“Nope,” Sci said to Jack. “We can’t intercept the call, and that poor girl will be dead before the cops can get a court order.”
“I’m working on it!” Jack practically shouted.
Sci said, “Okay. We’ll keep trying,” then disconnected from the call to Jack.
“Text Lady D,” Sci said to Mo.
“I tried. We’re blocked. She’s being so careful, poor lamb. She knows there’s a killer out there, so she lets in the wolf wearing her girlfriend’s screen name—and she locks us out.”
Chapter 107
LIEUTENANT NORA CRONIN sped up Figueroa, jerked the wheel to the right, and double-parked in front of the obscure five-story white building that housed Private and its many secrets. Justine walked out of the glass front doors at a smart clip, got into the squad car, and buckled in.
“Pisses me off,” Justine said.
“You know, even though Bobby’s a complete prick, you gotta give him points here, Justine, because he’s right. We don’t have probable cause.”
“Crocker and his buddy are going to kill someone tonight, another girl. That’s my ‘probable cause,’ damn it.”
The car radio sputtered: a hit-and-run on Cahuenga and Santa Monica Boulevard.
Nora dialed down the volume and said, “I say we hit Rudolph Crocker’s office unannounced. You stand there looking like you look. Like a prosecutor with a stick up your ass. I badge Crocker, ask him nicely to come downtown. He’s not under arrest; we just need his help with a case we’re working on. Good-citizen kinda thing. Say he could have witnessed a crime.”
“Okay,” Justine said. “He comes in. Now he’s in the box. You say he was identified driving past the street where Borman was kidnapped five years ago.”
“Sure. That could work. Maybe he gets nervous and says something incriminating. Or maybe he leaves his DNA on a Coke can,” Nora said. “Maybe coming into the station throws him off. So he cancels the kill tonight, and then, partner, we’ve bought more time, at least.”
Justine nodded. “He works on Wilshire, near Fairfax. At ten forty a.m. he should be there.”
Nora hit the gas and drove for fifteen minutes up Wilshire, located the address easily, and parked. Then she and Justine entered the chilly office building with a vivid barn-sized Frank Stella construction in the lobby.
Nora badged the blade-thin receptionist at the long green marble desk on the second floor. She asked to see Rudolph Crocker.
The receptionist said, “Mr. Crocker isn’t in. He’s taking a vacation day.”
“Fuck!” Nora said, and banged her fist on the desk.
Back in the squad car, Nora drove toward Crocker’s apartment building. “If he’s not home, we wait for him like last time,” she said to Justine.
“Or why don’t you put out an APB on his stinking minivan?”
Nora said, “Fine. Good call, Justine.”
Nora gave dispatch Crocker’s name, said that he was driving a late-model blue Toyota Sienna minivan, and requested an all-points bulletin on the vehicle. “I want that van,” she said, “in connection with the Schoolgirl murders.
“Watch. He’ll be parked right outside his apartment,” Nora said to Justine.
But the blue van wasn’t in sight, and the doorman said that Crocker had left the building early that morning, around seven, and no, he had no idea when Crocker would be back.
Nora and Justine settled down in the squad car parked across from Crocker’s apartment building. Nora continued with her litany of “fuck this” and “fuck that.” More than four hours later, Nora got the call from dispatch.
“Lieutenant, that blue Sienna van is in Silver Lake. It was last seen heading north on Alvarado. Our unit was traveling south, then lost him in the turnaround.”
Nora barked, “Tell all units to find that van, Sergeant. I want the driver pulled over under any pretext and held until I get there. The suspect may be armed and dangerous. He’s our primary in a series of homicides.”
Chapter 108
“JACK,” MO-BOT SAID in a voice that was unusually tame for her, “so you can keep this straight, we don’t know the real names of any of these people.”