It was two car lengths behind her, visible in her rear-view mirror.

There was nothing unusual about the van, except that she recalled seeing a similar vehicle pull away from the curb outside the Newton Station parking lot when she left.

Probably a coincidence. No reason to think the van was following her or anything.

As she guided her Dodge Neon onto Pico Boulevard, she watched her rearview mirror to see if the van duplicated the maneuver. It did not.

“Getting paranoid, Killer,” she admonished herself. In private she sometimes used the nickname her fellow cops had bestowed on her, even though she disliked it.

She cruised west on Pico, planning her evening. Quick shower, bite to eat, some reps on her exercise machine, then the twenty-minute drive to Foshay Junior High School at Exposition and Western, a bad neighborhood. She was always mildly amazed when she emerged from the school and found that her car had not been stolen. Of course, it was only a matter of time until the little Dodge became another Grand Theft Auto statistic.

Oh, well. The risk was worth it. She really believed she was making a difference in the kids’ lives. Some of them anyway.

Take Andrew Washington, a small, wiry teen with smoldering eyes and fidgety hands. He glared at her nonstop during her first few visits as she sat amid a circle of kids and talked about the dangers they faced every day—the drug dealers trying to get them hooked, the gangbangers urging them to wear the colors, the petty temptations of shoplifting and vandalism.

Most of these kids had yielded to such temptations and influences already. Some had done time in juvenile camps. But they weren’t altogether lost. If they had been, they wouldn’t have been showing up three nights a week, talking with C.J. on Wednesdays and with two other off-duty cops on Mondays and Fridays. The talks were the price they paid for use of the gym afterward—basketball games, played indoors, safely out of range of drive-by shootings and the other insanities of the city.