Private

Thirteen girls had died in just over two years. Fescoe had been promoted in the middle of this murder spree, but now the bad news had caught up with him and threatened to swamp him. The parents of the murdered girls had formed an action committee and were on the television news every night. The public was scared and inflamed.

Justine put her hand on the police chief's arm.

Fescoe turned and said, "Justine. I'm glad you're here. Take a look." He handed her a pair of latex gloves. "It's escalating, getting worse."

Justine stooped beside the body of Marguerite Esperanza. There was an extension cord knotted into a noose and pulled tightly around the seventeen-year-old girl's neck.

The loose end of the cord was taped to her left hand, which was positioned at an odd angle above her head. The really weird part was that the girl had been shot at least twice-in the chest and in the face.

The scene had been made to look as though the girl had hanged herself. What the hell was that supposed to mean? Once again, this felt like a different killer.

Justine asked, "Any witnesses? Any anything?"

"It looks like she was killed right here," Fescoe told her. "The ground is all chewed up, like there was some kind of scuffle. We found blood on a pile of leaves. Hers or her killer's. Maybe she managed to rake the scum with her fingernails. Let's hope so. Give the good guys a break for a change."

"What about her handbag? Was it found?"

"No, it's gone, along with her shoes. So there's your signature. A couple of kids found her and called it in. They said the place was empty when they got here almost an hour ago."

Justine touched the girl's cold cheek. Marguerite had been pretty, and more than that, she looked strong. There were bruises on her arms and face. She'd taken an awful beating before she'd gone down.

"The pose is obviously theatrical," Justine said to Fescoe. "This MO is different than the other kills, which, unfortunately, is the hallmark of this string of killings. I wonder why was she killed so soon after Co

Chapter 41

SCYLLA'S LUXURY APARTMENT was on Burton Way. His building was one of four high-end residences in a row, each about six stories tall.

Jason's place was on the top floor, with a wraparound terrace. It had a wide view of the hills. He had never had real friends, but the apartment helped to get him superficial ones and even dates.

Jason stood on the terrace now and watched the city lights merge seamlessly with the city sky and the whole of the universe. The view was the shits, but for once, its beauty failed to engage his sense of awe.

He went back inside, turned on the TV, watched the Boston Celtics get pounded by the Lakers. He didn't give a damn who won the stupid game so adored by men without any imagination or flair in their humdrum lives.

Jason had a lot on his mind, but he was so high on painkillers, he doubted his ability to reason. He'd have to explain to his coworkers about the tape across his nose, the black eyes, his arm bandaged. He wondered what he was going to say, how he would spin it.

Meanwhile, Morbid was coming over to talk to him about a second chance. They'd texted back and forth, Morbid explaining to Scylla how embarrassed he was, since he was the one who'd recruited him.

There was an unspecified threat, but clearly an offer of redemption. As a favor to Scylla, Morbid had convinced Steem to agree to an unscheduled night on the town so that Scylla could erase the black mark against him.

Morbid had told him that they had a pretty little pigeon already picked out, and Scylla would have to take care of her this very night.

"So soon?" Jason had said.

"You have a problem with it?" Morbid asked.

"No. Tonight's good."

The doorbell rang, and Jason got up off the sofa. He hobbled to the foyer and pressed the intercom button.

"It's me," said Morbid. "And Steem."

"Come on up."

He was going to kill another girl-only this time it didn't seem like such fun and games.

Chapter 42

SCYLLA OPENED HIS front door, and Steemcleena entered, Morbid right behind him. They seemed purposeful and serious, and Jason got the feeling that the two of them had been longtime buddies, maybe even outside the game. Actually, it was cool that they were letting him in at all.

"How's the nose?" Morbid asked, taking a leather lounge chair, sprawling in it, as Steem looked over the bookshelves.

"It's okay. You guys want a beer?" Jason asked.

"Not for me, thanks. Nice place, Scylla. The view is great from here," Steem said as he headed toward the sliding door that led out to the terrace.

"Let me get that," Jason said, limping after him. He unlatched the door and pulled it open. "It's the shits-like a thirty-mile view," he said.

Steemcleena whistled. "Hey, Morbid. You should see this. Come out here, man. It's like a movie. Cinematic."

Jason moved aside the metal bistro chairs so that all three of them could line up at the terrace wall and share Los Angeles.

Steemcleena said to Jason, "See that?" He pointed to a van across the street, the one with the Comcast logo. "That's redemption for you, partner. Tonight's ride. You believe you're getting a second chance?"

"Sure I do," said Scylla.

"Well, you're not, asshole. You're tonight's pigeon."

Steemcleena bent quickly. He grabbed Scylla by the knees. At the same time, Morbid pushed his shoulders so that Jason was lying across the wall, head and chest over the sheer cliff of the terrace. Below him was sixty feet of air.

"Don't," Jason cried out. "Please, just put me down. Please?"

"Don't whine, you little twerp. Just spread your wings and fly."

Jason's belly scraped concrete as he was shoved a few more inches over the wall. Cars sped by on the street below. Blood rushed to his brain, and his mind spun. What could he say? That this was the most incredible game of all?

Jason's mind kicked off disco

His own voice was loud inside his head.

I'm not supposed to die this way.

I'm not supposed to die at all.

He was too scared to scream as he dropped over the rail, and he clearly heard Steem yell, "Pigeon!"

Chapter 43

TO BE HONEST, my recurring dream was sometimes more real than reality. More focused, more magnified, and usually in high-definition color.

I ran across the broken landscape toward the back ramp of the CH-46. The powerful helicopter was actually the easiest for the Afghans to bring down-their heat-seeking missiles would rather lock on to its engines than the sun. Men screamed in pain, and the crump sound of mortars exploding rang in my ears. I stood at the lip of the ramp, felt horror as I looked inside and saw-

Jesus, I was ripped from the dream, from some kind of closure, by a loud humming noise.

My eyes flashed open, and I saw my cell phone vibrating less than two feet from my face.

I palmed the phone and stared at it, my heart still thudding. The time was 9:35. The caller ID read "R. Del Rio."

I put the phone to my ear.

"Rick. I overslept. I never do that."

"That's all right. I have to tell you something, buddy. You're not going to like it."

I swung my legs over the side of the bed. My knees felt shaky, as if I'd really been ru

"Go ahead. I'm listening."

"It's about Shelby," Rick said. "She wasn't exactly who you thought she was."