Private

Chapter 49

"HOLD ON TO that thought. Justine?"

Justine had dark circles under her eyes, but she still looked good. On the other hand, I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen her smile. This case had a hook in her and wouldn't let go.

"Something's been nagging at me for a couple of days," she said, "and it finally crystallized this morning. Five years ago, another girl was left dead in the same alley where Co

"Her name was Wendy Borman. She was seventeen," Justine continued. "Like Co

"Wendy Borman is an unsolved case?"

Justine nodded and said, "She was killed by manual strangulation. She had a bruise behind her ear that came from a concussive blow with a heavy object. There were no witnesses, no sexual assault, and no forensic evidence. Sound familiar to you?

"And how's this? Her handbag and cell phone were taken. Also, she'd been wearing a necklace, a hand-wrought gold star on a chain. It wasn't on her when they found the body. Her mother said she always wore the necklace."

"So obviously, it was made to look like a robbery-homicide."

"Makes me wonder how long these Schoolgirl killings have been going on. How many girls has this sick bastard killed? How many different ways? Was there somebody even before the Borman girl?"

We reviewed assignments and workloads over lunch. Everyone in the room was expensive, but I didn't much care. Obviously neither did Justine.

I said, "Everything basically goes on hold but Cushman, NFL, and Justine's case. That's all we do until all three cases are closed. And we will close them."

I limped up the stairs to my office, and Colleen followed me to my desk.

"You got a call this morning," she said. "Maybe it's a prank, but it's evil, Jack. You should listen to it. Seriously."

She picked up the receiver, got into voice mail, and switched over to speaker.

I was sorry Colleen had to hear the eerie electronic voice that came over the phone.

"You're dead," the caller said. Colleen looked shocked, and for good reason. Nothing about the voice sounded like a hoax.

I took Colleen into my arms and held her against my chest. She made a purring sound like a cat, then laughed at herself.

What was I going to do with this lovely, lovely woman?

I said to her, "Not yet, Colleen. I'm not dead yet." Part Three

WHAT'S LOVE GOT TO DO WITH IT?

Chapter 50

I WAS STANDING next to Colleen at a horseshoe bar that smelled faintly of an honest day's labor. "I come here most nights after work," she said of Mike Donahue's Tavern. She was wearing a pink fitted jacket over a flowered dress, her long hair falling in waves around her shoulders. Colleen was working hard to become an American citizen, but I saw why this dark Irish pub with its stout on tap and olde Irish barflies made her feel at home.

I felt troubled about what was happening between us. Colleen and I had been seeing each other for about a year, and we took that fact two different ways. To Colleen, it meant "time to get off the stick."

While we waited for our table we drank black and tans and shot darts, a begi

"You shouldn't let me win, Jack," she said. "I'm going to take a lot of guff for this."

"You don't think I'm losing on purpose, Molloy?"

"Try to hit the number eight," she said, patting my hip.

My next flight of darts missed the mark, but I was laughing at myself, enjoying Colleen as she stood poised to throw, showing a lovely angle from her fingertips to her heel. Her first dart landed on the twenty, ending the game.

"I guess this means di

She laughed and kissed me as her friend Donahue came out of the kitchen. Donahue was thirty-six and bearded. Colleen had said he was already suffering from gout.

"So this is the man who robbed us of your heart," he said.

"Mike's a sweet talker," Colleen said, hanging an arm around my waist. We followed Donahue to a table in a snug corner of the back room. After we'd eaten, the waiter came out carrying a cake blazing with candles.

When all the clapping and whistling was over, I leaned across the table for a kiss. "Happy belated birthday, Molloy." I pushed a little gold-wrapped box toward her. Colleen's face brightened as she peeled back the tape and paper. She slowly lifted the lid on the box.

"Thank you, Jack. It's lovely," she said, taking out a gold wristwatch.

"It suits you, Colleen."

"Go on then, Jack. You don't have to say tha' when you mean sumthin' else," she said.

Message received loud and clear. It's not a ring.

Chapter 51

COLLEEN'S RENTED BUNGALOW was in Los Feliz, a homey, artistic community with low buildings and one-family dwellings packed together on charming streets. We sat in my car and I told her why I couldn't stay tonight, even though we were celebrating her birthday.

People walked dogs in the street; kids ran by, shouting to one another. Idyllic stuff. Colleen looked down at her folded hands and at the little gold watch that gleamed dully under the streetlight.

"Rick and I are flying to Las Vegas in an hour," I told her.

"You don't have to explain. I made the arrangements into McCarran, Jack."

"It's just business, Colleen. I'm not going to a casino."

"It's fine, Jack. I have to study tonight anyway. I wouldn't be much fun. Thanks again for the lovely birthday, and the present. It's the nicest watch I've ever owned by far."

She gave me a peck on the lips, then reached for the door handle.

"I'll walk you to the door."

She sat back until I opened the car door, then she stepped primly out. I marched alongside her, past the mop-head rosebushes and lavender in the narrow garden bordering the walk. She fumbled for her keys. "Have a safe flight."

"I'll see you in the morning," I said. Then I went down the fragrant walk to my car. I felt terrible about leaving her tonight, but I had to go.

The lights went on inside the cottage.

I tracked Colleen's movements from the entryway to the kitchen to the little sitting room where soon she'd be doing her work with a cup of tea, the radio on to keep her company.

I imagined her looking at her new watch, thinking of all the things she might have said to me, and what she'd say to me tomorrow. I started up the car and pulled away from the curb. At a stoplight, I called Rick.

"How're you doing?" I asked him. He'd been in a black mood since the incident at Glenda Treat's. Del Rio is the toughest man I know, and he held a grudge about that beating.

"I'm just leaving," he said. "I should be at the airport in twenty minutes, traffic permitting."

"This is a reminder," I said. "Bring your gun."

"Yeah. And Jack, you bring yours."