by Linda Berry
Hardy gave her an unblinking stare. “You don’t make the rules, Starkley. You obey them.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Officer Wong graduated first in his class from the academy. Sound familiar? He’s handled himself well on bike patrol, as you saw for yourself.” Hardy nodded at her bandaged arm. “Now, you’re gonna help him cut his teeth on the street. Try real hard to remember what it was like to be a rookie, and where you’d be if Steve hadn’t shown you the ropes.” Hardy gathered his papers, paused, and added. “Another thing, Starkley. Stay off The Strangler case. Officer Wong has instructions to keep an eye on you. Shirk your patrol duties and we hear it from him.” Abruptly, Hardy brushed by her and left the room.
Lauren glared at David. “An informer? What kind of joke is this?”
All trace of mirth left David’s face. “I requested partnering with you,” he said evenly. “The informant part was Hardy’s idea.”
“You’ve made a mistake, Officer,” she said. “I don’t have a good reputation for keeping a partner safe. Do me a favor. Tomorrow night, pick someone else.” She turned to leave. “Let’s check out the equipment.”
“It’s done,” he said, face alert, brown eyes clear and focused.
“What?”
“Shotgun, radios, laptop, car. We’re ready to go.”
Reluctantly, Lauren thanked him. “I’ll drive.” She led the way to the parking lot. A black-and-white waited at the curb. “Ours?”
“Yeah. Hold on, I’ve got something for you.” He opened the trunk, pulled out a Tomcat .32 semi-automatic pistol in an ankle holster, and held it out to her. “If you had this at Chuck’s, things might have gone better.”
Inadvertently, Lauren rubbed her bandaged forearm. “Wear it yourself.”
He lifted his pant leg and revealed a matching holster. “The Tomcat’s small, but solidly made. Fully loaded, it only weighs about sixteen ounces, which makes it easy to carry on an ankle, especially for a woman.”
She silently mulled it over. Accepting his offer would make her feel indebted but refusing would make her look like an ass. “All right. Fine.” She put her foot up on the bumper and strapped the holstered pistol around her ankle. Immediately, she appreciated the added insurance of another gun within easy reach. “I’ll give it back at the end of our shift.”
“Keep it until you can replace it.”
“Okay. Let’s roll.”
He stood watching her, expectant.
“Thank you for the Tomcat,” she said, opening the car door.
“You’re welcome.” He climbed into the passenger seat. “Saying thanks wasn’t so hard, was it?”
She ignored him and pulled out of the lot, guilt pricking her conscience for her disagreeable temperament. “Coffee?”
“Sure. I suggest you stick to decaf.”
Glancing at him, she saw his face stretch into a smile. Lauren concentrated on the traffic until she pulled into the lot of Bubby’s Donuts.
“Holy crap. You’ve been drinking Bubby’s rotgut? No wonder you’re hell on wheels.”
Suppressing a smile, she followed Wong into the brightly lit shop and was greeted by the smell of sugar, hot oil, and chocolate. While waiting in line behind a rotund mother and her two chubby kids, she asked, “Why’d you want to partner with me?”
“It sure wasn’t your charm.” His gaze strayed from the display case and met hers, his tone frank and direct. “I liked the way you handled yourself the other day. That was a brave thing to do.”
“And stupid.”
“I would’ve done the same.” He smiled before returning to the wide assortment of doughnuts behind the glass. “Chocolate éclair?”
“My favorite.”
“My treat.” Wong ordered two coffees and two éclairs, placed a couple bills on the counter, and tossed the change in the tip jar. “I looked up your record. You’re one of the most decorated cops on the force. The clincher though, was when Peanut told me you could shoot the ass off a bee from a hundred paces.” His eyes crinkled with good humor. “Why should I partner up with some old fart when I can have Annie Oakley?”
“Annie’s a little rusty these days.”
