Private (Private 1)

She smiled at me and put her handbag on the floor to free up the stool. I sat down and she asked me, “And where were you when the earth sneezed?”

It felt like old times to be with Justine at the Rose. We used to come to this place on Sunday mornings, read the paper, rate the bodybuilders who came in after their workouts at Gold’s Gym. I’d seen Arnold here often, and Oliver Stone, whose studio was a couple of blocks away.

I told Justine that I had been at Blue Skies, and that there hadn’t been any real damage. That was factually true but not entirely accurate.

I wanted to tell her the rest of it. I wanted her to help me put myself back together. I hoped she would read the trauma in my eyes.

“I was on Fairfax,” she said. “I pulled into that strip mall off Olympic. Holy crap. Talk about a minute and a half lasting a lifetime.”

She hardly stopped for breath. She put her briefcase on the table. Yearbooks came out, and Justine showed me a list of names and page numbers.

“I’m praying that I’m right about this feeling of mine, Jack. One of these kids could be our killer. I’m meeting with Christine Castiglia after this. She’s the key to this; I swear she is.”

Justine showed me pictures of teenage boys who matched Christine Castiglia’s description of a kid who might have abducted Wendy Borman. I tried to stay focused, but my mind kept shooting back to Afghanistan. I saw Danny, his blood glowing green through my NVGs. Jeff Albert screamed in my mind, “Danny is dead.”

“Are you all right?” Justine finally asked. “Is Tommy okay? Something happened, didn’t it?”

“He’s fine. But I…” My face got warm. “Some memory from the war shook loose. I want to tell you.”

Justine closed the yearbook and looked at her watch. “Damn it, Jack. I have to go. I’m meeting Christine on Melrose in twenty minutes. If I’m not there, she’ll bolt. Here’s an idea. Come with me. We can talk on the way in the car.”

“No, you go ahead,” I said. “This can wait. Honest. Tommy’s fine. I’m fine.”

Justine snapped her briefcase closed and picked up her handbag. She stood and put her hand on my shoulder.

Our eyes locked. She smiled, and for a second I thought she was going to lean down and kiss me. But she didn’t do that.

“Wish me luck,” she said. “I’ll need it with this girl.”

I said, “Good luck.” She said she’d see me later. Then I watched Justine through the multipaned windows as she walked up the street to her car and left me all alone.

It’s what you deserve, Jack, I told myself.

Chapter 89

JUSTINE HAD BEEN seesawing for days between mindless optimism and gutless despair. If the e-mails Sci and Mo-bot had found on Jason Pilser’s computer could be trusted, the Street Freeks were going for another kill in just days. They had to be stopped somehow.

She could just about picture their target: a teen girl who was either cocky or naive, but either way, vulnerable to being talked into a careless rendezvous, and then, possibly, her death.

Justine’s head hurt thinking about it. She felt she was so close to the killer, but she knew she might fail anyway.

On the other hand, Christine Castiglia was a force for good. There was reason to believe that she could help Private get ahead of the killers before Monday, before another girl died.

Justine parked her car on the busy block on Melrose where she and Christine had agreed to meet. She was ten minutes early.

Traffic was heavy, and the air quality was poor. Justine dialed up the air conditioner, then she took her BlackBerry out of her handbag and put it on the dash.

She scanned the street, saw kids in clumps, hanging out on the sidewalk.

None of them was Christine.

As noon passed, Justine had a bad thought that started to grow. Christine had defied her mother by asking for this meeting. It had been courageous to do that. But had the girl changed her mind? Or had something happened to Christine?

By twelve fifteen, Justine was sure of it.

At twelve thirty, she called Private and checked her voice mail. There was no message from Christine.

Justine tossed the phone back onto the dash. Her headache was making spidery inroads into both hemispheres of her brain.