27

An hour later Davie sat in an RHD conference room on the sixth floor of the Police Administration Building in downtown Los Angeles, wearing a clean suit she’d laundered the night before. The building’s sharp angles and massive glass windows were a stark departure from the boxy shabbiness of the old Parker Center.

Before reporting for duty, she stopped by the personnel office to order a new detective badge to replace the one she’d lost in the river. They gave her a temporary and told her a badge with Bear’s old number would have to be ordered from an outside vendor and it might take a couple of months to come in.

The setup at the Homicide Special Section, where she and Vaughn were temporarily on loan, was similar to Pacific’s squad room with its workstations and desk computers, except everything was newer and shinier here. Plus there was a view from an actual window.

Sitting across from her at the table was Det. Reuben Quintero. She’d crossed paths with him on a previous homicide case when he was in Commercial Crimes Division. Davie was surprised to find him here and even more surprised to learn he had been promoted to a D-3 supervisor and assigned as the lead Investigative Officer for the Woodrow case.

Quintero was all sinew and attitude, with short black hair, a wiry build, and nicotine-stained fingers from a chain-smoking habit. He encouraged everyone to call him Q, like he was some one-name celebrity—Adele, Bono, Cher, Prince, and Q. She refused to indulge his grandiosity and had always called him by his full name because she knew it annoyed him.

He leaned toward her and lowered his voice. His breath smelled of mint. “Look, Richards, let’s make sure we’re on the same page. My lieutenant expects you to tell me everything you know about this investigation the minute you know it. Understood?”

He was referring to a situation that happened a few months back, when he’d accused her of withholding evidence during a brief encounter as their two cases intersected. He’d blown the incident out of proportion and she’d told him so. That had annoyed him, too. She wasn’t convinced Quintero had gotten over it, so a dose of caution was in order.

Davie placed Zeke Woodrow’s Murder Book on the table in front of her. “If you don’t trust me, you could have just taken my partner on loan. My boss would be happy to keep me at the division.”

Quintero had an intense personality, but today he seemed more jittery than usual. “I know Giordano is pissed, but we’re friends. I’ll make it up to him. As for you, you’re a cat-five hurricane, but you know your stuff and you know this case. You and your partner uncovered a shit storm here. I give you credit for that. Not everybody would have linked all these murders the way you did.”

She leaned back in the chair and assessed his backhanded compliment. It seemed sincere. “Thanks. How’d you get back into RHD?”

Quintero grabbed the Murder Book and pulled it to his side of the table. “None of your damn business. Where’s your partner?”

“Parking the car.”

“Text him and tell him to get his ass up here. We have work to do.”

Texting wasn’t necessary because a moment later Vaughn sauntered into the room with a paper cup in his hand. Walking behind him was a man wearing a tie but no suit jacket. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up past his wrists. He was in his mid- to late thirties with broad shoulders and high cheekbones. His dark hair was streaked with gray at the temples and cut in a short spiky style. He acknowledged Quintero with a nod and slid his athletic body into a chair at the table. Davie waited for Quintero to introduce him, but that didn’t happen.

Vaughn removed the lid on the cup, releasing steam and the scent of hot milk into the air—a latte, his drink of choice. Then he flashed a cocky grin. “Sorry I’m late. I had trouble finding a parking spot. I thought RHD big shots had valet.”

“We do, smartass,” Quintero said. “You hinterland dicks have to park on the street.” He gave Vaughn a good-natured slap on the back and pointed to a chair. “Sit down. Tell me everything you know about this case and everything you don’t know. Start with the easy stuff first.”

The man turned toward Vaughn and extended his hand. “I’m Jon Striker. Q’s D-2.”

As he reached out to shake Vaughn’s hand, Davie noticed a tattoo inked on the inside of his right forearm in blue cursive script, but all she could read was the letter e at the end of the word. Davie sensed the energy in the room shift as he turned his focus toward her with an intensity that made her uncomfortable.

“Davie Richards,” she said. “Pacific Homicide.”

He outranked her, so she studied his expression to determine if he was irritated that she hadn’t walked over to shake his hand. His face was impassive, but the wrinkles around his sapphire eyes hinted at mild amusement.

Vaughn settled into a chair at the table with his coffee. Davie shifted her focus to Quintero as he walked toward a nearby whiteboard and picked up a green marker. The day before, Davie had faxed him a case report, but she and Vaughn went over the details again as Quintero wrote each victim’s name on the board, along with the date they died.

Quintero poised the marker over the whiteboard. “What about forensic evidence?”

Davie flipped to a report in the Murder Book but it wasn’t necessary. She could almost quote it from memory. She told Quintero about the theft of Zeke’s computer from his house in Santa Barbara and the blood sample collected by the local PD.

“We’re still waiting for the results,” she said.

