Next Victim

by Michael Prescott

  Tess thought they were laying it on a little thick. But they had to get a reaction, had to rattle the unflappable Bill Hayde, who just sat there shaking his head in amazed derision.

  "You think I’m a friggin’ serial killer, for Christ’s sake?"

  "Who said anything about a serial killer, Mr. Hayde?"

  "You just said it’s a pattern. And you’re asking me about Denver. I’m not as dumb as I look, gentlemen. I can put two and two together and usually get four. You’re after the Pickup Artist, right?" He sounded more intrigued than alarmed.

  "What if we are?"

  "He killed, what, three people in Denver a couple years ago?"

  "Four," Gaines said, and Tess mouthed the same word, thinking of the fourth victim.

  "Yeah, that’s right, four. Last one was a feeb like you guys, as I recall." Hayde was smiling, and Tess had never hated anyone as much as she hated him in that moment, for that smile. "And now you’re trying to pin all that on me? Just because I tried to pork Agent Starling here?"

  "Agent Tyler," Michaelson corrected, seeming confused, as if he didn’t get the reference.

  Hayde ignored him and leaned back as far as the straight-backed chair would allow. "Man, you folks must be desperate. I mean, if a little S-and-M action is enough to get me pulled in, you’ve got to be scraping bottom."

  Tess checked the computer. Smooth sine waves. The agent manning the console caught her glance. "Stress is low," he said.

  "Fucking sociopaths can beat those machines," DiFranco muttered.

  "They can beat a polygraph." This was Larkin. "Not a CVSA."

  "They can beat anything," DiFranco persisted. "Voice stress is bullshit, anyway. Even if it wasn’t, these guys are so crazy, they don’t even know when they’re lying."

  "Does he strike you as crazy?" Tess asked quietly.

  They all looked at her. No one spoke for a moment. Then Hart said, "Sometimes they can pass for normal. It doesn’t prove anything."

  "Maybe not," she conceded. "But I know what would." She took a breath. "Let me see him. Face-to-face."

  9

  Jim Dodge slid into the corner booth at Lucy J’s and ordered a seltzer water.

  "Drinking the hard stuff?" Myron Levine said with a cocked eyebrow. When Levine did that, he looked a lot like the guy who played Dr. McCoy on the old Star Trek show.

  "I’m on duty," Dodge said.

  "On a Friday night? What’s cooking?"

  "I’m catching calls all weekend. Tonight there was a gangbang on Robertson." Nearly all violent crime in the West LA district took place along a short strip of Robertson Boulevard. "Two assholes got into it at a video store. One of them was stabbed. I’m supposed to be on my way over right now."

  "Is the kid dead?"

  "Critical."

  "White?"

  "Black."

  "Huh." Levine shrugged, losing interest as Dodge had known he would. A wounded black banger wasn’t news—not TV news, at any rate. And Levine was a crime reporter for KPTI-TV. Except he didn’t call it crime reporting. To hear Levine tell it, he was the Channel Eight Justice Watch correspondent.

  The job title was bullshit. TV news was bullshit. Truth be told, most of the actual facts reported in the news were bullshit, too. Fucking reporters either got the facts wrong or just plain made them up.

  Dodge wasn’t judgmental about any of that. He didn’t blame Myron Levine and his associates for peddling a load of crap to an ignorant public. Hell, it was a living.

  He knew Levine wanted to get right to the point, which was why he decided to make him wait a minute or two. "You were in Denver for a while, right?"

  "Couple years at Channel Three. Why?"

  "Ever hear of an FBI agent name of Tess McCallum?"

  Levine nodded. "Black Tiger."

  "Black Tiger? What the fuck is that? Some kind of secret code?"

  "A case she worked."

  "In Denver?"

  "In Miami, as I recall. But it was news everywhere for a while. I even tried to set up an interview with McCallum when she transferred to Denver, but she wouldn’t talk to me."

  Dodge wasn’t surprised. "She’s not too talkative. I noticed that myself."

  Levine was getting antsy. "So what does Tess McCallum have to do with the price of beer in China?"

  "Not a fucking thing. Just a matter of personal curiosity."

