The Crime Writer

Kaden threw down his pencil. "You're an amateur, so you don't see how many assumptions your guesswork rests on. Brown is the second most common Volvo paint job behind that shit yellow. There are a hundred and fifty-three brown Volvos with licenses starting with seven in L.A. County. Great. You know how many there are in the state?" More hammering on the keyboard. "One thousand two hundred ninety-one."

"How many are owned by convicted sex offenders?"

"How many of the victims in this investigation were sexually assaulted?"

"How about your theory that the killer evolved?" I tapped Frankel's sinister booking photo. "The forensics line up. He's a hundred eighty-five pounds "

"Just like you."

Delveckio leaned back so his thin shirt stretched across his narrow chest. "And you maintain that Morton Frankel doesn't mean anything to you?"

"I told you already," I said. "I don't know the guy. I think the question is if I mean anything to him. And it's easy enough for us to find out. One strand of hair from this guy could prove our case."

"Prove?" Delveckio repeated. "Us?"

"The unidentified hair found on Broach's body might have nothing to do with anything," Kaden said. "Dumped bodies pick up hairs. Or it could be a plant, like your hair supposedly was. That's what you don't get. It's never neat. And even if it is, it's not just about evidence. It's about building a case."

"Look at the guy. A jury'll hate him."

"Not probable cause for a seizure warrant to force him to surrender a DNA sample. Frankly, there's not much from a legal perspective to differentiate him from the other satisfied Volvo owners on that DMV list."

"Morton Frankel is a felon."

"Let's just forget the nonfelons who drive Volvos," Delveckio said. "Guys too smart to get caught, we ain't interested in them."

"I assume you have to start somewhere. And a car registered in L.A. County to a felon who lives around the block from one of the crime scenes seems like not a bad place."

Kaden settled back in his chair and said, "Oh. I get it."

Delveckio: "What's that?"

"This isn't a real conversation, Ed. We're in a script. Characters."

Kaden feigned amusement. "We're the cops who bumble around with their bureaucratic agendas and investigative oversights so the vigilante hero, the average-guy-in-peril, can pursue the clues and solve the case without the inconvenience of competent law enforcement sharing a city with him." He leaned over his desk, anger rising to the surface. "What you found was a felon who drives a Volvo. Congrats. I must admit, a rare demographic. You know why you like that lead? More than, say, the all-cotton rope found on Kasey Broach's wrists that only ships to three erotica and I use the term loosely stores in Los Angeles? More than the two thousand one hundred and sixty hours three months, right? of security footage we're reviewing from one store? More than the credit-card transactions we're sorting through from the other two? More than the shipping records from those dildo shops? You know why you like your brown Volvo more than the electrical tape on Broach's ankles, which was part of an irregular lot sold discount to Home Depot and shipped only to the Van Nuys store and one on Cave Creek Road in Phoenix? More than Broach's and Bertrand's phone records, which, cross-referenced, reveal overlaps to at least two establishments? More than the FedEx guy who delivered packages to both women two months apart? More than the pool guy who services a complex two blocks over from Broach's place and did a dime at San Quentin for slitting his sister's throat? You like Morton Frankel more because he's yours. Because you found him. Now, despite the questionable combination of Junior Delgado and Andrew Danner as generators of this particular trail, we will look into it, certainly and absolutely. This and the other hundred and fifty-two Volvo owners on the list, which you're right is where we should and will start. But we're not gonna drop everything we're working on this instant because we're so darn bowled over that you found a clue."

His anger, cold and rational, had put me back in my seat. "Did you do that before?" I asked. "Check messengers to Genevieve's house? See if any of her neighbors had criminal records?"

Kaden glared at me. "We knew you did it. We didn't give a shit to beat the bushes. We gave a shit to convict."

I stood, leaving them the documents, pissed off at Kaden for his last crack and for raising so many goddamned good objections before it.

Kaden reached across the desk and grabbed my arm. "You're in the real world now," he said. "Watch that you don't get yourself killed."

I pulled my arm free.

Delveckio swiveled in his chair to watch me pass. "Oh and, Danner?" He met my look evenly, his red-rimmed eyes detached and calm. "Don't leave town."

Chapter 25