by Amy Faye
It left the question, of course, why she was in L.A. at all. She'd been living with Dad in Minnesota for the last ten years, why would she suddenly need to come and make friends with dear sis. Unless she wasn't there to meet Erin at all.
That made less sense, though, because so far as Erin knew, her sister was still working some dead-end job because Dad couldn't be left alone long enough to take trips across the country for something very serious.
Every avenue of approach just led to more questions.
Two questions bubbled to the top, though, as the most important ones. First, what had brought her here? Second, what brought her to an alley in the middle of a no-go zone?
There were answers that Erin could think of, but none seemed to be a sure thing, not even necessarily very likely.
She wrote the questions down on the top of her pad and dropped it on the couch beside her, and then pulled out the paperwork and started reading through it.
The body was found at ten P.M. the night before Captain called her. Which means that essentially as soon as he got back to the office he had called Erin to tell her to expect something bad when she got back.
Bad didn't begin to cover it, but then again he hadn't used that word exactly, either. Erin sucked in a breath and kept reading. The location was more-or-less where she thought it was. The difference a few blocks made could be surprising, but she had already narrowed it down to that area from the graffiti and the used condoms and dirty needles just lying around.
They got into what had happened specifically. An anonymous tip called in from a cell phone belonging to a local, Marco Rodrigues. He was known to the station to be involved in the narcotics trade, but when they rode around to talk to him about it, the route was a dead end. Erin hadn't expected it to go that easily, but she was surprised to find that they'd moved so quickly on the first lead. Maybe they were working the case seriously after all.
She moved down the page further.
Robbery unlikely. She was found with a wallet containing seventy-three dollars in various denominations, a credit card, and a Minnesota-issued state I.D., no drivers' license. Which meant that someone else had taken her there, perhaps a taxi.
Time of death was officially placed an hour before the call came in, around 9 P.M., and that was about where the official details stopped.
They'd made calls to the taxi companies, seeing if any drivers remembered her face, but it took time for that kind of information to come back, and they probably hadn't gotten an answer yet. Beyond that, though, there wasn't much.
Erin sucked in a breath and collapsed the mess of papers into a single pile, then put it back into the box, the folder on top. There was more to cover, but she needed a break. Part of her was beginning to see exactly why she shouldn't work on this case, but she ignored that part.
She slid sideways into the seat of her computer chair and tapped in the keys to her password. The welcoming blue desktop screen smiled out at her. She'd thought it would somehow be helpful for it to say something motivational, so she had settled on a picture of a pretty blue bird flying and gave a pithy line about keeping on trying until you flew.
She had about forty e-mails. Wasn't that supposed to go through her phone? She furrowed her eyebrows. No, she'd just changed her damn e-mail password. It had silently locked her phone out, without ever once actually prompting her to change it. She cursed under her breath and opened the inbox.
A sale at a local sporting goods store had somehow made its way in, along with a dozen social media notifications. They were all deleted just the same way, with only enough attention to figure out what it was supposed to be before she deleted it. She didn't need any baseballs, and she sure as hell didn't need to tell some website if she knew a Craig Hutchinson. Where the hell did these sites even get ideals like that?
One, though, caught her interest. Her breath hitched as she saw it. Becca had sent her an email. She didn't recognize the email, but then they'd never corresponded through it. But RebeccaRusso85 was definitely her, and when Erin clicked open the message, sure enough, the style fit perfectly.
Either Becca had sent her this email, or someone was working very hard to make Erin think she had, and as crazy as things seemed with Becca's death, Erin wasn't ready to declare that it was a vast conspiracy to mess with her head and commit the perfect murder.
Dad was fine, she started off with. He's been drinking less. That seemed to have gone out the window the minute that Becca left.
She met a guy online, he seemed great. They'd been talking for the better part of a year. She hadn't wanted to bother Erin with it when her work was so busy. But now they were going to meet up, and they'd be right in her neck of the woods. Could she stop by and maybe get a cup of coffee? It would be so wonderful to catch up on old times. If she didn't hear back, she'd assume yes.
Erin remembered the day that Becca had scheduled. She'd spent the whole day on her back in a 3rd-floor ski resort suite. She cursed out loud. What was she thinking? What was wrong with her?
She should never have left. Now Becca was dead. No more chances to catch up. She moved over to the bed. Maybe daytime T.V. was the right choice. The name Becca gave for her internet boyfriend stood out in Erin's memory, though.
Who in the hell was Craig?
Nine
Erin looked at her paper. How disappointing. Two questions. One of them had been answered, thankfully. She was in Los Angeles to meet some guy. Craig something. Possibly Hutchinson, since that was the only Craig on her public friends list. The first solid lead she'd managed to find.
Then she looked up at her computer and clicked on his name. It brought open a page with a large picture and a whole lot of nothing else. Private. Only available to friends, it said. Did she want to make a friend request?
She didn't. Instead, she just looked at the picture.
