some unwary schmuck how he likes clubbing defenseless baby seals.”
“You don’t like me much, do you?”
“What’s to like?”
Something flickered in Lauren’s eyes, something I couldn’t decipher. She glanced away before I could nail it down. When she turned back, it was gone.
“Let me tell you something,” she went on, her voice hardening. “I’ve been scrambling all my life. I got where I am because I’m willing to do whatever it takes to get a story, even if it means stepping on a few toes. Maybe even a whole roomful of toes. And if I wind up offending a couple chauvinist pricks like you in the process- tough.”
“Nice speech, Van Owen. Did you practice it in the mirror?”
Lauren’s cheeks flushed. “You can be a real bastard, Kane.”
“There’re plenty who would agree with you on that.”
“You realize we’re not all that different, you and I.”
“Excuse me?” I said. “To the untrained ear, it sounded like you just said we have something in common.”
“We do. You think what you’re doing is important. Well, I feel the same about my job. Like you, I work a twenty-five-hour-a-day job that’s never done, busting my hump doing more than any other three people combined-all the while taking orders from higher-ups with half my ability.” Lauren gazed at me angrily, then shifted gears. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not complaining. I love what I do, but it’s cost me. I’m a single mother with no social life and a few more wrinkles than I had last year, a three-bedroom condo with a leaky roof and a big mortgage, and a nine-year-old daughter I don’t have time for. Sometimes I get up in the morning and wonder what I’m doing with my life. Sound familiar?”
When I didn’t respond, Lauren continued. “I’ll level with you. This story is my ticket to network. I want it so bad I can taste it.”
“Yeah? What’s it taste like?”
Lauren smiled. “Chicken.” Then, more seriously, “Look, when this is over, I could be in Washington, maybe New York. But I need an angle. Network is sending their top guys down here to cover the story. Unless I come up with a lock on this thing-something they don’t have or can’t get-I’ll get lost in the shuffle.”
“Van Owen, I don’t understand why you’re telling me this. Just because you have problems, you expect me to be your source?”
“No. At least not the way you think.”
“What, then? You know that all task force releases have to go through channels. Some pencil pusher named Snead is the unit’s sole news liaison. Even if I wanted to, which I don’t, I couldn’t help.”
“What’s Snead like?” asked Lauren, playing for time. “Off the record.”
“Off the record? Grab a dictionary and look up dickhead.”
Lauren smiled again, then said, “Listen, I don’t have it all worked out yet, but if these murders continue, there’ll be a news blitz like you won’t believe.”
Again I didn’t respond. Unfortunately, I knew she was right.
“And if the killings aren’t stopped, heads will roll.”
“What are you getting at, Van Owen?”
“I’m saying that if things get nasty, it might be helpful for you to have a friend in the media. And vice versa.”
“You scratch my back, I scratch yours?”
“Something like that. What do you say?”
Without answering, I opened my car door and slid behind the wheel. I started the engine, but before pulling away, I rolled down my window. “I’ll think about it,” I said for the second time that morning. “It won’t make any difference, but I’ll think about it.”
11
She was magnificent. Jewels of sweat sparkled on her chest and shoulders, staining her leotard in revealing patches from breasts to abdomen. She had a dancer’s body: long, shapely legs, small breasts, and lean, muscular arms. Weeks earlier she’d cut her hair in a medium-length pageboy, and as she moved, her honey-colored locks rose and fell like golden wings. Her stunningly beautiful face was set in concentration as she exercised with others in the aerobics class, her expression betraying nothing of her thoughts. But occasionally, if he watched closely, he could see her lips lifting in a fleeting smile as she found her image in the mirror.
Proud of her body, he thought, watching from the second-floor observation balcony. And with good reason.
Newport Beach Family Fitness, once a racquetball club, had been converted to a gym and aerobics center after the original establishment failed. Two center courts had been combined to form an exercise studio, but the sixteen-foot-high glass walls and an observation deck at the back still remained, providing a perfect vantage from which he had studied her for weeks. And over those weeks, while standing unnoticed, he had learned much about her.
He knew she finger-combed her hair from her forehead when pensive, pursed her lips in a pout when irritated, glanced at her ostentatiously large wedding ring when bored. Despite her pride in her figure, he knew from observing her with others that she didn’t like to be touched. He knew her schedule, her clothes, her car- everything but where she lived. And before long he would know that, too.
He had followed her on a number of occasions, even before she’d been chosen. Each time, as she had turned at last for home, he had been stopped short of his goal.
Does everyone in this city live behind one of those ridiculous security gates?
Turning from the glass, he pressed his thumbs to his temples, recalling the frustration of seeing her pass the guard station into her Spyglass Hill development. Although getting past the gate presented little difficulty, doing so while following her was another story.
No matter, he thought. There are other ways.
Her class would be over in minutes. On Tuesdays she showered at the gym before driving to the school on San Joaquin Hills Road to pick up her children. He checked his watch, deciding he could take a steam bath and still be outside in time. He stared through the glass several seconds more, then decided that today was too important to leave anything to chance. Today he would talk with her. Maybe even touch her.
Whistling happily, Victor Carns headed downstairs.
Julie Welsh stopped on the health-club steps, rummaging through her purse for her keys. Irritated, she pawed through a jumble of tissues, makeup, and a handful of change. Giving up, she pushed a damp lock from her forehead, trying to remember where she had last seen them. Her locker? No, after showering she’d checked, making sure the locker was empty. The car? Oh, please God, not the car. The last time she’d locked her keys in the BMW, it had taken hours to get a locksmith, not to mention the expense. Worse, later that evening she’d had to suffer another infuriating lecture from her husband on the value of organization.
“Ah, there you are,” she said aloud, pulling a bulky key ring from her jacket pocket. She smiled, relieved she wouldn’t be butting heads with Wes again over what he termed her habitual lapses of memory.
Keys in hand, Julie hurried down the steps. Barring unforeseen delays, she would just be able to pick up Heather and Brian and make it to their orthodontic appointment on time. Barely. Upon arriving at the parking lot, however, she found a dark-haired man leaning against her car.
“Excuse me, is this your BMW?” the man asked politely. “I’m afraid I’ve damaged it.”
“What?”
The man smiled apologetically, using an expensive-looking gym bag to indicate a scrape behind the BMW’s left rear wheel. “I was backing out and clipped the fender,” he said. “Is this your car?”
Julie nodded, bending to examine the damage.
“I’m terribly sorry. Naturally, my insurance will cover the cost of repair.”
