'Grow up, Shane. It's a media case in a media town. Once this stuff gets into the news, we can't stonewall. If we try, all they do is start putting pressure on politicians, who in turn, threaten us. The trick is to find the right balance. Give the press just enough to keep them cool.'
'And when you can't hold 'em off anymore, you form a bullshit task force.'
It sounded accusatory, and she turned to study me more carefully, those big, beautiful eyes suddenly hard and speculative. 'You have something more to tell me, don't you?'
'Yeah. If you form a task force it's a vote of no confidence in me and Zack. You put me on this and I want some damn protection.'
She remained silent, so I argued my case. 'You know task forces are bullshit. They obstruct the sharing of information. The feds always show up and you know what happens when we invite the big feet from the Eye into our tent. They end up running the show.'
'Shane, in the long run, it's not going to be my call. It's Tony's.'
'You're the head of the Detective Bureau. I've seen you go up against Tony and win. Don't hide behind him.'
'He's the one the press is gonna skin, not me. If we set up a task force, it gives the news people something to write about. It looks proactive. While we're setting it up and getting it organized, it buys a week.'
'And in the meantime, the case gets trashed.'
'Then solve the thing, Shane. You've been on it for almost two months. Solve it and take us both out of this jackpot.'
It was heating up. Our voices were rising in the cold night air, floating across the Venice canals. Our neighbors were probably rolling over in bed and muttering, 'Those damn Scullys are at it again.'
'Even Cal doesn't want you to form a task force. He says it's gonna bitch up the investigation.'
'So I'm hiding behind Tony and you're hiding behind Cal.'
'I'm not hiding behind anybody, because I completely agree. We can solve it ourselves.'
'Okay. Then as long as we're on the subject of solving the case, maybe we ought to review it from an operational standpoint.'
'Operational?' I was lost. 'Okay, what's wrong operationally?'
'I'm hearing rumors that your partner is a problem.' 'Look, Alexa, my partner is my business.'
'You're sitting here giving me grief about setting up a task force while you're investigating the biggest case we've had in ten years with a fall-down drunk. Maybe that's why we're not getting anywhere.'
'Too many lies and loose bullshit gets passed around your floor at Parker Center,' I shot back. 'My partner's problems are his and mine. We'll deal with it.'
'Okay, then just look me in the eye and tell me he's not fucking up.'
She was angry. But she was also right and she was under a lot of pressure from Tony. She had recommended me for this case and after seven weeks I was nowhere. Since my position on Zack was untenable, I did what most outflanked husbands do. I got pissed off.
'People go through tough periods,' I almost shouted. 'God knows I did, and Zack was the one who. .'
'I don't want to hear about how Zack saved you back in the day! I'm talking about now. Four men are dead and if this fourth John Doe is a copycat, then the only clues we have on this damn serial murder case in seven weeks just evaporated.' She threw her empty beer into the trash can next to the barbeque. 'So tell me, Shane, is this guy the problem?'
'No, dammit! He's not the problem. You're the problem! You and all the other backstabbers at Parker Center.'
I got up and stalked into the house, immediately feeling like a total ass. She wasn't the problem. Zack was. And I was, for protecting him.
I went into the den, picked up the murder book and angrily flipped it open. Proving Alexa's point, the binder was a complete mess. Things were filed wrong. The initial victim, whom I had named Woody after finding him in the wash at the Woodman Avenue overpass, had one of John Doe Number Three's crime scene photos pasted in his section by mistake. The section on John Doe Number Three, dubbed Cole for Colfax Avenue, was also a mess. Alexa and Cal were right. Zack was just going through the motions. He didn't give a damn. In fact, he was screwing up evidence.
I sat in the den and worked for almost two hours, reorganizing and bringing the murder book up to date. Some of it I had to do from memory because the transcriptions of our original crime scene audio tapes were missing. Fortunately, I'd held on to the cassettes. If Zack couldn't produce the transcripts, I'd have to get them redone. When I finished, I thought it was about 90 percent accurate. There was still paperwork missing that I'd have to look for in the morning.
I closed the book and went down the hall to our bedroom. Alexa was already in bed. I took off my clothes and lay down beside her. It was dark, but I knew she was awake.
After a long moment, she spoke softly. 'I'll do the best I can to hold off the task force. And I'll leave Zack up to you unless it becomes impossible.'
What more could I ask?
Then she rolled over and took me into her arms. 'Because I know a man with good work ethics and a sense of the team is going to take care of business.' Using Pete Carroll's words.
What do you say to a woman like that?
I guess you say, I'm sorry, I was wrong. So after a short internal struggle, that's what I did.
I lay in the warmth of my wife's arms and thought about that. Pete Carroll said you win by depending on your teammates. But how could I depend on Zack?
Before I fell asleep, I remembered Cindy's translation of the old Cyrillic warning.
Don't wake up, the tattoos cautioned.
Chapter 9
It poured down rain during the night. I heard it hitting the roof of our house around 3 A. M. banging loudly in the downspouts. By morning the storm had passed and L. A. was reborn and washed clean. The air had a brisk crispness, all too rare in this city of fumes.
As I drove from Venice across town to the Glass House, I decided to take a detour and stop by the city forensic facility on Ramirez Street. The crime lab is a very busy place, and even though I was working a red ball that should be afforded top priority, sometimes people make strange choices. One of my jobs as primary investigator was to make sure my Fingertip murder got the proper attention. Sometimes, by just showing up with a box of Krispy Kremes, you can work wonders.
I stopped at a mini-market just before getting on the I-10 freeway and bought two dozen, then drove up the ramp and joined a long line of angry freeway commuters who were bumper-to-bumpering their way to work. My lane mates were holding their steering wheels in death grips, their faces scowling masks of anger. The frustration all of us accumulated on the 10 would be dutifully passed along to our coworkers, who would take it out on their subordinates. This domino effect of bad traffic karma would kill working environments all over town until noon.
I inched along past Wilshire Boulevard, and tried to stifle my frustration by running through a list of more pressing problems. Alexa, Cal, and Tony didn't want Forrest to be a copycat because that body gave everyone hope. The department could slip into waitand-see mode and pray Zack and I would turn something. But since I was pretty sure Forrest was not part of the Fingertip case, it was just a head feint for the press. Eventually, we'd have to own up to that fact, and when we did, we'd undoubtedly get a task force, including a contingent from the FBI. The feebs like to bill themselves as experts in serial crime. After all, they have an Academy Award-winning movie starring Anthony Hopkins and Jodie Foster to prove it.
All of this made me hate the driver of the blue Corvette in front of me. These assholes in my lane didn't know who they were dealing with. I was pissed off and I was packing.
At 9:40 I finally made it to Ramirez Street and parked in the underground garage at the municipal crime lab. I took the elevator to the third floor and asked the girl on the desk if either Cindy Clark or Mike Menninger were in. A minute later Cindy came out. She was a sweet-faced, slightly round girl with the thick Texas accent I remembered.
