just so we could nail him. That is the warped agony of the serial crimes investigator: sometimes the only way to move forward is for the offender to do it again.
While Devon’s office pursued their sources, I pounded Jason Ripley with e-mails and phone messages until finally he agreed to meet in the park where the body had been found.
It was a Saturday, ten days after the crime scene had been released, which meant the tennis courts were busy and slow-pitch softball games back in play. Jason could have been another gangly new dad coming through the crowded picnic area in which every table held a different multiethnic birthday party, scrawny ficus trees enveloped by a haze of smoking hamburgers and roasting skewers of yakitori and chorizo.
When we made eye contact, instead of breaking into the usual shy-but-eager grin, Jason ducked his head deeper under the bill of his cap.
“How’s it going?” he asked somberly.
“It’s going.”
“Sorry for your troubles.”
I nodded. He put a running shoe up on the seat of the picnic table, and we stood there awkwardly. What I really wanted was a big soft hug.
“So,” rubbing his farmer’s freckled hands together, “how can I help?”
I squinted over the acres of playing fields to the small, twisted procession of river oaks and what had been hidden there, diagonally across from tables full of toddlers reaching eagerly for birthday cake.
“Let’s take a walk.”
Jason glanced at the site uneasily. “I’ve got to get back to the office, got a ton of three-oh-twos.”
“Sure,” I said, surprised to feel how much his terseness stung. “What are we getting from the lab?”
“In terms of what?”
“Cause of death?”
“Haven’t gotten the autopsy results.”
“Why not?”
“Backed up, as usual.”
“Give me a break, it’s a high-profile case.”
“All I can tell you is what they tell me.”
“I like it,” nodding with mock approval. “Where did you learn to put on the spin?”
Jason reddened.
“Okay, then, what’s the buzz? No reason we can’t gossip, talk about what you’re hearing in the halls.”
“The buzz is sexual assault.”
“Any links to Brennan?”
“Nothing confirmed.”
“If there were,” I asked with a tight smile, “would you tell me?”
“Ana, you know, I’m kind of in a tough position here.”
“Where? Who’s listening?”
An ice cream truck had backed into the picnic area piping idiotic circus music over and over.
“I just can’t …” His lips curled in against his teeth, a sign of refusal if there ever was one. “I just …”
“You feel disloyal because you’re talking to me? About our own case?”
“It’s not exactly your case,” he muttered, “or mine, really, anymore—”
“I’m only on suspension.”
“But if you go to trial …”
“If I go to trial that’s another deal, but meanwhile, girls are getting murdered and what the hell is the Bureau doing about it? That’s what I want to know. What is the status? Because I learned from experience that when the lead agent doesn’t keep the pressure on, the whole thing evaporates. So is anyone still tracking Brennan? Is anyone going to put this case next to the Santa Monica kidnapping and the hits we got in VICAP — Washington, Florida and Texas — or, when there’s
“It’s not about me, it’s about the Bureau. You want to be loyal to the Bureau, help me keep working this case, because all indications are this guy is into a cycle of repeating.”
“We don’t even know if it’s Brennan,” Jason began.
I found myself rubbing my face all over with my fingertips, like putting on cold cream or taking off a mask.
“So why did you come here? To tell me you can’t tell me anything?”
“I came because I like you,” he blurted. Then, “I don’t know what went on with you and your boyfriend — I’m just hoping it all works out for you in the end.”
“And …?”
“And … nothing.”
He was leaning one forearm on the bent knee that was up on the table, looking at me sideways, trying to hide behind the green sunglasses.
I waited.
“They want you to back off,” he said finally. “They want you to go away. You shot a cop, no matter what the circumstances.” He added quickly, “You’re a problem, and they want it gone.”
“Is this a message from Rick?”
“I’m just trying to explain why I can’t share information. I know you care a thousand percent, but until your court case is resolved — and believe me, everyone is pulling for you — it’s just too political.”
The guise was gone, as Jason seemed to vent on behalf of the whole field office. “We’ve got so much shit coming down. Bank robberies are up, the spy scandal, the ‘alleged terrorist’ who died in custody, the ‘misplaced’ assault rifles — how could that happen? Hackers busting into our secure files. Everywhere you look, the Bureau is taking another hit.” “Can we get away from this clown music?” I said of the ice cream truck. “It’s driving me nuts.”
The young agent straightened up. “I’ve got to get back to the office.”
I put my bag on my shoulder.
“What about Brennan?”
“Brennan is over,” Jason said firmly. “We recovered the victim of the Santa Monica kidnapping,” holding up a hand to stop my protest. “That was our job. We did our job. If the locals want our cooperation, cool, but it’s their homicide. That’s how the brass sees it.” “How do you see it?”
Jason shrugged. “I feel for you. I feel for the girl. It’s hard.”
“You know, we’re about ten blocks from Brennan’s apartment,” I said after a little while. “I drove through the neighborhood on the way over. Strange mix. You’ve got the old abandoned houses, the apartment buildings … I’d love to talk to Mrs. Santos after this,” nodding toward the oak trees. “See how safe she feels right now for Roxy.” Jason’s foot thumped, but he did not take the bait. He was changing. I had actually watched him change, that was the amazing thing, like all the new agents who come in looking like Clark Kent until they realize all those other Clark Kents are getting in the way. The ginger-haired little boy had grown up.
“Remember what we talked about? Proving yourself?” I asked. “It’s hard these days, even knowing how. What’s important? What’s political? Are you the good son who’s loyal to the organization, or do you go out on a limb for what you believe? Don’t worry about it, Jason. Either way, you’ve got a great career ahead of you. Two different paths, is all.” “That’s not
I walked toward the parking lot, past an empty swimming pool and a brand-new roller-hockey rink. It must have been a youth league tournament because the bleachers were filled with cheering parents on their feet with fervor and excitement; the high protective mesh strung with red, white and blue balloons.
Is this Dr. Arnie, the mad magician of Fullerton? Hi! It’s Ana Grey!”
I was lounging at the white umbrella table in Mike Donnato’s backyard, sipping a mint-flavored
