"Give me a second," I tell Alan and James. I walk over to the car. Tommy rolls down the window.
"What's happening?" he asks.
I tell him about the VICAP hit. "We're going to San Fran now."
"What do you want me to do?"
I give a smile, reach over and touch his cheek, once. "Get some sleep."
"Sounds good," he replies. Mr. Laconic, as always. I turn to walk away. "Smoky," he says, stopping me. I look back at him. "Be careful."
I have time to see the worry in his eyes before he rolls up the window and drives away.
For some reason, Sally Field at the Oscars jumps into my mind.
"He likes me, he really, really likes me," I murmur in falsetto. Hysterical bubbles.
52
THIS DREAM IS new. The past and the present have merged, have become one thing.
I am asleep in my bedroom when I hear a noise. Sounds of sawing, squishy sounds. I get up, heart beating fast, and grab my gun from the nightstand.
I pad through my door, weapon drawn, hands trembling at the thought of someone in my house.
The noises come from the living room. Cackles have been added to the sibilant squishes.
When I enter, he is there. I cannot see his face, for it is obscured by the bandages around his head. His lips are visible, and they are huge, bloated, red. His black eyes are flat and dead, like bits of burned skin.
"Do you see?" he whispers, snakelike.
I can't see what he's pointing to. The back of the couch is hiding it. A certainty begins to rise in me that I don't want to see. But I must.
I move forward, forward, forward.
"Do you see?" he whispers.
And I do.
She is lying on the couch. He has opened her from sternum to crotch, exposing her organs. Cemetery earth cakes her hair. And one grime-covered finger points at me.
"Your fault . . ." she croaks.
She is Alexa, and then she is Charlotte Ross, and then she is Annie.
"Why did you let him kill me?" Annie's face asks me, as she points, accusing. "Why?"
The man with the bandaged face cackles. "Do you see?" he whispers.
"Their dirty fingers. They point at you, forever."
"Why?" she asks.
"Do you see?" he whispers.
I jolt awake. The cabin of the jet is quiet and shadowed. James and Alan are dozing.
I look out the passenger window to the cold dark night and shiver. Dirty fingers. No need to search for symbolism there. I feel them always, pointing at me from the grave. The ones I did not save.
I'd called Jenny Chang at SFPD from the plane, and she is waiting for us.
"I'm not your friend anymore," she says, tapping her watch to indicate the early hour.
"Sorry, Jenny. Things are pretty fucked up." I fill her in on Callie. Her lips tighten into a straight, angry line.
"No further word on her yet?" she asks.
"No," James replies.
"Christ . . ." she says, staring off.
I hold up my briefcase. "But we got a good hit from VICAP."
The detective in her comes out, sharp and interested. "Tell me."
I give her the gist of it.
"Twenty-five years ago. I came on the force when I was twenty-two. That's before my time. Who was the primary on the case?"
"Detective Rawlings," Alan says.
Jenny stops still. Looks at Alan. "Rawlings? Are you sure about that?"
"Yeah, I'm sure. Why?"
She shakes her head. "Because things may really be looking up for you now. Rawlings is a first-class fuckup. Always has been, from what I hear. He's boozing it up, counting time till retirement."
"And how is that good for us?" I ask.
"It makes it a lot more probable that he missed something back then. Something you guys wouldn't miss."
At SFPD, Jenny taps a pencil on the desk while waiting for the phone to be answered. "Rawlings? This is Jenny Chang. Yeah, I do know what time it is." She frowns. "It's not my fault you're a drunk."
I give her a pleading look. I need the guy to come in, not hang up on her. She closes her eyes. I get the idea she's counting to ten.
"Look, Don. I'm sorry. I got woken up out of bed too. Made me cranky. The head of NCAVC Coord LA is here, about an old case of yours. A"--she consults a pad in front of her--"Renee Parker." A look of surprise crosses her face. "Sure. Okay. See you in a few." She hangs up the phone, musing.
"What?" I ask.
"The moment I said her name, he stopped complaining and said he'd be here right away."
"I guess this one meant something to him."
Don Rawlings shows up within the half hour. I can tell just by looking at him that Jenny was right on target. He's about five foot nine, with a large gut, rheumy eyes, and the florid face of a dedicated drinker. He looks aged before his time.
I stand up and shake his hand. "Thank you for coming, Detective Rawlings. I'm Special Agent Smoky Barrett, head of NCAVC Coord in Los Angeles. That's James Giron and Alan Washington, who also work in my unit."
He squints at my face. "I know you. You're the one whose home got broken into." He grimaces. "Every cop's nightmare."
I notice he's holding a folder in his hand. "What's that?" I ask. He plops it down on the desk as he takes a seat. "That's a copy of the file on Renee Parker. I've kept it all these years. Pick it up in the early hours sometimes when I can't sleep."
Rawlings's face undergoes a change when he speaks about Renee Parker. The eyes become more alert. His mouth grows sad. I was right. This case had meant something to him.
"Tell me about it, Detective."
His eyes go distant. Empty, with no horizons. "Takes a little bit of backstory, Agent Barrett. Detective Chang here probably told you I'm an alcoholic fuckup. And she's right. But I wasn't always that way. Once upon a time, I was where she is now. The best homicide guy here. First grade." He looks at Jenny, smiles. "Didn't know that, did you?"
Jenny raises an eyebrow. "I had no idea."
"Yeah. Don't get me wrong, now. When I started on the force I was young, and I was a real prick. A racist, a homophobe, with a hair-trigger temper. I used my fists on more than one occasion where it might not have been needed. But the streets have a way of teaching you the way things really are.
"I stopped being a racist the day a black cop saved my life. Perp came up behind me. This cop tackled me out of the way and shot the perp down at the same time. We were fast friends for years, till he died. Killed in the line of duty."
Those sad eyes grow even emptier and more distant.
"I stopped being a homophobe after a year in homicide. Death does that to you. Tends to give you a perspective on things. There was a young man who was--well, flamboyant about his homosexuality. He worked a roach coach near the station, and he picked up on my hate real fast. Little fucker would tease me, do all kinds of things just to make me uncomfortable."
A faint smile ghosts across his lips. Disappears, torpedoed by sadness.
"God, he made me crazy. Well, one day a group of guys beat that young man to death because he was a homosexual. And wouldn't you know it, I caught the case." He gives me a sardonic grin. "How's that for karma? During that case I got to see two things, and I was never a gay hater again. I got to see his mother scream and pull her hair out and just die inside right in front of me. I watched her world end because her boy was dead. Then I went to his funeral, looking for suspects. You know what I saw there? About two hundred people. You believe that? I don't think I even know two hundred people. Not who would come to my funeral, that's for sure." He shakes his head in disbelief. "And they weren't just people from the community, there because he was gay. They were people whose lives he'd touched. Turns out he volunteered all over the place. Hospices, drug-rehab centers, crisis counseling. That young man was a saint. He was good. And the only reason he was dead was because he was gay." He clenches a fist. "That was wrong. I just couldn't be a part of it. Not anymore."