him, forcing him off the road. But he kept that opinion to himself.
“Then the guy loses control of his car,” Robertson was saying, “and takes the big plunge. Ka-bam! The car goes up like a drum of gasoline and rockets him straight to hell.”
“Think that’s it, Seb?” Wildman asked.
“Yes,” Delgado answered slowly. “That, or something very much like it.”
“Guess what, folks?” Eddie Torres wore a huge grin. “I think gryphons just became extinct.”
“I’ve got just one question,” Tallyman said. “Why did he take the patrol car, and not his own?”
“Because obviously his car was parked somewhere else,” Gardner replied. “On a side street, I’d guess.”
“If so, then it will still be there,” Delgado said. “And that means you talented people are going to find it.”
Wildman groaned. “We’ll have to check out all the cars parked on the street within a two-mile radius. Wake up everybody in the neighborhood to determine the ownership of every vehicle in sight.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“A lot of people who managed to sleep through the rest of the excitement are going to be awfully upset at being dragged out of bed,” Torres said.
Delgado smiled faintly. “Well, isn’t that just too damn bad?”
Shortly before dawn, Delgado finally received word of Wendy’s condition. He was told she’d suffered a mild case of shock but had come out of it unharmed. She had no broken bones, no internal bleeding, no serious cuts or contusions. All she needed was rest. He experienced a wave of relief so intense it was physically draining.
He arranged for a female beat cop to deliver a set of Wendy’s clothes to her hospital room, then ordered the staff at Cedars-Sinai to restrict access to that wing of the medical center. He was no longer concerned about the Gryphon, but he wanted no one from the media sneaking into Wendy’s room to wangle a secret interview or snap a photo of her in bed.
At daybreak the blaze on the mountain was declared to be “confined and controlled,” though not yet extinguished. The task force would not be permitted to examine the wreckage for at least another hour. Delgado took the opportunity to drive to Cedars-Sinai and look in on Wendy. She was pale and thin, her hands bandaged, her eyes too large for her face. He thought she was lovely.
He wanted to hold her in his arms, but he contented himself with merely taking her hand lightly in his. For now, that was enough. For now.
Smiling slightly, pleased to find himself in a world where the Gryphon was dead and Wendy Alden was alive, Delgado arrived at the 2100 block of Nichols Canyon Road. He threaded his Caprice through a corridor of parallel- parked TV vans and came to a stop at the cordon sealing off Jeffrey Pellman’s house.
Inside, he found Frommer and the SID team still methodically bagging and tagging. Frommer seemed more irritated than usual, perhaps because he’d worked three crime scenes in the last twenty-four hours, but more likely because none of the physical evidence he’d collected had played the slightest role in the Gryphon’s demise.
From the kitchen Delgado heard the familiar voices of the task-force detectives. If they were back, then they must have completed their rounds, which meant they had located the car. From the license number, the Gryphon’s identity could easily be traced. At his home, the heads of his victims would be found. The last pieces of the puzzle would snap into place.
Delgado entered the kitchen and saw the eleven investigators scattered around the large sunlit room. He sensed their moody restlessness at once, even before Donna Wildman spoke.
“Bad news, Seb.”
His gut tightened.
“What is it?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
“We checked out every car, truck, van, motor scooter, and tricycle within two miles of this location, and all the owners are accounted for.”
“Every vehicle.” Ted Blaise sighed. “Every goddamn one.”
“No,” Tallyman said. “There was one I didn’t check.” They all looked at him, and he smiled. “Cop humor.”
“Hilarious.” Wildman was not amused.
Neither was Delgado. He leaned against the refrigerator and rubbed his forehead. He was tired suddenly, more tired than he’d ever been.
“It doesn’t make sense,” he muttered. “The Gryphon must have had transportation to get here.”
“We were talking about that,” Jacobs said. “We came up with a few ideas.”
“Such as?”
“He might have lived in the area,” Robertson said. “Within walking distance. Then he wouldn’t have needed the car.”
Delgado grunted. “Pretty tall coincidence, don’t you think? He just happens to live a few blocks from the home of Miss Alden’s boyfriend?”
“Not necessarily,” Robertson persisted. “Maybe she used to come up here a lot, to be with this Pellman guy. If the Gryphon lived nearby, he would have seen her hanging around. That could be why he chose to go after her in the first place. And it would explain how he knew he’d find her here.”
“There’s no reason to think any of the other women ever came to this neighborhood.”
“This could be a special case.”
“It’s possible,” Delgado conceded. “But I still think it’s farfetched.”
“How about this?” Blaise offered. “Suppose he parked on a side street, and while he was otherwise occupied, the car got lifted.”
Delgado smiled without humor. “Now there’s a coincidence.”
“I admit that. But L.A.’s the car-theft capital of the world. And there are a lot of nice wheels garaged in these hills. You never know.”
“I’ll file that one under Improbable. Any other suggestions?”
“An accomplice,” Gardner said. “Let’s say the Gryphon worked with a friend. He parks, leaves the friend in the car, and when the friend hears sirens, he gets nervous and takes off.”
“Nearly all serial killers work alone,” Delgado said slowly. “And we have no indication of any teamwork in these killings.”
“Can’t rule it out, though. Remember Bianchi and Buono.”
“I acknowledge the possibility. Tommy. But I’m still not convinced.”
Gardner shrugged, not pressing the point. “So what do you think?”
“Perhaps…” Delgado hesitated, superstitiously reluctant to voice this thought and somehow make it real. “Perhaps the Gryphon took the car himself. Perhaps he didn’t die in the crash after all.”
“No way,” Robertson objected. “The explosion-”
Delgado cut him off. “If the gas tank wasn’t badly ruptured, he might have escaped from the car before it blew. In which case he’s still out there, and…”
His words trailed away.
He was picturing Wendy in her bed, protected only by hospital security. Protected from the media, from tabloid journalists, nothing worse.
He reached for the wall-mounted kitchen phone. His radio handset would be more direct, but reporters would be monitoring the police bands, and he preferred to keep this communication confidential.
“What is it, Seb?” Wildman asked as Delgado punched in the number of the dispatch center in downtown L.A.
“I’m sending a uniform to pick up Miss Alden at the hospital right now, whether the doctors are through with her or not, and move her to the West L.A. station. I want a hundred cops around that woman-hell, a thousand of them-until we figure out what in God’s name is going on.”
21
Shortly after Delgado left, a doctor examined Wendy, looking her over like a mechanic inspecting a damaged