He handed her a Styrofoam cup, grabbed the bag, and followed her out into the cool night breeze to the patrol car. Traffic roared by on Mission Street, cars honked, a motorcycle backfired, and the air smelled of exhaust. They sat in the reflected light of the shop and watched a motley mix of citizens file into the doughnut shop and exit minutes later carrying bags. She bit into her éclair and wiped a drop of cream off her chin, sipped her coffee. It felt good to have company, especially someone as easygoing and committed to police work as David.
Feeling protective, she felt obliged to give him a warning. “Things are different on night patrol, David. Dangerous. Drunks, druggies, armed lunatics who shoot first and think later. Shit happens fast.” She heard an edge creep into her voice. “You need to pay attention. Stay alert. If something goes down tonight, I better not find you standing there peeing your pants. If I go to the hospital, you better be going with me.”
“We go down together,” David said adamantly.
She met his sincere brown eyes, his solemn expression, and smiled, and for a change, it felt genuine. Try as hard as she might, she couldn’t help but like this guy.
“If you were going to work The Strangler case while on patrol, what exactly would that look like?” he asked.
“You wearing a wire?” she asked.
He shifted in his seat. “Look, I’m not gonna spy on you.”
“You heard Hardy. You’re to report me if I step out of line.”
“If you operate under the radar, who’s to know?”
She studied his profile in the blinking neon coming through the windshield. “What are you saying exactly? You want to help?”
“Maybe support you.” He chewed thoughtfully, swallowed. “What’s your next move?”
“I don’t know.” She washed down the greasy aftertaste of her doughnut with coffee. “I’m just trying to understand the sick bastard. Get inside his head.”
“You can’t put a human face on it,” David said passionately. “Sociopaths are wired differently. What matters is that he’s hurting kids and has to be stopped.”
“Why are you so fired up about this?”
A flicker of sadness crossed his face. “Jenna, my little sister, was raped three years ago. She was only ten.”
“Jesus.”
“Assaulted by her friend’s older brother at a pajama party. He was fourteen. Got two years in Juvenile Hall. He’s out now, whooping it up. My sister sees him around the neighborhood and relives it every time. How’s she ever supposed to get over it?”
“I’m so sorry.”
Wong’s dark eyes flashed. “If we can stop The Strangler, put him away for life, it’ll save other girls from getting raped.”
“That’s what drives me, David.”
No calls came in. They finished their coffee and Lauren eased into the traffic lane. As was her habit, she studied passersby crowding the sidewalks—a melting pot of ethnic backgrounds, age, social class—looking for that outcast exhibiting odd behavior. She wondered how many of them had been touched, in one way or another, by the brutality of rape.
“Sexual assault is one of the most difficult crimes to prosecute,” David was saying, his gaze also fixed on passersby. “Most victims don’t come forward.”
“You’re right. And when they do, they’re put on trial. The evidence has to be ironclad.”
“That’s why I want to help you.”
Lauren puffed out a breath of frustration, and confessed, “I’m stuck at a dead end with The Strangler case. I don’t know where to go from here. His sketch is on the news, but so far, no leads.”
Maybe having an extra pair of eyes would be helpful. She drove to Cypress Park and pulled over to the curb on Grifton Street. “Want to take a quick walk?”
He answered by getting out of the car. She described in det
ail everything she knew about the case as they retraced her footsteps on the day of Courtney’s soccer match—first through the sycamore grove where she had found The Strangler revisiting Melissa’s crime scene, then to the oak tree where he planted the panties. David listened attentively. Lauren could see the wheels turning in his brain. Nodding toward the summit overlooking the city, she swallowed and whispered between dry lips, “That’s where my partner got shot.” She glanced at David. He hadn’t heard her, but was studying the sweeping lawn leading from the grove to the oak tree.
“By the time he stood here, he had shed the jacket and wig?” he asked.
“Right.”
“Yet you never found the discarded clothing.”
“No. And we searched every trashcan, looked under every bush.”
“Then he disappeared?”
“Right.”
“What’s wrong with that picture, Lauren?”
She pondered this as she scanned the park, which was graying in the diminishing light. “I know, I know. It’s impossible. There’s no way he could’ve left the park without being seen. His clothes didn’t just vanish.” She looked at David. “The answer lies here somewhere. We missed it that day.”
