chapter twenty-seven

Later that afternoon, a frustrated Chris Crane switched off the computer and stretched to ease the muscles of his back. He winced as the movement sent pain throbbing through his jaw. The case was going nowhere. He needed to think, to let his thoughts flow free. He would take Mango for a long ride in the foothills.

"Hello Angie. Pretty Angie." That was Nevermore's greeting when Chris let himself into the penthouse. Calling out the name of the Petcare girl was his way of reprimanding Chris for not having paid enough attention to him in the last few days.

Hoping to make amends, Chris carried him into the bedroom and talked to him while he changed into riding clothes. Before leaving, he gave some grapes to the parrot, who croaked a forgiving, "Goodbye Chris."

Three exhilarating and deeply enjoyable hours later, Chris turned off 4th Street onto Elbow Drive. The Solstice, convertible top in place, was parked next to the entrance to The Windsors' underground parking. Its lights flicked on and off, and Dummett stuck his arm out the window to wave him down. Obediently, Chris parked the Ferrari on the opposite side of the street.

"Pretty fancy car, pretty fancy duds," Dummett murmured as Chris settled into the passenger seat.

"Been waiting long?"

"Not too long. You were leaving as I turned the corner and I saw you were dressed for horseback riding, so I gave you a couple of hours and then came back."

How did he know I was going riding? wondered Chris. Then he remembered he had left the Ferrari on the street while he ran back into the condo to tell the concierge about a package he was expecting.

"Did you have a good ride?" asked Dummett, handing him a folded piece of paper. "Don't worry about gloves. It's a copy."

"It was great, thank you. Just great. Where's the original?"

"I'm hanging on to it. For backup, in case I need it. I keep thinking about that stringer for the New York Times who fabricated that sensational story about two congressmen being part of a ring that sold arms to Iran. He'll never work again. That's not going to happen to me!"

Chris nodded absently, his attention focused on the letter. It read:

forget the All I want is to fool the cops

Even though it was only a copy, it was easy to see that three of the words—kid, fucking, and bullshit—were constructs, made up from individual letters.

"How did you get this?"

"In the mail. Same as before. And, yes, I have the envelope. It doesn't tell us anything new. But the message does. It would seem our boy doesn't care much for the police."

"That's pretty clear. It could also be a ploy to throw us off the track."

"There is always that. Anyway, I thought you should know."

"Of course I should. This is helpful. What you're doing is valuable, Phil, and I want you to keep it up."

"Valuable enough that I get in on the takedown?" Dummett spoke lightly, but his expression was anxious.

"You're getting there. But that's not something I can control. You know that." Chris reached for the door handle.

Dummett put out a hand to detain him. "There'll be another one of my articles in tomorrow's Herald. One that will really rattle the bars of his cage. In it I say that it's clear TLC is challenging the police—daring them to catch him—but that in the end the police will win. Serial killers always get caught."

"That'll push his buttons all right. But that could prod him into action again."

"Which is precisely what we want."

"Not if it means another victim."

"There'll be another victim regardless, Chris. He's not going to stop. Not yet."

"Yeah, I'm afraid you're right." Chris pushed the door open and swung his legs out.

"Nice boots. I always thought it would be neat to ride a horse. Be in control of a powerful animal like that. But I never had the chance."

"It's never too late," replied Chris.

Towelling himself dry after his shower, Chris continued to think about the note Dummett had shown him. Assuming for the sake of argument that it was genuine—and he was becoming more persuaded that the notes sent to Dummett were genuine—it was easy to see that a serial would get a perverse thrill out of exchanging barbs with a member of the media. It was clear that the killer saw himself as waging a campaign against the police. Not playing a game with Detective Chris Crane, but attacking the entire police force. Someone who had a deep-seated hatred for the police. Talk about a field of candidates! Chris smiled ruefully to himself as he placed the towel back on the rack. The number of those who had reason to hate the police was legion.

Gordon Ralston, Mason's buddy. Chris had occasionally thought about the ex-cop as a possible suspect, but only in passing. God knew Ralston had reason to feel aggrieved, whether justified or not. By all accounts, he had been a good cop, apart from a heavy-handed way of dealing with troublemakers. He certainly had the physical strength to handle victims the way TLC did, and he was old enough to think of someone like Dummett as a kid.

Chris frowned at himself in the mirror as he combed his dark brown hair. There was nothing against Ralston except the fact that he had been discharged in disgrace from the police force. Conjecture. Pure conjecture. With no physical evidence. In fact, there was no physical evidence against anyone. Even the evidence against Tom Forsyth was circumstantial. Compelling, but still circumstantial.