Quintero studied the names on the whiteboard. “Karst was killed first in Nevada. As I recall, the report said a Glock 19 was left at the scene. What about the other murders?”

Vaughn leaned in. “We don’t know what kind of gun killed Woodrow. There were no spent shell casings found at the scene and no weapon has been recovered. The bullet might be lodged in the victim’s head, but there’s a backlog at the morgue, so the autopsy hasn’t been scheduled yet.”

Davie felt Striker’s attention drilling into her. “Did you find out what kind of gun was used in the Cormack murder?”

Davie was used to working with men, but at the moment there was an excess of testosterone in the room and the fumes were getting to her. She got up and walked toward the window, wishing she could open it to breathe the fresh air.

“The techs are still processing evidence,” she said. “They’ll call as soon as they know anything concrete.”

Quintero drew an arrow from each victim’s name to the type of weapon. The arrows leading to Woodrow and Cormack ended in a question mark. “What about the shell casings from Kern County?”

Vaughn pulled a rolled up piece of paper from his jacket pocket and spread it out on the table. “We stopped at the crime lab this morning before coming here. The casing is a 7.62x51mm NATO. They think it’s from an M110 semi-automatic sniper rifle. The Army used them in Afghanistan until recently.”

Quintero nodded and wrote M110 next to Lunds’s name. “How would the killer get access to an arsenal like that?”

Vaughn laid the report on top of the Murder Book, but before he could answer, Striker spoke in a low, steady voice. “Glocks are easy to find and you can buy M110s on the Internet, but they’re expensive—over twenty grand. The shooter could have gotten all the firearms from a dealer or a private owner.”

Davie stared at his full lips. They barely moved as he spoke, like he was some badass ventriloquist. She wondered how he knew that information. He’d likely read the report she’d faxed and perhaps done some checking on his own. If so, she was impressed.

Quintero held the marker between his index and middle finger like a cigarette. “What’s next?”

Davie peered out the window at the downtown cityscape. There were tall buildings out there, but you couldn’t prove that today. The tops were obscured by gray smog as opaque as Jon Striker’s inner thoughts.

She reviewed Zeke’s military service and his work for TidePool Security Consultants. Striker seemed to hang on her every word, but his expression still gave no clue what he was thinking. She had the feeling he was trying to figure out what made her tick. Good luck with that, she thought.

Davie shifted her gaze from Quintero to Vaughn, avoiding Striker. “Like my report says, about two weeks before the murder, TidePool sent Zeke Woodrow and Juno Karst to Hong Kong on a business trip. We think something may have happened there that triggered the killing spree.”

There was a slight tremor in Quintero’s hand as he poised the marker on the whiteboard, ready to write. “So, who was this client the victim went to see?”

“Guardian Advanced Technologies,” Vaughn said. “They’re a multinational defense contractor with offices all over the world, including a small office in Irvine.”

Quintero set the marker in the whiteboard tray and turned to face Vaughn. “Irvine? Like in Orange County?”

Davie nodded. “It’s a long shot but we could drive down to see if Guardian knew of any confrontation that occurred during that trip. If so, maybe they can tell us who was involved and what happened.”

Quintero unwrapped a piece of gum he’d pulled from his pocket and shoved it into his mouth. “How could a shooter kill three former US Army Rangers all by himself and attempt to kill a fourth—unless he was a cop or military himself?”

“It’s none of my business,” Davie said, “but you seem jumpy—”

“You’re right,” he said, pointing a nicotine-stained finger at her. “It’s none of your business. I stopped smoking. Two weeks ago. Can’t you tell? That’s why I’m in such a good mood. What else do you know? You think the shooter had help?”

Davie had never smoked but she’d heard plenty of people talk about the challenges of quitting cold turkey.

She walked back to the table but didn’t sit. Standing gave her leverage. “Hard to say. If he acted alone, he covered a lot of territory in a short amount of time. He missed killing Lunds, but he may try again.”

Striker had been quiet for a while but reentered the conversation at the mention of Lunds’s name. “Where is he now?”

“I’m not sure,” she said. “I offered him protection but he felt safer on his own. He gave me his cell number if we need to reach him.”

Quintero rolled the marker between his palms as he paced. “Okay, so here’s the plan. I’ll send Striker and one of our other detectives to Irvine, see what Guardian has to say.”

Davie leaned over the table and pulled the Murder Book toward her. “Jason and I know the case. It makes more sense to send us. We have only one shot at this interview. We can’t afford to screw it up.”

Quintero worked the gum until his jaw clicked. “You always have to drive, don’t you, Richards?”

“It’s better that way, especially if you want to get to where you’re going.”

Davie glanced at Striker to get his reaction. His hand was balled into a fist that covered his mouth. She could tell by the wrinkles around his eyes that he was hiding a smile. This assignment had just gotten a whole lot more interesting.