WE ARE STANDING in Street's apartment. Barry and I had watched as Alan continued to break Street down, inch by subtle inch. He was unable to get him to give up Jack Jr.'s identity, but he had given up everything else. How Jack had contacted him, how they picked their victims, other facts. He'd signed a confession and was a sweat-soaked, broken, blubbering mess by the time Alan left the interview room. Alan had destroyed him.
The dragon approved.
My cell phone rings. 'Barrett.'
'It's Gene, Smoky. I thought you'd want to know that Street's DNA is a match to the DNA found on Charlotte Ross's fingernail.'
'Thanks, Gene. That's good news.'
He pauses. 'Is Callie going to be okay?'
'I think so. We'll have to wait and see.'
He sighs. 'I'll let you go.'
'Bye.'
'Place is clean,' Alan notes.
I look around. He's right. Street's apartment is not just clean--it's spotless. It's the clean of the obsessive- compulsive. It's also devoid of personality. There are no pictures on the wall, not of Street or family or friends. No paintings or prints. The couch is functional. The coffee table is functional. The TV is small.
'Spartan,' I murmur.
We wander into the bedroom. Like the living room, it is spotless. The bedsheets are tight, the corners military-sharp. He has a single computer on a small desk facing the wall.
And then I see it. The one thing that's out of place here, that doesn't fit. A small locket, arranged with precision next to a college textbook. I bend over to get a closer look. It's a woman's locket, gold on a gold chain. I pick it up and open it. Inside is a miniature photo of a striking older woman. Someone's mother, I think.
'Pretty,' Alan remarks.
I nod. I put down the locket, open the textbook. It's a basic college English text. Inside is an inscription:
It's signed and dated.
'That's . . . what? Twenty-five years ago?'
I nod. My heartbeat is quickening. This is it. This is the key. This will show us his face.
I touch the book, running my fingers across the inscription. Perhaps it really will end up being magic.
51
I STAND AND listen to Alan. He's excited. I have the sense that everything is moving faster and faster, heated molecules coming to a slow but inexorable boil.
'We got a hit on VICAP with the name Renee Parker. A doozy.'
VICAP stands for Violent Criminal Apprehension Program. Conceived by an LAPD detective in 1957, it didn't become operational until 1985, when it was established at the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime at the FBI Academy. The concept is brilliant. It's a nationwide data center, designed to gather, collate, and analyze crimes of violence. With an emphasis on murder. Any and all information on both solved and unsolved cases can be supplied by any member of law enforcement participating, at whatever echelon. Taken as a whole, this mountain of information enables a nationwide cross-referencing of violent acts. He refers to the papers in his hand. 'It's an old case--twenty-five years ago. A stripper in San Francisco. Found strangled in an alleyway, and--get this--some of her organs were removed.'
My tiredness disappears in a flash. I feel as though I have just snorted caffeine. 'That has to be him. Has to be.'
'Yeah, and it gets better. They had a suspect at the time. They couldn't find enough evidence to make it stick.'
I jump up. 'Leo, you'll stay here to act as a contact and coordination point. James and Alan--let's go to San Francisco. Now.'
'Don't have to tell me twice,' Alan says, and we are moving toward the door, filled with a second wind concocted of adrenaline, excitement, and a little bit of fury. We get outside and I see Tommy, sitting in his car. Still and watchful.
'Give me a second,' I tell Alan and James. I walk over to the car. Tommy rolls down the window.
'What's happening?' he asks.
I tell him about the VICAP hit. 'We're going to San Fran now.'
'What do you want me to do?'
I give a smile, reach over and touch his cheek, once. 'Get some sleep.'
'Sounds good,' he replies. Mr. Laconic, as always. I turn to walk away. 'Smoky,' he says, stopping me. I look back at him. 'Be careful.'
I have time to see the worry in his eyes before he rolls up the window and drives away.
For some reason, Sally Field at the Oscars jumps into my mind.
'He likes me, he really, really likes me,' I murmur in falsetto. Hysterical bubbles.
52
THIS DREAM IS new. The past and the present have merged, have become one thing.
I am asleep in my bedroom when I hear a noise. Sounds of sawing, squishy sounds. I get up, heart beating fast, and grab my gun from the nightstand.
I pad through my door, weapon drawn, hands trembling at the thought of someone in my house.
The noises come from the living room. Cackles have been added to the sibilant squishes.
When I enter, he is there. I cannot see his face, for it is obscured by the bandages around his head. His lips are visible, and they are huge, bloated, red. His black eyes are flat and dead, like bits of burned skin.
'Do you see?' he whispers, snakelike.
I can't see what he's pointing to. The back of the couch is hiding it. A certainty begins to rise in me that I don't want to see. But I must.
I move forward, forward, forward.
'Do you see?' he whispers.
And I do.
She is lying on the couch. He has opened her from sternum to crotch, exposing her organs. Cemetery earth cakes her hair. And one grime-covered finger points at me.
'Your fault . . .' she croaks.
She is Alexa, and then she is Charlotte Ross, and then she is Annie.
'Why did you let him kill me?' Annie's face asks me, as she points, accusing. 'Why?'
The man with the bandaged face cackles. 'Do you see?' he whispers.
'Their dirty fingers. They point at you, forever.'
'Why?' she asks.
'Do you see?' he whispers.
I jolt awake. The cabin of the jet is quiet and shadowed. James and Alan are dozing.
I look out the passenger window to the cold dark night and shiver. Dirty fingers. No need to search for symbolism there. I feel them always, pointing at me from the grave. The ones I did not save.
I'd called Jenny Chang at SFPD from the plane, and she is waiting for us.
'I'm not your friend anymore,' she says, tapping her watch to indicate the early hour.
'Sorry, Jenny. Things are pretty fucked up.' I fill her in on Callie. Her lips tighten into a straight, angry line.
