a napkin. “This is my cell number, along with my phone number and extension in the newsroom,” she said, passing me the pen and napkin. “If I’m not answering my cell, they’ll know how to contact me.”
“I don’t mind telling you, Van Owen, it’ll take a while getting used to the idea of hopping into bed with the media.”
Lauren grinned. “You’ll live. Who knows? You might even like it.”
“I doubt that.”
“We’ll see. By the way, your bedroom metaphor reminds me of something you said earlier.”
“What?”
“Intriguing image.”
At a table thirty feet away, Victor Carns sipped a steaming caffe latte. Occasionally he stole a glance across the restaurant, watching the couple in the back. It had taken a moment to recognize the large, rough-looking man as the detective he had seen weeks back on TV. Although Carns had noted something disturbingly familiar about the man when he had first entered the lobby, he hadn’t put it together until he’d noticed the cop showing a sheet of paper to the boy at the reception desk.
Something unrelated? he wondered.
No. Too coincidental. What was his name-Kane-had somehow discovered the health club connection.
Carns took another sip of coffee, wishing he could get a look at the sheet the detective had left at the desk.
Too risky.
Briefly he considered moving to a closer table and attempting to overhear their conversation.
Also too risky.
Carns chanced another furtive glance, finally placing the woman. Lauren Van Owen, Action News at Five. Puzzled, he watched a little longer to be sure, detecting something intimate in the way she looked at Kane when she thought she wasn’t being observed.
Why would a cop be having a private tete-a-tete with a reporter? An affair… or something more?
Not coming up with an answer, Carns shifted in his chair, wondering where he had made his mistake. He realized he was becoming more and more preoccupied with the game. Had he grown careless?
Although certain the police couldn’t have much, Carns forced himself to review his actions over the past months, reassuring himself that he had been meticulous in every detail. Nevertheless, the detective’s presence proved he’d missed something.
What?
Minutes later Carns watched as Kane left some money on the table and exited the club, leaving the reporter to finish her meal alone. Carns pushed away from his table. Grimly, he grabbed his gym bag and headed for the locker room, deciding that in the interest of safety, the time would soon come for him to change the game once more.
Soon… but not quite yet.
31
A high-level decision was made not to inform the Bakers that their intruder might be involved in the candlelight killings. Instead, they were simply told that a good chance existed he would return. As hoped, John and Maureen Baker agreed to cooperate, and during the two weeks that followed, with the exception of sending their son to stay with his grandparents in Palos Verdes, they kept up a normal routine-John off to work by seven-thirty; Maureen to her part-time accounting job on Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday; friends over occasionally for dinner on weekends.
Meanwhile a Metro surveillance team, with one member of the task force present during each shift, maintained a twenty-four-hour watch from the vacant residence I had noticed on my first visit. Two other plainclothes surveillance teams were posted in unmarked vehicles on Valley Vista Boulevard, with a third vehicle stationed one street up to watch the back-able to monitor anyone approaching the house. Efficient, total coverage. By the book. And fruitless.
Two Tuesdays later, on the morning that surveillance was scheduled to end, I made several telephone calls. The first was to Lieutenant Long at the West LA Division. At my request, Long subsequently contacted his friend Wally Coiner, Metro Division’s commanding officer, requesting that the Baker surveillance be extended another week-even though members of the task force would no longer be participating. Although puzzled, Coiner agreed to do so as a favor to Long, on condition that the size of the surveillance unit be reduced and coverage continued on a nighttime basis only.
My second call was to Dr. Sidney Berns.
Later that afternoon, after fighting cross-town traffic, I pulled up in front of the UCI Neuropsychiatric Center in Orange County. Leaving my car in a twenty-minute parking zone, I entered the white, three-story building. After receiving directions from an elderly receptionist, I proceeded down a hallway to the right, arriving at an outpatient waiting room. There I tapped on a glass partition window, flashing my badge at a nurse on the other side. “Dan Kane to see Dr. Berns,” I said.
The woman slid the window open and checked her schedule. After finding my name partway down, she told me to take a seat and that Dr. Berns would see me when his patient schedule permitted.
Obstinately, I remained standing. Resisting the impulse to pace, I turned my attention to a TV bracketed high on one wall, idly watching a daytime talk show host schmooze her afternoon guests. Fifteen minutes later Dr. Berns stuck his head into the waiting room. “Detective Kane,” he said. “Come in.”
I shook the psychiatrist’s hand, noting his grasp was surprisingly strong. “I know you’re busy,” I said. “Thanks for seeing me on short notice.”
“Glad to help,” replied Berns. “We can talk in my office.”
I followed the psychiatrist through a residents’ lounge, arriving at an eight-by-twelve cubicle with a window opening onto a cement patio. Berns settled behind a desk cluttered with files, a photograph of an attractive woman in her late thirties, and an ashtray overflowing with stubbed-out cigarettes. With a wave of his hand, he directed me to a chair opposite the desk. “Quite unexpected hearing from you,” he noted dryly.
“I suppose,” I said, taking a seat. “Look, I was out of line at the first task force meeting. When it comes to certain subjects, I have a tendency to shoot off my mouth before I have all the facts.”
“Apology accepted.” Berns opened a drawer, withdrawing a half-empty pack of Marlboros. He shook one out and lit it. “I assume from your presence that you want my assistance on something.”
“I do have a couple things I want to run by you,” I admitted. “Confidentially, of course.”
“Of course. You understand I’m no longer being retained on your investigation? My involvement was a one- shot deal requested by Ken Huff. I did the FBI followup pro bono.”
“No. I didn’t realize that.”
Berns shrugged. “Money’s tight down here in Orange County. As long as you realize I no longer hold an official position on the case, I’ll be glad to help in any way I can. What do you want to know?”
“Two things,” I said, ratcheting up my assessment of Berns several notches. “First, I think that in addition to stalking his victims, our man is reconnoitering their houses prior to his killings. It’s a belief not shared by some of my colleagues.”
“Lieutenant Snead?”
“For one. Nonetheless, Huff is backing me up, and working on the prior entry premise, we’ve been investigating selected cases of breaking-and-entering. Recently we discovered an instance that looks to me like the work of the killer. A maid surprised a man while he was in the house. She wound up in the hospital. We got a composite drawing from a family member of the guy who probably did it, a picture you probably saw later on the news. The drawing generated a rash of calls, but unfortunately nothing ever panned out. We also put surveillance teams on the family’s residence, hoping the intruder would return. So far he hasn’t. What I want to know is this: If this guy’s our man, is he coming back?”
Berns thought a moment. “Several factors are at work,” he said. “On one hand, I believe your killer is fixating on a victim. Once he’s selected her, he feels progressive pressure to complete his fantasy and make it
