Half an hour later, Daniel and Cam were back in Daniel’s Crown Vic headed for the Parker Center, each carrying a sugar cookie folded in a napkin.
Before turning off PCH into Santa Monica, Daniel shot a look toward Paco’s, just a block up from the Santa Monica Pier. “Too bad we don’t have time for some of Mrs. Luther’s tacos.”
“I’m glad Mrs. Luther’s still here. I was a glutton at Paco’s at least once a week growing up. Maybe we can do a late lunch.” Cam looked at her Waze app. “Or a very late lunch. I’d forgotten how bad the traffic can get.”
“Yeah, it gets worse every year. I know a couple of shortcuts, but this time of day they’ll be backed up worse than this, so it’s traffic all the way, 110 to 101. It’ll take about an hour.”
Daniel talked more about Constance Morrissey as he drove, how something about the murder scene had felt like a Serial to him, and he’d looked into other recent unsolved murders in Southern California—a sliced throat in bed in the middle of the night, a missing laptop and cell phone. He found both the Melodie Anders murder and the Davina Morgan murder and called Supervisor David Elman of the Homicide Special Section. Elman already knew about the Davina Morgan murder in Van Nuys, agreed it fit a pattern. He hadn’t known about the second victim, Melodie Anders, in San Dimas.
“I have to admit I was surprised when the LAPD didn’t kiss me off. Supervisor Elman even called me after the murder in North Hollywood, said he was going to contact all the sheriffs’ departments, but I’d already done that.
“After the LAPD agreed we had a Serial, I convinced them to tell the press and they agreed. I suppose we thought it would make a difference, get everyone on the same page, get his next possible victims warned. The media was all over it, one of the tabloids even came up with his moniker, the Starlet Slasher. Every young actress in L.A. had to know he was out there.” Daniel sighed. “But it didn’t help. The fourth victim, Heather Burnside, was killed in North Hollywood on June 2nd, after we spent weeks investigating and getting nowhere. I hated that, Cam, really hated it.”
She did, too. “That had to be tough. We’ll have more resources now, with all of us working together. We’ll get him, Daniel, no doubt in my mind.”
At 11:50, Daniel turned onto First Street, drove a short distance to the LAPD staff-only garage, and stopped at the guard window. Cam gave the guard their names and showed him their shields. The guard meticulously checked their names against his computer, studied their creds, and finally let them through with a stingy smile. He even went so far as to nod toward a visitor’s slot not far from the garage booth.
Cam had visited the old Parker Center a handful of times over the years, but never the new headquarters. She paused on the sidewalk to look up at the incredible architecture of the building. Its glass and white concrete blended over the front of the building like a large white curtain. There were so many angles to the facade, it was like a puzzle in geometry. Palm trees added a bit of Southern California dash, as did the warmth and sunshine, and the loud, constant background noise from the heavy traffic on the nearby 101.
They were met in the lobby by the supervisor of the Homicide Special Section himself, David Elman. He looked like a seasoned veteran, in his late forties, tall, broad-shouldered, balding rapidly. His smart dark eyes went immediately to Daniel, then, with something like regret, he turned to her.
Par for the course.