“What do you know about his tats?” I said.
“Serious religious shit,” Boz answered. “Says he found Jesus after he ran away from home, and now he’s living among the poor, spreading the word. But this guy is more Charles Manson than Jesus. I think he uses the tats to convince his customers he’s pure of heart. But all you gotta do is look in his eyes to see that the elevator to paradise went the wrong way.”
Bandoni leaned back in his chair and planted his hands on his ample gut. “What about the other guy? Street Cred. What’s his story?”
Cooper tapped a key again. Kelly’s picture was replaced by that of another white guy, this one with a vacant expression and a green rooster tail. “This picture’s a year old. William Patterson’s story’s pretty much like Kelly’s, except he didn’t run away until he was seventeen, which was six years ago. Rap sheet’s a little shorter than his buddy’s, probably ’cause he hasn’t been on the road as long. Other than that and the green hair, Patterson is Kelly’s clone. Don’t let that dumber-than-shit expression confuse you. Guy’s as nasty as they come. And street smart. Thus the name.”
“Noah Asher took a lot of photos of gutter punks,” I said. “You hear anything on the street about somebody wanting to turn these kids’ stories into a graphic novel?”
“Me, no,” Cooper said. “Boz?”
“Nope. But if he crossed paths with Damn Fox while he was walking among the lepers, it wouldn’t surprise me if Kelly decided to cut him down. Kelly considers a lot of these kids his, doesn’t want anyone else messing with them. Especially if it means losing customers.”
“What about this? You seen a tat like this anywhere?” I showed them the tattoo of the shepherd’s crook inside the triangle. The men looked at it but shook their heads.
“That was on your victim?” Boz asked.
“That one was voluntary,” I said. “These weren’t.”
I laid the autopsy photos on the table one by one. The strange symbol. The words about betrayal and blood as the life of the flesh.
Boz whistled. “That’s some nasty shit.”
Bandoni opened another soda. “You seen stuff like this before?”
“Nah,” Cooper said. “But we can ask around about that, too.”
“Just between us chickens, though,” Bandoni said.
Cooper nodded.
We spent the next fifteen minutes planning our strategy. According to Boz and Cooper, Leopard’s Den would be a zoo, even with the forecasted crappy weather—Kill the Normies was a popular band. Approaching Damn Fox and Street Cred inside the club was too risky. Things could easily go sideways, especially given that most of the patrons would not be pro-police.
“Best thing to do,” Cooper said, “is wait until the dickwads go outside to take a piss or have a smoke. Boz and I can let you know when we’ve got eyes on them, send you a photo if the guys have changed their appearance. Then you nail ’em on some bullshit charge like urinating in public.”
“While we,” Boz said, “simply melt away.”
With a little over an hour before we were due to head out, Bandoni said he had to run an errand. He looked bad—gray and puffy, beads of sweat at his hairline. Like a guy with a 3:00 a.m. hangover who’d just been force-fed a plate of habanero chilies. I hoped he was actually heading out to steal a nap in his car.
Clyde and I walked across the plaza to drop off the Barbie doll at the crime lab, then returned to headquarters and took the stairs up to the detectives’ room. Unlike the day before, business was booming, and Bandoni was the only investigator missing from our squad. Clyde got scattered cheers as we entered the room.
Detective Clark peered around his desk partition. “Hey, Parnell, he your date for tonight?”
“Beauty and the Beast,” Gorman said. He put down his fly-fishing magazine and blew a kiss to Clyde. “How you doing there, beauty?”
Gorman was the incompetent cop who’d taken part of the credit for Cohen’s work and mine in a previous case. I was Gorman’s Achilles’ heel—one of the few who knew the truth about what had gone down six months ago.
Clark shook his head. “Gorman, you shouldn’t try to put the moves on Clyde like that.”
Cue general laughter.
“Then again,” said another detective, “Clyde’s a hell of a lot better than some of the dogs I’ve seen him out with.”
More laughter.
“Fuck you guys,” Gorman said.
“Swearing on the floor,” Clark said. “What the fuck?”
“Gorman,” I said. “You check the tattoo book yet?”
“I’m working on it.”
I looked at the fly-fishing magazine. “How about you work a little harder?”
A chorus of oohs bounced around the room. Clark grabbed his balls and turned away.
Gorman and I locked eyes, and the look he gave me made me feel like I was staring down the barrel of an RPG. I almost laughed. Can’t scare a Marine with that shit. I smiled, and after a moment he spun on his heel and returned to his desk.
“Looks like Gorman’s not going to get any tonight,” Clark said.
“He’ll be fine,” called another detective. “There’s a kid on the street corner with free puppies.”
With the guys sidetracked razzing Gorman, I got Clyde comfortable, then powered up my computer, plugged in my headphones, and started dialing, my notebook and pen to hand.
We’d gotten the warrants for the phone and credit-card records, so I made the calls and requested records going back ninety days. I was promised I’d have them by noon the next day.
The next call was to a friend of mine in the FBI. I hoped Mac McConnell could tell me if it was even possible to
