At 4:55 p.m. I enter the building and ask for Sally Hart, showing my ID. At the elevator doors on the third floor I’m greeted by a frizzy redhead in her mid-twenties wearing thick but stylish glasses. Her creamy skin is dotted with freckles. She wears well-cut jeans with square-toed ankle boots, a black sweater and a tailored purple jacket that emphasizes her petite waist. The smile that accompanies her outstretched hand reveals straight white teeth.
“Agent Anderson, nice to meet you.”
I shake her hand. “You, too, Ms. Hart. Or is it Dr. Hart?”
She laughs. “Not yet. Another year of study, I’m afraid.” She fingers her glasses. “I just got a call from Detective Ramos. He’s running a few minutes late.” She turns around. “Come through.”
We make our way along a series of corridors and doors until we get to her lab. The light, now mostly assembled into one large piece from the million shards of glass, sits on her desk. It’s a square, dark orange frame with four square panels of glass, underneath which sit the powerful bulbs. At the base of the frame is a large round hole, which marks the place where the light attaches to the post. With the reconstruction complete, four distinct bullet holes can easily be seen.
“Nice job,” I say.
“Thanks. There are a few pieces missing—” she points to tiny gaps that are barely noticeable on first viewing “—but they’re all insignificant…except for these ones, obviously.” She bends down and points to the small holes in each panel of glass.
“Bullets.”
“Uh-huh,” she says. “Looks like a .45. It splintered the glass here, here, here and here.” She points to the tiny cracks that radiate from each hole.
“Does Ramos know this yet?”
“Yeah, I called him once I’d finished it.” She straightens up. “That’s why he’s late—he stopped off at the crime scene to set the techs up to take another look around, this time for some bullets.”
“A bullet…gee, that’d be nice.” A bullet would give us something we could match to a weapon; good for court, and sometimes good if the weapon’s unique striation marks are already in the ballistics computer database.
She laughs. “That’s exactly what Detective Ramos said.” She takes her glasses off and gives them a polish. “I’ve just started the computer analysis looking at the angle of the bullets, the likely position of the shooter and the possible resting place of the bullets, but I think it’ll be another hour or two before I can give the techs anything more concrete to help them pinpoint where the bullets might have landed.” Hart takes me over to her computer. “I’ve triangulated the initial angle of the bullets, based on the way the glass shattered, and it puts the shooter somewhere between here and here, depending on his height. All four bullets were fired from the same spot and I’ve followed the possible trajectories through for someone five-five to six-five.” She points to two dots on her computer, but so far it’s just blank space, with no obvious visual relationship to the crime scene.
I look at the basic computer-generated model and try to overlay it in my mind’s eye with the crime scene. “That takes him right back to the fence line, if we’re talking a five-five perp.”
The trajectory of the bullet tells us the angle it traveled, not its point of origin. But Hart’s made a sensible call on the height range, and following the bullet’s trajectory, the shorter he is the farther back he would have had to stand to produce the same angle.
“I haven’t inputted everything into the model yet.” She shuffles through some papers and pulls out a photocopy of the crime-scene sketch that would have been done by Ramos or one of his detectives. It shows all the key structures and points of evidence and includes exact measurements between items. Hart compares her computer breakdown with the sketch, measuring out the distances. “Yup, right on the fence, assuming the sketch is accurate.”
Experienced cops know the importance of the sketch, know that it can become critical to solving the case or that it can become essential evidence in court.
“It’s Ramos…it’ll be spot-on,” Hart continues. “So the fence line is the farthest point and if our shooter’s around six-five you’re looking at him standing level with the edge of this parking spot.” She points to the crime-scene sketch. “I’ve still got to finish the model and then work out the bullet’s trajectory after it hit the light.”
“Could it have been a clean-through shot?” I walk back to the light to take a closer look and soon have my answer. The light has a thick metal backing, so once the bullet went through the glass, it would have hit the metal and ricocheted off somewhere.
“No, the angle’s wrong,” Hart confirms.
“How big are the bulbs in these things?”
She pulls an industrial-looking bulb, nearly the size of her hand, from a box on the floor. “This is the brand used in the light.”
I picture the scene, picture the shot. “How high is the light?”
“Twenty-four feet.”
I raise my eyebrows. “So he’s a reasonable shot—to blow out all four bulbs.”
She nods. “Probably. Depends on the time of day when he took the shot.”
“Go on.”
“Well, I’ll have to do a reconstruction to be sure, but I imagine the bulbs themselves would be most visible in daylight, with the sun behind the shooter. Whereas if the sun’s in his eyes it’d be harder—”
The phone on Hart’s desk cuts off her sentence. “Hold on.” She picks up the phone. “Hart…okay.” She hangs up. “Ramos is on his way up now.” She unclips her security pass from her jeans waistband. “I’ll go buzz him through.”
While I’m waiting, I take another look at the computer and the light. The glass that covers the bulbs is slightly frosted, so with the right lighting the bulbs would be easily visible.
