Bleeding Out

should plaster this guy's image all over L.A. We'll need extra staffing just to handle phone calls on that, and then we're going to need help following up on all the leads.'

Foubarelle was nodding as if his neck had just gone elastic.

'Do we know what the perp looks like?'

'Maybe. The wit didn't actually see the assault go down, but he saw a man who fits our description peeking into the women's room right around the time the rape went down.'

The captain's face clouded. The DA would throw that back in their face like spit in a headwind. Frank explained it was the best lead they had and that she didn't intend to use the witness as supporting evidence.

'And this is going to raise a shit storm, but we need to get the physical evidence from the two prior murders transferred into our custody. The forensic work was minimal on each of the cases, and I'm going to submit them for everything. I hope we can pull some DNA off their clothes that will match what we've got. If we could get a fire under CCPD's ass, that'd be helpful.'

'I'll make some phone calls,' Foubarelle said pompously, adding, 'I know you're going to burn me for overtime on this. Aren't you?'

Frank shrugged. 'It's your call, but more people makes better odds.'

'Alright. How soon do you think we can get this wrapped up?'

Her wooden expression didn't change, but Frank wondered if Foubarelle had just dropped down into his seat from Mars.

'I really can't say, John.'

'Give me an estimate,' he wheedled.

She knew he wanted a number for the press. 'I can't. We could get a call right now from someone who turns us on to the guy, or we might look for years and never catch him.'

'Never is not an option, Frank.'

'All I'm saying is I can't tell you we'll have a suspect in custody by noon next week. We're doing the best we can with what we've got. Get the extra personnel, get the perp visible, show people we're moving on this, and it'll look good.'

Being a man who easily confused sound and motion for action, Foubarelle liked that.

'Alright. You'll get your people. What else?'

She wanted to say, 'A boatload of luck,' but answered instead, 'Dedicated hot line.'

Foubarelle nodded, jotting a note.

Joe Girardi, her predecessor, had fought tooth and nail with the previous captain, and even though Foubarelle didn't know shit about homicide investigation, Frank had to grudgingly admit he knew how to pull strings to get what he wanted. Especially if he was in peril of looking bad. She played on that fear of his, and it usually gave her what she wanted—case resolutions—and that made Foubarelle a happy man.

Leaving his office, Frank wondered why she didn't feel more victorious. In the squad room she told her detectives to have a good weekend because they were going to be spending the rest of their careers going door to door in Culver City.

A couple of hours after their shift ended, Noah and Frank were creeping along Manchester Boulevard. An injury accident had shut down two lanes of traffic on Florence, and Manchester was getting clogged with the overflow.

The detectives were on their way to interview the last rape victim. Five out of the eight families had consented to having their daughters reinterviewed, which Frank considered pretty good odds. If the testimony of the remaining victim was similar to that of the other girls, it would corroborate what they already knew: it was looking more and more like the same man was responsible for both the rapes and murders.

But where are you?

Frank had taken to spending downtime inside this guy's head.

She'd fallen asleep last night on the couch in the den, imagining him lurking in the park, patiently waiting for just the right girl to hit on. While Noah drove, Frank again indulged in her new pastime.

We've established a lack of confidence, so you're probably not going to be economically successful. But you do have a car. Have to the way you're moving these girls around. It's probably an older car, a practical model. You're a young man, so maybe it's your parents' car. Probably not a sibling's car— that would be harder to get hold of. You need more dependable wheels. We've ruled out friends and girlfriends. I bet you're a loner, that you spend more time with fantasies than people—

'Hey,' Noah interrupted, 'did I tell you Les made two jump-shots last night?'

It took Frank a moment to pull her thoughts together.

'What?' she asked, rather dreamily, and Noah cut her a quick glance.

'Are you alright?'

'Yeah. Why?'

'I don't know. You look...weird.'

She ignored him even though she felt weird. Frank was trying to clear her head by studying the two men in the car next to her. A song with a hard bass line beat inside their car. She wondered what percentage of hearing loss they were incurring. The driver felt her staring and turned to glare. Frank's arm was resting out the open window, and the driver rolled his window down too.

'What you lookin' at, bitch?'

He had two blue teardrops under one eye and a partially shaved head with a gang tat on the back. Frank grinned widely, showing teeth, and smoothly pulled her hand in under her jacket. The cholo must not have liked what he saw in Frank's eyes because he just sneered and looked ahead, but he made sure to roll his window up.

'Friend of yours?'

'They're all my friends, No. I'm sworn to protect and to serve.'

Practice hadn't gone well, and his father had snarled at him all the way home.

'You think you're smarter than me now, don't you?'

'No, sir.'

'Think you know more than your old man?'

'No, sir.'

'Well I'm not too old to take you on and you're not too big.'

They pulled into the garage. His father tossed the keys at him.

'Wait for me in the office,' he growled before slamming into the house.

Had it not been for dread, the boy wouldn't have felt anything as he dragged himself into the little locked room. He'd stopped crying years ago and had never imagined fighting. His father joined him after ten long minutes, his scowl replaced by an excruciating smirk.

13

Richard Clay welcomed Frank with a gentle handshake and an honest, open appraisal. Frank respected Clay. He'd been with the Behavioral Science unit for a long time and knew a lot. Unlike some of the other head-shrinkers who were just crawling toward their pensions, Clay was genuinely helpful.

'I appreciate your time, Dick.'

'This sounds like an interesting fellow you're chasing. I'm curious to see what you've got on him.'

'Well, not much. That's part of the problem.'

Frank outlined their perp's MO, showed Clay all their photographs, and briefly justified her reasons for tying the eight rapes and four murders to the same perp. He asked a few questions, then took his time studying the information.

Clay was soft-spoken, and Frank had been sitting on the edge of her chair to hear what he said. Now she relaxed, absently observing him. Although Clay was close to retiring, he looked fit and wiry. Trim white hair encircled a tan bald spot. His eyes, behind wire-framed granny glasses, were warm and dark. Frank had consulted with him before and enjoyed his thoughtful collaboration. As was his habit, he wiggled a pen through his fingers like a drum majorette manipulating a baton. Frank wondered if he did magic tricks for the grandchildren lined up in photos on his windowsill.

After examining the data, he cleared his throat and proceeded to quietly enumerate his thoughts. He corroborated Frank's theory that their man didn't have a lot of confidence, ticking his justifications off on his fingers.