I didn’t know Andy Cushman anymore.
I said, “For a bean counter, you’re a damned fine actor. Maybe overplaying it a touch right now.”
The sobbing stopped, and Andy sobered. “Please, Jack. You don’t understand what it was like living in the same house with her. Knowing what she was doing: the junk, the men. I had to do it — but I couldn’t do it myself. I did love her, Jack. I honestly did. Please. Don’t tell the police.”
“Don’t worry about it. I won’t call the cops. You’re a client, you shit.”
“And a friend?”
The pleading look just enraged me more.
By way of an answer, I punched him in the face. His chair fell back, and when he was down, I yanked him up by his hair, kicked him everywhere: legs, kidneys, ribs. I poured a three-hundred-dollar bottle of Scotch over his head. I couldn’t think of anything else to say, nothing else I could do without actually killing him.
Andy Cushman, my former client, my former friend, was still crying when I left his suite.
Chapter 105
DR. SCI CAME spinning around the corner to Justine’s office, grabbed the doorjamb, and leaned straight out as if he were a flag in a gale.
It was ten after ten in the morning, and he’d been working in the lab with Justine’s two bar glasses all night.
Justine placed her palms flat on her desk and searched Sci’s baby face. He was a scientist, so even if the news was bad, his expression could read happy: happy that he’d solved a problem.
“Tell me something good,” Justine said. “Put a smile on my face, boy wonder.”
“I’ve got good news and I’ve got bad news,” Sci said.
Justine put her face in her hands. “Bad news first,” she said.
“The good news is that I have isolated the unknown male’s DNA. It matches the DNA we found in Wendy Borman’s clothing.”
“That’s the good news?” Justine said. “We only got a forensic hit off that male DNA.”
“Yep, he’s still unknown. But you saw him. He’s alive and well and living in LA.”
“Listen, Sci, good news would be that you’ve got a positive match to Rudolph Crocker. I was sitting right next to him in the bar. I wrapped up his glass like I was swaddling a baby chick. His DNA has to be on that glass.”
Sci let go of the doorjamb, came into the office, and sat in the chair across from Justine. He jammed his flip-flops up against the side of her desk. His yellow print aloha shirt picked up the blond streaks in his hair. It made him look like he had just wandered in from a surf shop in Venice Beach.
“The problem isn’t that Rudolph Crocker’s DNA isn’t on that glass. It’s that what I got was allele soup. So while I can’t exclude him from the sample, I can’t positively match his DNA to the DNA we found on Wendy Borman’s shirt. I’m sorry, Justine. The sample is crap.”
“Wait a minute. Wait a minute. Can you run the test again, try to isolate his DNA somehow—”
Sci watched Justine try to twist the result he’d given her into hope. If he could do it for her, he would.
“—can’t you?”
“No. If I were to guess what happened,” said Sci, “the barkeep was out of clean glasses. He rinsed out a dirty one in the sink and gave it to Crocker. New glasses came after that, and the barkeep gave a clean glass to the unknown male. Plausible?”
“I can’t get another sample from Crocker,” Justine said. “Not in time.”
“If you can’t find what you want on the street, go into his house and take it,” said Sci.
“You don’t really mean break into his house…. Oh. You’re saying get a search warrant.”
“If that’s your best shot.”
Shit, Justine thought. She dialed Bobby’s number. She knew it by heart, of course.
Chapter 106
JUSTINE SIGHED, then swiveled her chair toward the windows and away from Sci. She lowered her face as she spoke urgently to Petino.
“Bobby. Sci says we can’t exclude Rudolph Crocker’s DNA from the sample. That means he could have been one of the psychos who kidnapped Wendy Borman.
“Right, Bob,” Justine continued into the phone. “The sample is contaminated, but Crocker is included as one of many possibilities—
“Yes, that’s true. Crocker is one of many possible contributors, so I need a search warrant—
“Are you serious? I only need to go into his apartment for one second and get his toothbrush—
“Thanks for your time, and thanks for nothing, Bob. Whatever happens is on you.”
Justine banged down the receiver, spun around, and said to Sci, “He says even if he could strong-arm a judge, the evidence would be inadmissible. I don’t care about the case right now. I want to stop this freak from killing someone tonight.”
Sci’s phone buzzed on his hip. He glanced at it and said to Justine, “I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”
Sci took the stairs to the basement lab. He found Mo-bot in her druid cave of an office, incense burning. It smelled like perfumed garbage to him.
Mo didn’t look up from the computer. She said, “Morbid has hijacked a screen name and launched a text message to the target.”
Sci rolled a chair up to Mo’s desk and studied the screen. The stealth program they’d created was awfully good. It could hack calls wirelessly once the outgoing number was plugged in — but it also picked up chatter.
“Highlight Morbid and Lady D,” Sci said. “Let’s make it easier for us.” He pulled his cell phone off his belt and called Jack.
“Morbid’s making small talk with the target,” he told Jack. “The little fuck is using the handle Lulu218. His text to her says ‘C U after school.’ Doesn’t say where.”
Sci said to Mo, “Can you get a better fix on Morbid’s location?… Jack, he’s in West Hollywood. That’s all I can tell you right now. We’ll track the pings until we can refine his location.”
“Can’t you trace him?” Jack asked.
“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.”