She wasn't sure she wanted to hear any more, but if she asked him to stop, it would be a display of weakness. She never allowed herself to be weak around him.
"Why did he do it?" she asked. "Just for kicks?"
"If you want to know his motive, you're asking the wrong person. Even the shrinks can't figure out a serial killer. Well, maybe your mom can."
"Maybe I'll ask her."
"You should. I'll bet she's got a theory. Shrinks always have theories. And your mom's pretty sharp. She might have a handle on Justin Gray."
He reached out and touched Meg's long blond hair, stroked it.
"Bet he thinks about you in his cell," Gabe whispered.
"Stop amp;"
He drew back, studying her face. "Whoops. I shouldn't have said thatany of it. It's got you all worked up."
"I'm okay."
"You don't need to hear about that kind of craziness."
"I think I could use some craziness in my life. My boring, predictable, sheltered, overprotected life." She smiled up at him. "You know, as long as you're here and we've got the place to ourselves amp;"
"You're not worried about Robin?"
"She's a workaholic. Obsessive-compulsive type. Goes along with her paranoia. Won't be home till after dinner."
"She seeing Justin Gray today? That why she's working late?"
"No, today's Monday. She sees him on Tuesdays and Thursdays. She must have some other thing going on. She's always busy, you know. Always on the go."
"She should learn to loosen up." He kissed her. "Have some fun. Enjoy life." He kissed her again. "Stop and smell the coffee."
Meg giggled. "She really should. She doesn't know what she's missing. You know, my room's just upstairs."
"I'd like to see your room."
"I thought you would."
They left the kitchen together. Meg thought she'd been wrong to ask him if he had kids. His private life was his business. She didn't need to know anything about it. She didn't even need to know his last name.
Gabe was enough. It was the name of an angel. Wasn't it?
Chapter Eleven
The sun was drifting lower in the western sky, caught in a mesh of utility lines and billboards, when Robin found Wolper in the coffee shop at Santa Monica and La Brea. Across the street, a jacked-up Monte Carlo had skidded over the curb and plowed through one wall of a comic-book shop. Copies of Batman and Spider-Man and Wonder Woman were scattered on the sidewalk, the four-color pages flapping in the breeze. A crew of young boys loitered at the edge of the crime scene, surreptitiously collecting the comics.
Wolper was seated in a window booth. Without his uniform, wearing a turtleneck and jeans, he looked like a different man, but she noticed that he was still squeezing the rubber ball in his left hand.
"I hope I didn't keep you waiting," she said as she took the bench seat opposite him. "I had trouble finding a place to park."
"No problem. I got here just a couple minutes ago." She nodded toward the window. "It's a real mess out there."
He shrugged. "No serious injuries."
"I take it you talked to the officers at the scene."
"I checked in for a second. Force of habit."
"Was the driver drunk?"
"Just a moron. He was changing a tape in his cassette player. Took his eyes off the road."
"Hopefully he'll lose his license."
"Even if he does, he'll keep driving. Half the people in LA drive unlicensed."
She looked out the window at the small crowd of onlookers. "I'm surprised there weren't more witnesses."
"There were a million wits. They all ran off. Illegal aliens. Afraid we'll turn 'em in to INS. Which we wouldn't, but they don't trust us. It's getting so the only wits we can count on are the panhandlers and the pallet guys."
"Pallet guys?"
"You know those wooden crates they ship things in? You can break them down into pallets, sell them for reuse. You see guys hauling them around in shopping carts. Pallet guys. Anyway, they'll stick around and talk. Never show up to testify in court, but this thing won't get to court anyway. Too many higher priorities. Too much insanity in this city." He gave her a look. "You have a kid?"
The question, coming out of nowhere, surprised her. "A daughter. Fifteen."
"Fifteen? What did you do, get married at age twelve?"
She shrugged off the compliment. "I'm thirty-nine. I had Meg when I was in med school."
"Isn't med school tough enough without raising a baby?"
"You'd think so, wouldn't you? It wasn't exactly planned. I had my life all worked out. Four years of premed. Five years of med school, hospital internship for one year, three years to a master's in psychiatry, two-year psychiatric residency, private practice by age thirty-two."
"I'll bet you stayed on schedule, even with a kid."
"Well amp; yes. I'm kind of determined once I set my mind on something."
"I noticed."
"Why did you ask if I had a child?"
"Because I've got one, too. A son, Zachary, twelve years old. I don't see him as much as I'd likemy wife and I split up. But whenever I get to spend a night or a weekend with Zach, I think about this city. The insanity here. More and more of it every day. I think about thatand what it might do to him."
"I know what you mean."
"You worry about your daughter, huh?"
"Too much. All the time."
"The curse of parenthood. You bring them into the world, and then you can't let go, even when they want us to. It would be easier if I was there more often, but you know how it is in a divorce. Well, maybe you don't."
"I do, actually. My husbandexis up in Santa Barbara, creating art."
"Art? He make a living at it?"
"A surprisingly good living."
"Hope he keeps up the child support."
"That's the one area where he's proven reliable."
"Good for him. A man should never abandon his own child. That's the worst thing he can do." Wolper smiled. "Listen to me. With all the crap I've seen, you wouldn't think a guy missing his support payments is the worst crime I could think of." He shook his head. "You didn't come here to talk about this."
"Not really."
"So what exactly is the problem, Doctor?"
She hesitated. "How much do you know about the Eddie Valdez shooting?"
"I know it was thoroughly reviewed by the OIS teamthat's short for officer-involved shooting. Brand's actions were found to be within use-of-force guidelines."
"But there was no witness to the shooting, correct? There was only Brand's account of what happened."
"There was ballistics evidence," Wolper said carefully.
"Lieutenant, what is a patch?"
It was his turn to hesitate. "A patch amp; well, it's a cop's take of the bad guys' take. A payoff to look the other way while crimes are committed. I need to know why you're asking me this."
She ignored him. "Who are the Gs?"
"Drug gang in our division. Gs is short for Gangstas. The San Pedro Street Gangstas is what they call themselves. What the hell did Brand tell you?"
"More than he intended. The technique I use has a way of releasing a person's inhibitions."
"Like truth serum?"
"There's no such thing as truth serum, but this procedure may be a pretty close equivalent."
"You're saying he witnessed a payoff?"
"I'm saying he received a payoff, then shot Valdez when he came up short."
"That's ridiculous."