He was tall, blonde, broad-shouldered. He looked good. Not too big, but you could tell he worked out. He was standing next to a motorcycle, but it wasn't a Harley or anything big like that. She guessed from her limited experience it was probably a 750cc something-or-other.
He wasn't smiling in his profile image, but that seemed to be the fashion these days, with some crowds, and this seemed like the kind of guy who thought smiling would make him look like a wimp.
"Jeez, Becca, what were you getting involved with this kind of guy for?"
She was already painting a picture of Craig in her head before she ever spoke to him, but that was how everyone worked, wasn't it? He probably belonged to a so-called motorcycle club, probably had done a few recreational drugs once or twice at least. Possibly more, but she wasn't going to overdo her estimation at this early stage. He might own a gun, depending on whether or not he'd been hauled in for the prior drug usage. If they'd managed to catch him before, then he was a felon, and if he was a felon, he definitely owned one, only it wouldn't come up with a records search.
On the other hand, if he wasn't, then the odds were only fifty-fifty. Most people in California weren't keen on guns, and politicians liked it that way. Erin could take them or leave them, but since it was part of her uniform she ended up choosing to take them most of the time.
Her phone rang again. The same number she hadn't recognized before. The Captain, then.
"Russo."
The Captain was using his hard-ass voice and it didn't fit with his words. "How's Judge Judy doing?"
"I imagine she's great, Captain, why? Is Judge Judy a murder victim?"
"Don't be an ass, Russo. There's been a mix-up. Come back to the station, I need to watch you shred those files."
"What the hell, sir?"
"Don't you give me that, I gave you that stuff and I can take it away just as easily. Now come in and you'll get the whole explanation, and until then you can pack up the files and get your ass here, and then you can go home and get your daily Judge Judy out of the way until you're off paid suspension, is that clear?"
Erin could feel her face twisting into a gargoyle-esque
mask of fury, but she forced herself to smooth it out.
"Understood, sir. I'll be there in ten."
"I'll have Assanti waiting for you outside to take custody of the files. Then come and see me."
"Understood."
She clicked the button to hang up and slipped her phone into her pocket. So much for that. She just had to hope there was a god damned good reason for this, because if not, heads were going to roll. She wasn't in any sort of way prepared to just accept that she couldn't do anything to help her sister. No chance in hell would she take that.
The drive took nine minutes and she took another to cool down. She didn't get a chance to finish her meditation, though, when a knock came at her window. Assanti stood outside, tall and sporting a deep tan like a guy from Jersey Shore. He gave her an apologetic smile when she looked up at him.
The idea of slamming the door open to hit him with it flashed through her mind. She waited for him to get out of the way before she opened the door. It was just too tempting.
"Russo, I know you're not happy about this, and I just wanted you to know that I have the deepest respect for your work and if it were up to me, you'd be working right alongside my guys."
"So who is it up to?"
"Some suits from Quantico, it seems. This isn't the first time that they've found cases like this, I guess. We put out feelers for any similar crimes, but nothing really caught our eye. Apparently the federales see it differently."
She snorted. God damn Feds think they know everything. Think that the locals are just yokels. It was the same story everywhere you go, and the same every time they got involved. They'd poke around a bit, realize they have no contacts in the area, no idea who these people are, and then usually bungle the damn investigation.
Well, she wasn't going to let that happen this time.
"You mind if I get those files? I'm supposed to take custody of them from you and bring them over to their guy. He'll probably shred 'em, since he's already got copies of his own. Oh—and, did you take any notes?"
She gave him a blank look, and then after a long silence. "Oh, you were being serious? Of course I took notes, Assanti, did you think this was my first case?"
She let the frustration touch her voice, and what was supposed to be lighthearted sarcasm came out angry and bitter.
"Sorry I asked. Can I have those, as well?"
She reached into the car and pulled out the steno pad, peeled off the top sheet, and put it on top of the box, where it stayed for exactly half a second before being blown off and catching the breeze.
"There you go," she sneered, and started inside.
It wasn't his fault. He was good at his job, she figured, but not as good as she was. And she was angry at being taken off—but Assanti had already apologized for that.
She could hear heated voices before she made it out of the elevator. The Captain was old, but he wasn't dead yet, and he had a hot personality to begin with. Arguing over something, and here she was about to throw a wrench into all of it with her own arguing. Gotta love that inter-departmental cooperation.
She knocked at the door and opened it a crack when the voices had quieted down. "You wanted to see me, sir?"
She didn't try to hide the surliness in her voice. He wouldn't misinterpret it, and there wouldn't be any misinterpretation.
"Russo. Yeah, come in. Assanti's off the case, this—guy is taking over."
She shut the door behind her and then took a good look at her just in time for her to hear him ask.
"Erin?"
She blinked. What was he doing here?
"Roy." She breathed out. "So you meant that Virginia."
"That Virginia, yes."
Captain Blunt cut in. "Lieutenant Russo, this is F.B.I. Special Agent Roy Schafer. Do you two know each other?"