  "You called me out here to satisfy your curiosity?"

  "No, that was just a side issue. I’ve got something for you. Something you’ll like."

  "I hope so. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m always grateful for a heads-up, but I’ve got a lot on my plate right now."

  Dodge didn’t give a shit about Levine’s plate. "How interested are you in the Grandy case?" he asked.

  That cocked eyebrow again. "What is this, an IQ test? I’m interested. Obviously I’m interested. Everybody’s interested. We ran with it as our lead story on the ten o’clock show tonight."

  "I said, how interested?"

  Levine considered the question. "A thousand."

  "What I have is more interesting than that."

  "Fifteen hundred."

  "Cheap doesn’t look good on you, Myron."

  "Give me some idea of what you’ve got, and we’ll talk."

  Dodge shrugged. "Fair enough. I can tell you what Mr. Delbert Grandy, upstanding citizen and innocent motorist, was overheard saying not long after a nine-millimeter soft-point round pulverized his clavicle."

  "Overheard by who?"

  "It’s whom, Myron. Correct grammar is whom. Don’t they teach you TV dipshits basic English?"

  Levine ignored this. "Who the fuck heard it?"

  "Me, for one. My partner, for another. You know that Bradley and me were in the neighborhood, so we were early on the scene. Got there before the EMTs, even."

  "Yeah, I know that. I also know that you wouldn’t give me anything that can be linked that closely to you or to Al Bradley."

  "Of course I wouldn’t. I’m not a moron, Myron." Dodge smiled. "Hey, you ever notice how much those two words sound alike? Moron. Myron. It’s like your parents had a, what d’you call it, premonition."

  "Fuck you, Dodge."

  "Touchy." He sipped his seltzer. "Anyway, Mr. Grandy’s words are now known by all members of the grand jury, not to mention miscellaneous other individuals present in the courtroom today, not least of whom is the lady bystander who testified about it. So nothing can be linked to me. That’s why I’m giving it to you."

  "Selling it to me."

  "Your formulation is more accurate. The information is indeed for sale. What’s it worth?"

  "Two thousand. That’s my limit."

  Dodge pretended to think it over, though he had already known Levine would max out at two thousand and that he would take it. This was the way it always worked, and the haggling was only a game they played to show each other how smart they were.

  Levine had been buying information from Dodge, and no doubt from other people, ever since his arrival in LA last year. Most journalists, whether out of ethical considerations or simple impecuniousness, refused to pay their sources. Levine was different. He was graspingly ambitious, desperate to rise to the heights of TV news stardom, probably gunning for an anchor spot on 60 Minutes someday.

  He was also a pretty goddamned homely son of a bitch with limited investigative skills. To get ahead, he had to pay his own way. Since he pulled down more than three hundred grand a year for his current gig at KPTI, he wasn’t exactly hurting for cash. And as long as he kept getting the goods, his producers weren’t likely to inquire too closely into his methods.

  By now, Dodge figured he’d made Levine wait long enough. "Okay, Myron, I’ll cut you a break. It’s a deal."

  "So give."

  "You know my policy. Cash in advance."

  "I came directly from the station. I don’t have that much on me."

  "There’s an ATM down the street. I’ll wait."

  Levine blew out a heavy
breath. "Fuck it." He opened his wallet and passed a small stack of bills under the table. Dodge pocketed the money without counting it.

  "All right. Mr. Grandy, the innocent African-American motorist gunned down by racist West LA cops, was screaming, and I quote, ‘I’m gonna kill you, motherfucker. I’m gonna fucking kill you.’ End of quote."

  "He was saying it to the cop who shot him?"

  "He was saying it to the world in general, but I think we can safely assume his rage was primarily directed at lily-white Officer Perkins."

  Levine contemplated this, probably wondering if he’d gotten his money’s worth. "Screaming threats," he said finally.

  "Righty-o."

  "Interesting."

  "Like I told you. Suddenly Mr. Grandy’s not the victimized father of three who lives in Baldwin Hills and is pulled over for Driving While Black. Suddenly he’s not Mr. Rising African-American Middle Class. Instead he’s just another ornery, angry, fucked-up, probably drugged-up nigger asshole who probably had it coming."