“Now you’re thinking like Sherlock. How ’bout we start scanning every inch of this place?”
“Let’s do it.”
It was a clear but moonless night. They worked soundlessly, their beams crisscrossing the ground until they got their first call—Code 311: indecent exposure on a public street. After racing to the scene and carting the drunk offender off to lockup, consecutive calls kept them busy until midnight, then they were back at Cypress Park, flashlight beams scouring every leafless tree, bush, and monument. By the end of their shift, the two returned twice more, completing the search of the eastern side of the park. They returned to the station as a bleary dawn struggled to dilute the shadows of night. David stepped into Steve’s regimen without comment, checking in the equipment while Lauren dashed upstairs to change into her civvies. Still dressed in his uniform, he stood waiting by her Jeep when she emerged from the station twenty minutes later.
“What’s up?” she said, tossing him a questioning glance.
“Since you’re off duty, I’ve got a hunch you’ll be working Cypress Park today.”
“You a mind reader now?” She threw her gym bag into the back of the Jeep and bent to unbuckle her ankle holster.
“Keep it,” he said.
Lauren looked up at him.
“I want my partner safe.”
His words unhinged an emotional safety lock and she felt the sudden sting of tears. Blinking hard, she took a moment to compose herself. “Yeah, I thought about doing Cypress today. It’ll be a hell of a lot easier in daylight.”
“You know, I’m off duty today, too.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I could meet you there.”
She shrugged. “Two thirty?”
“Sounds good.” He nodded goodbye and departed with a grin.
Lauren watched him cross the lot, his gait light and confident. She had resisted befriending David, but it was futile trying not to get attached to his buoyant charm. She felt protective of him. He had good instincts and a quick, calculating mind. Their whole shift, he knew where Lauren was at every given moment and intuited the danger potential. He was a good cop. A natural, as she had been. With seasoning, he would be one of the best on the force. For the first time since Steve’s death, Lauren felt like her back had been covered. She was seized by a sudden dark memory—Steve lying on the ground in Cypress Park, blood oozing from his chest. Her inability to save him scraped like a ragged and rusted blade at the edges of her mind.
Cold realization hit her. Letting David work The Strangler case had been a mistake. She was putting him at risk of an administrative reprimand that could blemish his record. She respected him too much to partner with him, to hold his life in her hands. Setting her jaw, she made a pledge to convince him to ride with someone else. Her mind in turmoil, she headed for home. Dark clouds were building over the storefronts on Mission Street. The approaching storm mirrored her emotions exactly. She couldn’t shake a gathering sense of dread.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
THE STORM BROKE with a vengeance, coming down fast and hard as Lauren turned onto her street. Pulling into her driveway, she noticed that the windows had fogged up in the surveillance car parked in front of her house, and she could see the blurred image of a man inside, head back against the headrest. Poor bastard. Some men could sleep through anything.
In the kitchen, Lauren brewed a pot of strong coffee and placed two onion bagels in the toaster. She donned a waterproof poncho, ran outside to the surveillance car, and tapped on the window. It rolled halfway down and a puffy-faced, middle-aged detective with a day-old beard blinked up at her. “Sorry, must’ve just dozed off for a minute.”
“Come inside,” she shouted over the clamor of rain. “Have some hot coffee.”
He nodded, rolled up the window, and followed her into the garage. She hung up their wet coats on pegs by the door and led him into the kitchen.
“Name’s Kellor. Joe Kellor.” He seated himself at the nook and ran a hand over his wet, bald scalp. “Thanks for the invite. My joints were getting pretty stiff out there.”
“Nasty work,” she said, placing a cup of hot coffee in front of him.
“Ain’t all bad. Good benefits.” Kellor stirred two teaspoons of sugar into his cup, took a sip, sighed with contentment. “I’m six months away from retirement and a cozy pension, then I’m moving to Reno. Gonna get outta this damp air and soak up a whole buncha dry heat. Me and the wife are gonna take it easy for the rest of our days.” Kellor smothered his bagel with lox and cream cheese, took a bite, washed it down with coffee.