Erin answered 'no' just as Roy answered 'yes.'
Erin corrected her answer to 'sort of,' as the Captain's eyebrows screwed up in frustrated confusion.
"What do you mean, sort of?"
"Well, we've met before."
"Great. So you're good friends now. Why don't you make up and play nice with each other?"
"I'm on suspension. Sir."
"That's right, you're on suspension. Now give me your badge and your gun, I don't need you going off and doing something very stupid."
What he didn't realize was that she'd already done something stupid, and it was standing right there in the room with both of them, watching her hand in her badge to serve her suspension.
Ten
Erin nearly turned and ripped Roy's head off.
"What in the hell are you doing? This is my God damned sister."
"That's exactly why I can't have you going off half-cocked," he said. He wanted this conversation quiet, surrounded by a hodge-podge of her colleagues and his. Erin had no such compunctions.
"What gives you the right to just step in here, and get me suspended?"
Her voice got louder with every word, until Roy started rubbing the bridge of his nose, as if he were wearing glasses. Only her wasn't. It must have been a force of habit, she thought.
"Look, can we move this conversation somewhere else?"
"Fine." She looked at him expectantly for half a second. "Well? Where are we going? Lead the way, your Majesty."
He let out a breath. Part of her felt bad, but it wasn't a large part, and it was only the part that had spent several hours with him inside her not long ago.
"Come on, this way. I've taken one of the empty offices. Nothing's set up yet, but it's someplace we can talk."
He took her over to the corner office. Her corner office. The one she was supposed to move into when her damn promotion finally came through, but with all the red tape around it she'd been waiting with half her files in boxes for a month now. So much for that plan.
"How are you holding up?" He closed the door behind him, and his face was still as soft as it had been throughout her screaming at him.
"I was holding up a lot better when I was doing something concrete."
"I was going to call you, I just, my plane only touched down twenty minutes ago, and I had to—"
"Leave it. I'm not ready to talk about that right now."
"Okay, what's got you so riled up?"
"You know exactly what has me riled up. My sister is lying down on a cold metal slab with her guts half hanging out because of some scumbag, and now I have to wait and just hope you catch the son of a bitch before he kills someone else's little sister."
"Erin—"
"Don't you 'Erin' me. I'm not wrong, and you know it."
"I know. But there's a reason that the protocols are in place. You're too close to the case. You’re upset and you're going to be bolting at shadows."
She considered telling him that she'd already found a shadow to bolt at—a solid lead and serious answers to the big questions that she'd been able to raise in just a few short hours. But she kept it to herself.
"How did you get out here so fast?"
"We started moving the minute we got a call that someone was looking for a case like this."
"Like what? It reads like a mugging."
"Sure it does. But there are specifics we were keeping an eye out for. Nothing taken, seven stab wounds to the abdomen. Young woman, pretty, dark-haired. It's pretty specific, and as soon as my guys have had a look at the body we'll be sure."
"What's so special about all that?"
"In four years, we've had five killings just like it."
"And why didn't L.A.P.D. get anything on their search?"
"2012, it was in Montgomery. 2013, Augusta Maine; 2014, Scottsdale; 2015, two murders, almost back-to-back, in Chicago."
"Okay, so it's a repeat offender. Seven stab wounds exactly, you say?"
"Every time."
Erin let out a breath. This wasn't over her head, but it certainly was above her pay grade. Not that it changed anything.
"What are the details?"
"No details," Roy said. He soun
ded apologetic. "We've got a few ideas about who it could be, but no leads locally. We do know that they were all using the same dating service. Online thing, you communicate through text and then photos, and then—well, you get the idea."
She didn't, but she could make a few good guesses as to how exactly it went.
"Okay, so—forgive me here, but I assume you've contacted the dating service? You know who they were all dating?"
"Yeah, we know. That's the thing. Not the same guy."
He picked up a thick leather binder and unzipped the outside, flipped it open. Four different faces stared out at her. Sometimes suspects would change their hair style, trim their beards or grow them out. Look different.
Makeup and disguise could do a lot, and she didn't want to rule out that she was being fooled, but there were at least two men here. Men who couldn't have faked being the other.
She let out a breath.
"And do you have information on Becca's date?"
"Sure, it's coming through any minute now."
Erin reached into her pocket and unfolded a piece of paper.
"That's him. Craig Hutchinson, according to his Facebook."
"You've been busy," Roy said. All business now. "That's all I need from you. You're dismissed." His voice softened again. "I'll call you later."
"Fuck you. My sister was murdered, you're not cutting me out."
"I can keep you informed, but only as a civilian."
"Not good enough."
Roy's face darkened, and he looked around as if he expected someone to be hiding behind the desk he had sat his ass up on. Her desk, or it should have been.
"Look, Erin. I can't do any better for you, and you know as well as I do that I can't stop you from doing whatever you're going to do. But don't fuck this up. We need to still have the evidence at the end of the day to nail this son of a bitch."