up.”
Hesitantly, Mrs. Baker rose to her feet.
“The guy introduced himself to you at the desk,” I said, releasing her hand and moving closer. “How near was he? Closer than this?”
Mrs. Baker shifted uncomfortably. “I… about like that.”
“Close enough to smell. Did he have on cologne? Maybe he had bad breath, body odor?”
“Uh, he was wearing cologne, I think. Old Spice. My husband uses it.”
“I’m a bit over six-three and weigh around two-fifteen. Was the guy bigger or smaller than me?”
“Smaller. I had to look up at him, but not much. And I wasn’t wearing heels.”
“That would make him around five-eleven, maybe six feet,” I said, gauging Mrs. Baker’s height. “How about his build? Fat, skinny, muscular?”
“Not as muscular as you. But strong. You know, wiry.”
“So let’s put him in the one seventy-five to one ninety range. You said he introduced himself. Did he shake your hand?”
“Yes. He did.”
“Like this?” I took her hand again, swallowing it in mine. “Think back. Anything you can recall might help. How did his hand feel? Hard? Soft?”
“He… he had on workout gloves. I remember thinking it was rude of him not to take them off.”
“Keep going.”
“His hand was smaller than yours. He had a limp, creepy grip, as if he were afraid of hurting me if he squeezed too hard. Not like you,” she added pointedly.
“What about his voice? Loud, soft? Any accent?”
“He talked softly, which I thought was unusual for someone his size. No accent.”
“Scars, marks, distinguishing features?”
“I didn’t see any.”
“Age?”
“About like you. Maybe a few years younger.”
Releasing her hand, I stepped even closer. “Look at me and pretend I’m the guy. Did you see his eyes?”
“Briefly,” said Mrs. Baker, thinking back. “They were dark. Like his hair.”
“Could his hair have been dyed?”
“Now that you mention it, I did notice something about it that didn’t seem quite right.”
“Anything else?”
“Just that there was an intensity about him that made me feel uncomfortable. Like now.”
“Sorry.” I took a step back and shoved my hands into my pockets. “Sometimes it helps to remember if you go through it again. You did well.”
“Thanks. I think.”
“I’d like you to come downtown and work with a police artist, see whether we can come up with a sketch of the man who followed you. Would you do that for us?”
“Now?”
“Right now.”
Distractedly, Mrs. Baker ran her fingers through her hair. “Someone’s supposed to come out this afternoon to change the locks. I guess I could call and reschedule. I’ll have to make arrangements for somebody to be here when Kyle gets home, too.”
“Make your calls,” I said. “We’ll wait outside. You can ride in with us. I’ll have someone drive you back when you’re done.”
“Okay. I’ll be out in a minute.” Mrs. Baker hesitated, clearly disturbed by the interview. “Detective Kane?”
“What?”
“If this is the same man who followed me, do you think he’ll come back?”
“I don’t want to alarm you,” I said. “But if it is the same guy, I think he might. In fact, I’m counting on it.”
“I don’t believe this!” Lieutenant Snead fumed at Wednesday’s briefing. He had listened to my description of the interview with Maureen Baker, and it hadn’t set well. “Last time around, the killer never went near the Welshes’ garage,” he sputtered. “Plus, your Mrs. Baker said she could’ve left her garage open herself. Another thing-and I’m surprised I have to keep pointing this out-we have absolutely no proof the killer is reconnoitering scenes before the murders, so the whole B-and-E angle is probably a waste of time. What we do know about our guy is that he bumps victims’ cars to find out where they live. The man who followed Mrs. Baker didn’t do that.”
“It’s possible he only goes the accident route if following them home doesn’t pan out,” I countered. “Remember, all three murdered families so far lived behind security gates.”
“That may be, but you said Mrs. Baker ditched her persistent admirer in Beverly Hills,” Snead argued. “If he didn’t scrape her car and he didn’t follow her home, how’d he find her?”
“Deluca has something that bears on that.”
Snead turned to Deluca. “Is that so? Go ahead, Detective.”
“I checked with DMV,” said Deluca. “Two weeks back somebody ran a license plate trace on Mrs. Baker’s car.”
“A cop?”
“No. The request came from an attorney’s office in Santa Ana.” Deluca referred to his notes. “Donovan, Simon, and Kerr. Big firm, does personal injury stuff. They have a second office in LA and a third in San Diego. They say they don’t know anything about the trace.”
A detective in the back spoke up. “I thought private citizens couldn’t run DMV traces.”
“Ordinary citizens still can, but they’ve gotta show reason and fill out a rash of paperwork,” explained Deluca. “It takes weeks and the registered owner of the car gets notified first. But lawyers, private investigators, and a handful of other groups-account holders, they call them-have immediate access.”
“And the law firm says nobody in their offices authorized the request?”
“They admit somebody used their code and account number, but they say it wasn’t them. The attorney who supposedly made the request is on vacation in Hawaii. All three of their office locations are computer-linked over the phone lines. A technician I talked with over there thinks somebody hacked into their network. Right now they’re changing their passwords and access codes.”
“So failing plans A and B to locate victims, our killer is now employing plan C?” snorted Snead.
“ Somebody made that request,” I pointed out.
“Any chance of finding out who?” asked Lieutenant Huff.
“The computer nerd said anybody with computer skills could have broken into the system, especially if they already knew some of the codes,” Deluca answered.
“Like someone who worked there? Or maybe a client?”
“Right.”
“I suppose there’s no chance of getting a list of everybody associated with the law firm,” I said.
Snead shook his head. “No way. We don’t have enough for a warrant. Besides, there’s no evidence whatsoever tying the Baker break-in with the murders. We’re out in left field here.”
“I have a feeling about this, Lieutenant,” I said.
“We’re not running this investigation based on your feelings, Kane,” said Sneed. “Among other things, a pile of hotline leads has accumulated since the Welsh murders. We also have three community meetings scheduled, and we’ll need all our manpower to run down the results of those. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: This case will be closed through methodical investigative procedure, not leaps of faith.”
“Nonetheless, it wouldn’t hurt to put a surveillance team on the Baker residence,” offered Huff.
“I think so, too,” I agreed. “There’s a vacant house for sale right down the street. We could probably get permission to put a unit in there, and maybe post a mobile team down the block, another out back.”