Kellor was on his second cup when they heard the doorbell. “My replacement.” He wiped his mouth with a napkin and got up. “I’ll grab my raincoat outta the garage.”
Lauren opened the front door. The new detective was taller, leaner, and better dressed than Kellor, wearing a dark suit and expensive raincoat. He held a nine by twelve manila envelope by one corner. “This was leaning against your door,” he said without a greeting. “No postage. Obviously hand-delivered.” He looked at Kellor, coming up behind her. “You see who dropped this off?”
Kellor’s face reddened.
“I insisted the detective come in for coffee,” Lauren said, following his lead and taking the envelope by the same corner. “It’s barely damp. Must’ve just arrived.”
The storm drummed the street noisily behind the tall detective. A sharp wind blew through the doorway. “Please come in, Detective …?”
“Schuster.” He stepped inside, his demeanor serious.
“I have a letter opener in the kitchen. Coffee?”
“Thanks.”
He stood next to her at the island as she poured his coffee, transmitting his tension to her. She quickly opened a utility drawer, pulled out a pair of thin cotton gloves, slipped them on, and with care, slit open the envelope. Inside, she found another envelope, this one white and letter-sized, which she also slit open. She pulled out two Polaroids and studied them, stunned speechless.
Schuster took the photos and examined them, holding them at the edges. He squinted at Lauren, not understanding. “These pictures are of you restraining a man holding a knife.”
“That deranged man slashed me at Chuck’s Coffee Shop a few days ago.” She lifted her bandaged arm.
“So, who took these pictures?” Schuster asked.
“My guess?” Her voice came out hoarse. She cleared her throat. “The Strangler. He also planted a Polaroid in Tina Duff’s coffin.”
“He’s stalking you in public now?” Kellor asked.
Her mind was reeling but she kept a calm tone. “Looks that way. Probably retaliating for the sketch released to the media.”
“You remember seeing anyone suspicious in the restaurant?” Schuster asked. “Anyone with a camera?�
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“No. But I wasn’t paying attention to the customers. He could’ve been sitting right next to me and I wouldn’t have known. He wears disguises.”
“Can I see the envelopes?” Kellor asked, pulling vinyl gloves from an inside pocket of his raincoat.
Schuster handed them over and Kellor peered into the smaller envelope. “Something’s scrawled on the inside. Barely detectable.” He looked up. “He must’ve taken the envelope apart, then glued it back together. Very methodical work.”
“His trademark,” Lauren said.
Kellor slit open the envelope and read the faint penciled handwriting out loud.
For out of much affliction and anguish of heart
I wrote unto you with many tears;
not that ye should be grieved,
but that ye might know the love
which I have more abundantly unto you.
And I will very gladly spend and be spent for you;
though the more abundantly I love you, the less I be loved.
Both men were looking at her. Lauren knew her face had paled.
“The sicko’s fixated on you,” Kellor said. “Like an obsessed lover. Now he thinks you’re turning on him. No doubt because of the sketch.”
“The love crap is pure sarcasm,” Lauren said. “He’s just messing with my head. He’s finally feeling some pressure. He’s a control freak. I’m stealing his control. It’s probably making him crazy.”
“Crazy enough to watch your house and risk placing this on your doorstep,” Kellor said.
“He’s been in your house alone with you before,” Schuster said. “He got close to you in a restaurant. He’s had every chance to hurt you, yet he hasn’t. What’s his game?”
“Emotional terrorism. He’s warning me to back off. Telling me he can get to me anytime. Even kill me. Like he killed my partner.” She looked from one face to the other. “And you can’t protect me.”
Silence.
“Do what he’s asking. Keep a low profile. Then he’ll leave you alone.” Schuster’s tone was matter-of-fact, as though he were offering her a simple solution. Passivity always seemed to be a man’s answer to a woman’s problems. But she was a cop. She had no intention of being passive or bending to The Strangler’s will.