A few minutes later Ramos and Hart arrive. Ramos gives me a nod and a smile and I listen in while Hart runs through her findings to date with Ramos, showing him the light itself and then the computerized trajectory.
“I’ve set the team up to search the whole parking lot.”
She nods. “I’ll keep working on the trajectory, see if I can’t narrow that search area down for you.”
“Before dark?” Ramos glances at his watch.
Hart shakes her head. “I doubt it. Sorry.” She pauses. “I’m also going to run a reconstruction of the shooting, see if I can’t give you guys a rough time of day. Or at least eliminate the possibility of a night shot.”
I know the shot wasn’t taken after the murder, but our killer could still have taken the light out earlier in the evening.
“That’d be great,” Ramos says. “If it was a daylight shot it’ll help prove premeditation.” Like all good law-enforcement personnel, Ramos is already thinking about the evidence from a jury’s point of view, thinking about how we can get a conviction. He pauses. “A likely time of day will also help when we’re canvassing for possible witnesses. So far we’ve come up with a big fat zero from the area.”
“I’ll set it up for three tomorrow,” Hart says. “You guys are welcome to sit in.”
“Thanks. I’m hoping we’ll have something else by then, but—” Ramos gives her a smile “—if you’re all I’ve got I’ll be here.”
“Gee, thanks.” Hart smiles. “You sure know how to make a girl feel wanted.”
I leave the lab at 5:45 p.m., giving myself just enough time to get home and grab a snack before my kung fu class. I’ve been studying kung fu for nearly eight years, and in addition to attending classes three times a week I also have one-on-one sparring training with my teacher for half an hour before the Monday-night class.
I’m only a block away from the school when my BlackBerry rings. The traffic’s too heavy to glance down at the display to see who’s calling, but my headset is configured to pick up after two rings.
“FBI, Anderson.”
“Hey, it’s Darren.”
Detective Darren Carter and I met sixteen months ago, when I was new to the Bureau and working out of the Behavioral Analysis Unit in Quantico. I was investigating a serial killer who’d struck in Washington, D.C. but started off on Darren’s turf—Tucson, Arizona. We hit it off immediately and have stayed in contact. And if I’m honest, Darren’s a contender to maybe, just maybe, break the drought of men seeing me in lingerie. Or maybe not. Most days I don’t want any contenders in that department, but sometimes…
“What’s up?” I ask.
“The usual. Murder. You?” Darren works in Homicide.
“Surprise, surprise, it’s murder in L.A., too.”
He sighs. “Why do we do it?”
I know he’s not serious, but I answer him anyway. “To get justice for the victims and hopefully save potential victims.”
“That’s right.” The comment sounds flippant but I know it’s not, not coming from Darren. Darren and I have both been touched, personally, by murder. For me it was my brother when I was eight, and for Darren it was his aunt, over ten years ago.
“What’s your case about?” Darren asks.
Cases are confidential, to a point, but there’s no harm in discussing the basics with a fellow law-enforcement professional.
“Little Tokyo murder. No ID and the guy’s got a weird throat injury. You?”
“Nothing that interesting. Gunshot wound and we’ve got a jealous ex-boyfriend we like for it. We’re waiting on evidence from the lab, but the ex isn’t that bright. I think the forensics will nail him.”
“So you’ve got your man.”
“Looks that way.”
“I’m just starting out on this one. No suspects yet.” I swing into a parking space just outside the studio. “Listen, Darren, I’ve got to go. Kung fu class.”
“Oh, yeah, Monday night. You can tell me all about the weird throat wound another time. Go kick some ass.”
I laugh. “Will do.”
I rush into the school right at 7:00 p.m., but still have to get changed. The place is quiet, with only three people here so far—my teacher, Sifu Lee; his assistant, Steve; and Marcus, one of the other advanced students. Lee is on the warm-up mats going through a series of blocks and strikes, and Steve and Marcus are both stretching in one corner. Lee looks up when I burst through the door.
“Sorry I’m late. I’ll be out in a second.”
He nods. Lee’s in his forties and half-Chinese. His five-eleven frame is muscular, but not bulky, and extremely strong. He trained in China and Hong Kong in many different kung fu forms before choosing Tiger and Crane. He then trained to sifu—master—stage and has been teaching in L.A. for over fifteen years. And, L.A. being L.A., he’s also had some involvement with the film business, training students who’ve gone on to become stunt doubles in movies.
In the changing room I pull on my uniform: baggy black pants, a black T-shirt with the school’s logo on the front and my black sash. I also slip into my special martial arts shoes before running out to join Lee.
“I take it you’re not warmed up?”
“No, sorry.”
While Lee continues his own training, I do some quick stretches to warm up my legs and follow through with rotations of most of my joints. I pay particular attention to my shoulders and elbows, knowing how easy it is to jar those joints or hurt the surrounding muscles if you’re not warmed up.
When I’m ready I give Lee a nod. We start with punches, which he counts out as I strike the pad he holds in front of me. Once we’ve done straight punches, arrow punches and leopard punches, we move on to blocks. Lee gently throws pre-arranged punches and kicks my way, which I defend.
