suitcase tagging along behind him. The long face broke into a familiar smile.
“Tony! It’s good to see you.”
Mendez met the handshake. “Jesus, Vince, I almost didn’t recognize you. You’ve lost thirty pounds.”
Leone waved off the remark. “It’s a long story.” He offered his hand to Dixon. “You’re Cal Dixon. Vince Leone. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Bruce Washington from LA County SO is an old friend of mine.”
Leone was a master at disarming people. He greeted every stranger as a long-lost friend. He had gotten a lot of confessions out of suspects that way, luring them in with a smile and a pat on the back.
“I haven’t heard from Bruce in a while,” Dixon said.
“He’s gone into the private sector—executive security. Somehow, he thought making a pile of dough beat the glory and accolades of being a civil servant. Go figure.”
He nodded toward the exit doors. “Shall we, gentlemen? I don’t want to hold up the show.”
What Vince wanted was to lie down on the ground and pass out after the trek through the terminal. He had been determined to get to baggage claim ahead of Mendez and Dixon, so he could have a minute to catch his breath and spot them before they spotted him. The five-and-a-half-hour flight had drained him. He had time to amp up his energy and muster the big grin, even while he questioned his sanity at coming here.
Exhausting himself doing something necessary was far preferable to lying around thinking about the shrapnel in his brain. So he wouldn’t think now about how his head was pounding or how he was beginning to feel edgy and shaky. All he had to do was keep himself together a little longer. All he had to do was get through an autopsy, then the drive up to Oak Knoll, then finding his hotel . . .
Mendez briefed him as they drove across town to the LA County Coroner’s facility on North Mission Road. Vince taped the conversation on a pocket-size recorder. He would make notes later. He had already started gathering impressions of the situation.
Dixon had the shield of authority up. He was too smart to drop his guard just because they had one person in common. This case was his baby. He was running the show and he didn’t want some G-man coming in and upsetting the balance of power.
That was nothing new. Cops were territorial animals. They all pissed on the fences. Some of them more than others. And no doubt, Dixon had checked him out as well. He could have heard a hundred stories of Vince Leone cutting a wide swath everywhere he went, drawing the media like flies to a rump roast.
He had a certain reputation for being loud and flamboyant, always cracking wise with his unapologetic Chicago accent. What Dixon wouldn’t have heard was that he did what he had to do to make his case. If that meant drawing a killer out with a challenge or a taunt or whatever, that was what he did.
They parked in sight of the receiving zone and got out of the car. Vince sucked in the night air, filling and emptying his lungs several times. It was the last fresh breath they would have until the autopsy was over.
“Okay, fellas,” he said to Dixon and Mendez. “Before we go in, I have to tell you about my capacity here. ISU can’t take your case yet. Right now, it would be a stretch to say it meets the criteria enough to warrant assigning an agent while they’re swamped with bigger cases.”
Dixon gave him the eagle-eye. “Then what are you doing here?”
“I think it’s only a matter of time before you have another body. This latest murder demonstrates your UNSUB has a pretty advanced and sophisticated fantasy he’s acting on. That didn’t develop overnight. He’s killed before. He’ll kill again. I’d like to help you nail this creep before you’ve got a big body count, not after.”
“If Investigative Support wouldn’t take the case, and you’re one of the founding fathers of Investigative Support,” Dixon said, “then you’re here . . . ?”
“Under the radar,” he admitted. “I’ll help as much as I can help.”
“Out of the kindness of your heart?” Dixon asked.
“Not exactly,” Vince said. “I’m exploring the possibilities of continuing education of law enforcement personnel in the field as an extension of what we do at the National Academy.”
Sounded good—as long as Dixon didn’t have a line to his higher-ups in the Bureau to check it out.
“Correct me if I’m mistaken,” Vince said, “but I don’t think either one of you has direct experience with this kind of killer. I have more than most people could ever stomach in three lifetimes. I have access to every resource and contact ISU has. I’m just not here in an official capacity.
“So, if you’re worried about me attracting attention,” he said specifically to Dixon, “trying to take over your case, you can relax.”
“Good to know,” Dixon said, holding back questions and skepti cism. Vince could feel it. He could see it in Dixon’s body language. But the sheriff would put it aside for now. He had an autopsy to go to. He turned and headed for the building.
Vince and Mendez fell in half a dozen paces behind.
“So, what’s the long story?” Mendez asked. “You look a little rough, Vince.”
Vince laughed. He had seen himself in the men’s room mirror. “I look like shit, kid. I’ve got an ulcer.” Which was true. He had an ulcer from eating painkillers instead of food.
“Airplane food,” he said, rolling his eyes. “It’s nothing to worry about. God knows how I managed not to have one until now.”
Mendez looked suspicious. “You’re okay?”
“Perfect.”
“You grew a mustache,” Mendez said meaningfully.
“Just trying to blend in with you local boys,” Vince said. “Let’s go look at your stiff.”
19
The first impression of the LA County morgue was the smell. The ventilation system wasn’t great, but the amount of dead bodies processed through was. No one in the receiving area seemed bothered by it.
Dixon was shooting the breeze with a group of coroner’s assistants sitting at a long white table as they waited for their next delivery. When it arrived, the body would be measured, fingerprinted, photographed, wrapped in plastic, and put in cold storage, where it would wait its turn for an autopsy if an autopsy was deemed necessary. In the meantime, they took a little break to chat, drink coffee, and listen to the bug zapper sizzle.
“Busy day?” Dixon asked, helping himself to the carton of malted milk balls on the table.
“The usual,” said a burly assistant, a bald man the size of a bear, with blue tattoos up and down arms as thick as small tree trunks. He had the demeanor of a man who had been around the morgue for a long time. The kind of guy who could roll in a maggot-riddled corpse, then sit down and eat an egg-salad sandwich.
The lone female assistant, a cute brunette twentysomething, said, “Fourteen field calls, three homicides, four suicides, and six accidental deaths.”
“And a partridge in a pear tree?” Vince asked.
The girl laughed.
“Get this,” the burly guy said. “Two of the accidental deaths were guys that fell out of trees while trying to rescue cats. Dumb shits. Who ever saw a cat skeleton up in a tree? The damn things will get down when they want.”
“They were probably trying to impress their girlfriends,” Vince said.
The girl rolled her eyes. “Any woman who wants a guy that stupid should be taken out of the gene pool.”
Vince flashed a grin at her. “Now where’s your sense of romance?”
She laughed again. “I don’t bring it here.”
“Anyone seen Mikado?” Dixon asked.
“Third suite,” the big guy said. “He’s waiting for you.”
“Thanks.”