  Levine waved this off. "Jim…"

  Dodge knew Levine was uncomfortable with overt displays of racism. Levine was a liberal, and as such, he had a certain romanticized self-image to uphold. No doubt he shared all the thoughts and opinions Dodge so colorfully expressed, but he kept them secret. In his eyes, this made him a better person. To Dodge, it just meant he was a priss and a coward, in addition to being an all-around asswipe.

  "Forgive my politically incorrect characterization of the facts," Dodge said. "I’ll leave the sociopolitical interpretations to intellectuals like yourself."

  Levine wasn’t listening. He seemed perturbed. After a moment he said, "You wouldn’t be spinning me, would you, Jim?"

  It was Dodge’s turn to cock an eyebrow. "I never thought of myself as a PR flack."

  "It just seems as if this particular testimony might be helpful to the LAPD."

  "For the reasons I just stated."

  "Yes. For those reasons."

  "What makes you think I give a fuck about helping the LAPD?"

  Shrug. "I’m just looking at all the angles. This evidence bolsters Perkins’s claim that he was shooting in self-defense."

  "Grandy said it after he was shot, not before."

  Another shrug. "Even so."

  Dodge was amazed. This goddamn self-important little prick seemed to actually think he was an investigative reporter, when all he did was read copy off a TelePrompTer to fill time between the comedy weatherman and the comedy sports guy. Still, Levine would have to be massaged to keep things friendly.

  "I can see how you might view it that way," Dodge said. "But you’d be wrong. I don’t take sides. I hand out whatever information it’s safe for me to reveal. And to prove it, I’ll give you another little tidbit that’s definitely not helpful to my brothers in blue."

  Levine sighed theatrically. "How much is this one gonna cost?"

  "Pay for my drink. That’ll cover it."

  A skeptical squint. "You’re in a generous mood."

  "I value our friendship, Myron. I want it to continue." This sort of comment was another part of the game. Both men knew that whatever the nature of their relationship, friendship was not the word for it.

  Levine waited as Dodge removed a slip of paper and unfolded it. He slid it across the table, holding the corner between two fingers. Levine took a long look.

  "This is from Grandy’s medical file," Levine said.

  "That’s right. Bullet trajectory analysis. Want me to translate the medicalese into plain language?"

  "I can read it." Levine spent another minute poring over the document. "They’re saying the bullet passed through the fleshy part of his left hand before entering his collarbone. So what?"

  "Look at the entrance and exit wounds on the hand."

  Levine looked. He got it. "His palm was facing out." He glanced up at Dodge and pantomimed raising both hands in front of him, palms forward.

  "Not exactly an offensive posture, is it?" Dodge said.

  "He was holding up his hands when Perkins capped him."

  "Bingo. Still think I’m spinning?"

  "No, I don’t." Levine started to pull the paper toward him. Dodge yanked it back.

  "Sorry, Myron. You can look, but you can’t have."

  "Why not? Is this the original?"

  "It’s a Xerox I ran off when nobody was looking. But if anybody finds this on you, it’ll be traced back to me, and my ass is grass. In case you’ve forgotten, leaking grand jury info is still considered a criminal act. We’re talking contempt of court, mandatory prison term, good-bye career, good-bye pension."

  "They’ll never find it on me. I won’t burn you, Jim."

  "I know you won’t, Myron. Because I won’t give you the chance." Dodge folded the paper and stuck it in his pocket. "Anyway, you don’t need the paper. You know what it says. Now go home and write up a story. Make it a good one. Maybe this is the year you’ll cop that Golden Mike."

  He waved over the waitress and ordered a slice of apple pie.

  Levine stood up. "I’d better get out of here. Hey, didn’t you say you have a crime scene to go to?"

  "I’ll get there when I get there. What the fuck, Bradley’s probably on the scene by now. He’ll handle the preliminaries. He’s good at that routine interview bullshit. Makes him feel like a real cop."

  He saw the question that flickered in Levine’s eyes: When was the last time you felt that way?

  But all Levine said was, "Take care of yourself, Jim."