We’ve been going for fifteen minutes when Lee says, “Ready to spar?”
“Sure.” I’m definitely warm…and sweaty. I take a drink of water and suit up in my protective gear, putting on my shin guards, gloves and helmet. My groin guard is underneath my uniform from when I was getting changed. Lee only puts on a helmet and a groin-piece over his clothing—his hands and shins are rock hard from thirty-five years of conditioning. Once we’re on the mats, Lee and I bow to each other.
“Okay, try to hit me.” He gives me a teasing smile.
Our individual sparring time always starts off this way and, as usual, the invitation is enough for my competitive spirit to hit overdrive. I stand side-on to him, in horse, guard up. He mirrors this position, waiting for the first incoming strike.
I go with a left jab, followed quickly by a right, then a left, then a right. He blocks them all effortlessly and with precision, but I don’t let this discourage me. A right hook punch followed by a straight kick and then a roundhouse kick still leave me no closer to hitting my target, and, in fact, I can feel a slight buzz in my shin where his forearm blocked my kick and connected with my leg. I’m wearing shin guards, but his forearms are amazingly hard. Damn, he’s good. Then again, I probably shouldn’t be able to connect a blow with my instructor. Not when he’s been studying kung fu most of his life.
I try again, with another series of kicks and punches, including a spinning side kick, multiple jabs and even some fakes, where I start to throw a punch or kick then withdraw and go for my real move. But he’s fast enough, even for these. As usual, he’s left untouched and I’m left frustrated. One of these days…
He smiles. “Okay, my turn.” He glances briefly at the wall clock—five minutes before class starts. Now, the stream of students coming through the doors is at its peak—allowing people just enough time to get changed. There are more sets of eyes on us, and some people have moved closer to see the action. The onlookers make me self-conscious, but they also spur me on. I may not have been able to hit Sifu Lee, but hopefully I’ll be able to block most of his incoming strikes. I’m also aware that he won’t be using full force or speed—that’s too dangerous, especially since we’re so unevenly matched. Lee’s hands are lethal weapons, so he’ll have to hold back.
Again we start side-on from each other, in horse stance with our guards up. Lee begins with a couple of punches delivered at low speed. After I easily block those, he starts to increase the pace. Blocking is definitely my strong point. I’ve always been able to pick what my sparring partner is about to do next and react accordingly. Until recently, I’d assumed it was good reflexes, but now I think maybe my psychic abilities allow me to sense what’s about to come.
I adjust back and cross-block Lee’s incoming roundhouse kick.
“Very good,” he says, a hint of surprise in his voice. He waits only a second before sending some faster strikes my way, all aimed at my head. Again, I’m able to block these, but this time it takes complete concentration.
I move down to block a low punch—Lee changed it to catch me off guard. He keeps them coming, high, middle, low, and throws in a few kicks, but only one punch connects and even then I’d blocked almost in time, diminishing its impact.
Lee bows. “I’m impressed. Your blocks are still much better than your punches, so let’s keep working on improving your strikes.”
I smile and notice with some triumph that there are a few beads of sweat on Lee’s upper lip. It’s taken me four months of these one-on-one sessions to get him to sweat. He definitely stepped things up toward the end, too, and he may even have been close to going full speed with the last series of strikes.
We both take our helmets off and Lee gives me a small bow before turning to face the students who mill around us. “Okay everyone, line up please.”
I move to the front of the class, and Marcus and the other second- and third-dan black belts join me. We always line up according to level, with the most advanced students in the front.
“You nearly had him that time, Sophie,” Marcus says, before taking the spot next to me. Like Lee, Marcus is also of Asian descent, though I’d put him as only one-quarter. He’s taller, at around six-two, and more overtly muscular than Lee. He wears his hair short all over, which accentuates the masculine angularity of his face—a wide square jaw, pronounced brow and high cheekbones. His skin is slightly olive, but that could be an L.A. tan rather than his racial heritage.
“One of these days I’m going to connect.”
Marcus laughs, highlighting two large dimples.
“You ever tried sparring him?” I ask.
“Once. And once was enough. But I should do what you do, organize to come in early and train with him like that. It’d keep me on my toes.”
Marcus is probably the best in our class. He’s fast, strong and efficient—all the hallmarks of a good kung fu fighter. He doesn’t really need the extra training, but at least he’s modest about it.
Lee takes us through a quick warm-up before dividing us into groups of two. The first group starts on forms with his assistant, while Lee takes the rest of us over to an area that’s set up with mats and punching bags. My group works on punches, kicks, throws and techniques to break falls, before swapping with the other group to focus on our kung fu forms. With half an hour to go, we break into our levels, creating four groups—black belts, first-dan black belts, second-dan black belts and third-dan black belts. Tonight, we focus on punches, with Lee and Steve supervising and teaching us new moves as necessary.
At 8:55 p.m. Lee brings the whole group together again for a five-minute cooldown, and while my body starts to relent, my mind doesn’t. When I leave just after 9:00 p.m., my adrenaline’s still pumping. It’s going to take me a good couple of hours before I can even think about sleep.