Privacy didn't exist in the field anymore. Everything was recorded, flagged for important words by massive supercomputers, and analyzed by the intel weenies back at HQ.
Marty continued, "The prints matched. We know it's him for sure now."
Gene turned around. "We knew for sure a week ago, Marty. We just didn't know who the victim was. Just like Denver. And D.C. And…."
"Yeah," Marty agreed. "Hell of a job we've got here, ain't it? Almost makes me wish I'd dropped out of school."
"Mama would have killed you, Marty."
"True," Marty said. "But then I wouldn't be working for a pencil-neck like you."
Gene grinned and turned back down the hall. "I should be so lucky."
Gene walked into the break room and glared at the half-empty coffee pot. The little red light stared back at him. The stale, bitter smell in the room indicated that this pot was probably brewed during the Rodney King riots, from stale beans.
"Gene, you've got a meeting with the Chief of Police at oh-seven hundred. Get some fucking sleep, boss." Gene nodded as he emptied the pot into the sink, clicked off the machine, and headed back to the couch in his office. He didn't need to see the smirk on Marty's face to know it was there.
He only calls me "boss" when he's telling me what to do. With an exhausted grin of his own, Gene lay down on the lumpy couch to catch as much sleep as his aching head would allow.
* * *
June 23rd, 6:57 AM PST; LAPD Headquarters, Parker Center; Los Angeles, California.
Gene had done his research. By all accounts, Police Chief Logan Stukly was an ambitious and intelligent man. Born and raised in Los Angeles, he was as comfortable in the barrios and ghettos as he was in the mansions of the Hollywood elite. A third-generation police officer and a twenty-two-year veteran of the L.A.P.D., he hadn't just been around the block; he lived there. Add a fierce charisma and a pack of weasels willing to get dirty behind the scenes, and it all added up to a major appointment that had transformed a career cop into a budding politician.
Explosions on Rodeo Drive made the local PD look bad. Given Stukly's mayoral ambitions, Gene could guess his mood. Gene's head throbbed in time with his footsteps as he approached the door.
The man glanced up when Gene walked in. He waved Gene to a chair and kept typing. Twenty seconds later, he clicked his mouse and looked up.
"You Palomini?"
"Yes," Gene said.
Chief Stukly sneered through his teeth and looked across the massive oak table that served as his desk.
"Tell me, how long were you planning on letting a serial killer rampage through my city before you deigned to inform my men of his presence?"
Gene suppressed a groan. He'd hoped for some level of cooperation. "You understand that all of this has to be kept confidential?"
"Yes," Stukly said.
"He's known as the 'D Street Killer' after the location of his first murder. He likes to toy with the FBI, give us clues. We got the city location four days ago, when—" He jumped as Stukly slammed his meaty palms on the table.
"FOUR DAYS?" Stukly roared, spittle flying everywhere. Gene held up his hands and winced at the volume. The chief's face was flushed with rage, but his voice calmed. "I'm sorry, Agent, please go on."
Temper versus ambition, Gene thought. This man is dangerous, but mostly to himself.
He licked his lips and continued. "Yeah, well, this guy likes to taunt us. He gives us a state six days before a kill, always by pre-paid cellular, voice-over-IP, or text message. We get a city two days after that. Neighborhood the morning of the kill, almost always with the first and last initials of the victim. Within seconds of the kill, we get a victim ID and a street." He snarled. "Never enough time to catch the perp, though."
Stukly's frown deepened. "And you couldn't tell LAPD that he was in Los Angeles because?"
"Because we already had. Two of your sections were notified and had classified it as low priority, partly because the Bureau was already on it and partly because your homicide guys are already swamped. Until we found out the neighborhood, of course."
Stukly raised his eyebrows. "What about the neighborhood?"
"Rodeo Drive is not South Central," Gene said.
The chief raised his bushy eyebrows and shuffled the papers in front of him. Instead of answering the charge, he changed the subject. "Why this vic? Why Jenny Sykes? Why Rodeo Drive?"
"I wish we could tell you, sir," Gene said. "This guy's one of the slipperiest the Bureau's ever encountered." He told the man what precious little they knew and was asked the same old questions. M.O.? Usually a gun, but no consistent model or caliber. Knives on a couple of vics, but different kinds, usually taken from the area of the kill and always left behind, just like the guns. On top of that, they had a baseball bat, a lamp, a steel-toed boot, a television in a bathtub, and a ten-story drop to pavement. And now a car bomb.