  Dodge smiled and patted the side pocket of his windbreaker, where the money was. "What do you think I’m doing?"

  Dodge finished his pie and left a nice chunk of change for the waitress, a pretty little thing with a Jennifer Lopez ass. He glanced around as he rose from his seat, pleased to see that no one was looking at him.

  He wasn’t really worried about being recognized. The coffee shop was in the heart of Hollywood, far afield from West LA Division, and even the Hollywood cops didn’t come here, preferring dives with more atmosphere and a less seedy clientele.

  A low profile was critical in his dealings with Levine. If word ever got out that he was selling police secrets, he would be in very deep shit.

  The legal consequences were the least of it. Most likely he wouldn’t live long enough to stand trial. He would be fucking crucified by his fellow officers—and crucified was not necessarily a figure of speech. Dodge had once seen a suspect handcuffed to the bars of a holding cell with his arms above his head, almost exactly in the pose of the crucified Jesus. The asshole had been left that way till his shoulders separated and he passed out from the pain. Dodge never did learn what exactly the guy had done, but it was pretty clear he’d pissed off the boys in uniform.

  He was taking a hell of a risk for a couple of grand here and there. Except that the money added up, especially since none of it was reported to the government. At the rate he was going, he could retire in five years on a full pension and have a tidy nest egg on the side. No second career as a security consultant, no part-time work to raise extra cash, no money worries at all. Maybe he would even relocate to an island somewhere—the Bahamas, Cozumel, whatever. Someplace tropical, with lots of jiggly island women who’d be impressed by an ex-cop from LA with money to throw around.

  He left the coffee shop. Outside, a stream of traffic was cruising past on Hollywood Boulevard. Rap and hip-hop blared from every second or third passing car. It was a Friday night—well, early Saturday by now—and everybody was out having fun.

  Except him. It pissed him off that he was stuck catching calls on a weekend. Especially now that he and Bradley were stuck with a piece-of-shit stabbing case. Some nigger with a knife in his gut—nobody was going to lose sleep over that, except maybe the punk’s mother, who was probably a fat whore living on blow jobs and AFDC money.

  The Robertson cases were the downside of working West LA. Nothing that happened in that neighborhood was important. None of it was worth selling. It was stric
tly spade versus spade, or spic against spic. Not even worth a mention on the local news, unless a baby got hit, in which case Levine might be able to milk it for a little sentimental appeal.

  But let some guns go off a mile or two to the west—in Westwood Village, say—and let a college kid get caught in the cross fire, and bam, it was the lead story on every newscast. Levine would pay good money for info on a story like that.

  See, the victim had to be "affluent." That was the magic word. A gang shootout on Robertson Boulevard, or in Inglewood or South Central or Watts, wasn’t news. At most it was an interesting statistic—"This weekend, a record fourteen homicides were recorded in Los Angeles County. Now here’s Phil with the weather."

  On the other hand, a shooting in an "affluent" neighborhood was gold. And most of West LA was affluent as hell, at least by the conveniently elastic standards of the news media. Dodge had seen TV reporters who pulled down two hundred Gs a year doing live remotes in Culver City, in a cul-de-sac where people had their cars up on blocks in their driveways, and talking about the shock of crime in this "affluent, exclusive" neighborhood.

  What a crock. But they got away with it, either because the public was too fucking dumb to see they were getting yanked, or because they just didn’t give a shit. And why should they? It was only entertainment, after all—something to watch in the dead zone between Oprah and Dateline.

  Dodge shook his head, wearied by the stupidity and pointlessness of the world.

  He headed down a dark side street toward his car, parked at the curb alongside a yellow no-parking stripe. As he neared the car, he saw movement in the shadows near the driver’s-side door.

  It looked like he might have a situation here. Someone trying to boost his car. Not even his personal car—this was his department wheels, a black-and-white Caprice. A new policy required most detective vehicles to be painted like patrol cars.

  Dodge kept walking, not altering his stride, while he drew his Smith & Wesson 9mm from its shoulder holster. He passed the car, then pivoted and stepped into the street, training the gun on a teenager who knelt by the door, working the lock with a pick.

  "Hey," Dodge said. "Pancho."