Private (Private 1)

A homeless teen with meth mouth and wearing a Speedo and a dirty green shirt came over to Cruz and asked for some spare change for his college fund.

Cruz said, “You’re standing in my sun.”

The kid—already a bum—said, “It’s why they call it spare change, dude. You won’t miss it.”

By the time the fresh kid had pushed off, Spano and the refs had finished their meeting and split up, Spano returning to the art deco hotel across the street, the refs inside a cab heading downtown.

It didn’t matter. Cruz had the whole story. The Titans were favored to mow the Raiders down. The refs had to prevent a massacre and protect that seventeen-point spread. If they did, someone was going to make a whole lot of millions.

Cruz tapped buttons on his iPhone, calling Jack.

“Good news, very good news. I recorded the fix. Do you receive me, captain?”

“Loud and clear. We got it all here. Audio and video. Who’s that in the blue jacket?”

“Victor Spano. Out of Chicago. Marzullo family.”

“Unreal,” Jack said. “Good job, Emilio. Come home. We need you here.”

Chapter 74

JUSTINE WAS AT BESO, the spectacular restaurant owned by Eva Longoria and Todd English. It was a huge vaulted space known for its Mexican cuisine with an original twist.

Justine’s round booth gave her a wide view of the room, but she hadn’t exactly been stargazing. That wasn’t her style.

She’d been passing the time paging through a short stack of yearbooks from Gateway Prep. The waiter cleared the table and brought her check.

“Everything was good this evening, Dr. Smith? You enjoyed your lemon sole?”

“Yes, Raphael. I’m practically addicted to the lemon sole. Everything was perfect.”

Actually, nothing was perfect, other than the fish. She’d tagged ten boys, Gateway graduates from the years 2004 through 2006, who somewhat matched Christine Castiglia’s description. Some had pointy noses, some had sticking-out ears; none of them had a police record.

Justine paid her check, and as she waited for the valet to bring her car around, she switched on her phone and checked her messages. She saw that Bobby had called and so had Christine Castiglia’s mother, Peggy.

Was it possible? Had Christine made a breakthrough? Justine tapped the button to return Peggy Castiglia’s call. She muttered, “C’mon, c’mon,” until the phone was answered on the fifth ring.

“Leave my daughter alone,” Christine’s mother told her. “She’s an anxious child, and now she’s got you to worry about. You can’t rely on anything she says, do you understand? Because she doesn’t want to disappoint you. She’s in her room crying right now.”

Justine blocked out the traffic, the pedestrians on the sidewalk. She stared at her blue pumps as she told Peggy Castiglia that she was sorry, she didn’t want to upset Christine, but it was necessary to keep her involved.

“Necessary? Not for Christine,” Peggy Castiglia said.

Justine’s head throbbed. She clenched the phone and said, “Peggy. Someone has already murdered thirteen girls—that we know about. Christine is our only real lead so far. Do you seriously want to get in the way of bringing down a killer?”

“I can’t afford to worry about other girls, Dr. Smith. If you had a daughter, maybe you’d understand. Just stay away from Chrissy. Don’t make me call the authorities.”

“I am the authorities. I can have her interrogated as a material witness,” Justine said, her voice high, strained, getting away from her. “Please,” she said to Peggy Castiglia. “Don’t make me force her to talk to the cops.”

“You just try it, Dr. Smith. I’ll fight you to my last breath.” And then Peggy Castiglia hung up the phone.

Chapter 75

JUSTINE WAS SEETHING as she headed toward home on the freeway. Sci had gotten viable DNA from Wendy Borman’s clothes, but there were no matches in the database. Without a match, she couldn’t put a name to the DNA left by Wendy Borman’s killer.

They were so close—and they were nowhere.

And right now, the Street Freeks were planning another kill.