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“It gets better,” Rollins said. “As soon as he walks inside, it gets a lot better.”

Lena checked the second monitor, watching the kid work the ATM machine and steal the victim’s daily cash limit. She noted the Dodger cap and leather jacket, focusing on the shape of his mouth and chin. When she turned back to the first monitor, she watched the messenger dressed in the same clothes enter Parker Center and cross the lobby to the front desk.

It was him. There could be no doubt that the messenger was the same kid standing before the ATM machine, and most likely, the same person who witnessed Jane Doe’s abduction on the night of her brutal murder. Eighteen or nineteen with long brown hair and pale skin. The thin and nervous type with dark circles under his eyes. Wasted and scared, she thought. A user in need of another hot load. Someone from the streets with a pocket full of free money and no address.

“He’s rolling his eyes underneath the hat,” Rhodes said.

Rollins pointed to the image. “He knows that the cameras are there, but he’s not sure where they are. He’s trying to find them without anyone noticing. He doesn’t realize that it’s hopeless. He’s walking right into the shot.”

Lena turned back to the monitor as the kid moved closer. The camera was right in front of him, recording every expression on his face. Every blink and every breath. Yet, he couldn’t find the lens. He couldn’t hide below the bill of his baseball cap. When he stopped at the front desk, Lena noticed the lunch stand in the background. The two cops taking the package were talking to another cop buying a sandwich. All three were laughing as if someone had just hit the punch line in a good joke. No one was paying any attention to the kid moving quickly across the lobby and back out the door.

Lena watched the monitor as Rollins cut back to the surveillance cameras outside the building and followed the kid up the street.

“Keep your eyes on the sidewalk,” he said. “Same side. Half a block up.”

She followed the sidewalk up to the corner. Two beats later, she realized that she had been picked up by the camera and was in the shot. She remembered walking back from the Blackbird Cafe after the autopsy and her run-in with Denny Ramira, the crime beat reporter from The Times. The kid was eyeing her as they finally reached each other on the sidewalk. But this time he didn’t turn away. Instead, he held the look before making a hard left and vanishing into the underground garage.

What struck Lena most about the surveillance video wasn’t the lack of attention paid on the messenger by the two badges working the front desk. Nor was it the coincidence of her passing the kid on the street. Both were innocent acts that carried no meaning or context without the benefit of hindsight. What struck her most was the effort the kid had made to deliver the package to her. She thought about what she found in the mailer. Jane Doe’s driver’s license and the short video of her abduction recorded with his cell phone. It seemed clear that the kid lived on the Westside. That he had made every effort, however unsuccessful, to avoid their surveillance cameras. So why didn’t he take the easy way out and just send the package through the mail?

As Lena considered the possibilities, new questions surfaced. If the kid possessed a guilty conscience, then why was he stealing the victim’s money? He would have seen the balance on the ATM machines and known that there was a lot of it. If he wanted the money, then why did he take the time and risk to hand-deliver the package? If he hadn’t made the delivery he could have bled the account dry over two or three weeks before anyone noticed.

It was another loose end in a case of loose ends. Another detail that didn’t make sense.

She turned back to the monitor. Rollins held the shot on the garage for another minute or two, but a car never came out. Their witness was in the wind.

“I fast forwarded through the next thirty minutes,” Rollins said. “Every car that exited the garage turned up Temple Street, but he wasn’t in any of them. Maybe he just went into the food court and got something to eat.”

“Or, maybe he knew the cameras were on the street and was looking for a way to disappear,” Rhodes said. “How fast can you make prints of his face?”

“I’ve already got them. I made the prints when I pulled the shots.”

Rollins reached for the photographs in the printer tray and passed them out. When he glanced at the doorway, Lena turned and saw Klinger begin walking into the room. He had been watching them. Eavesdropping. He hadn’t started moving until he was noticed. Until she turned.

Rollins handed the lieutenant a copy of the image. Klinger examined the photo, then looked at Lena as if nothing was wrong.

“This isn’t a serial case, is it?”

“No,” she said. “Everything points to someone who’s highly motivated.”

“But how do you account for the fact that he dismembered the body?”

“He needed a way to get rid of her. He’s doing things the way he knows how.”

It sat there for a moment with Klinger tossing it over.

“Well, at least you’re making progress, Gamble. Everyone understands the setbacks. I’ll see if we can get this picture of the witness on the news tonight. Maybe someone will know who he is. We’re due for a little luck. Maybe they’ll call.”

She met Klinger’s eyes, thinking about the tap on her telephone and those two detectives from Internal Affairs. She tried to get a read on him, but only picked up this odd sensation of goodwill. She didn’t believe it. And she didn’t trust it. When his cell phone rang and he stepped away to take the call, his eyes never changed and remained clear and steady and free of any irony.

Lena let the thought go and turned back to Rollins. “What’s the status of the video sent by the witness?”

“That’s why I’m here today. That’s what I wanted to show you.”

He turned back to the computer, minimizing the open windows and launching another program. Two more windows opened on the large screen. The first photograph was the still that had been sent to the TV stations. The shot taken from the parking lot of the killer standing over Jane Doe’s body in the dark of night. As Lena gazed at it, she couldn’t help but feel disappointed. The man remained hopelessly out of focus. And the building with the neon sign on its roof still appeared lost in digital noise.

When she looked at the second image, she stood up and moved closer. There were six faces on the screen. Six men with similar features and grayish blond hair. The head shots had the look and feel of a six-pack-a photographic lineup-for witnesses attempting to make an ID.

She turned to Rollins. “What is this?”

“The man who murdered Jane Doe.”

Rhodes moved in beside her, eyeing the screen. “Which one?”

“All of them,” Rollins said. He pointed to the photograph taken from the witness’s video clip. “The image we pulled from the video may be out of focus, but the information’s still there. This six-pack is a digital reconstruction of the killer’s face. The six most likely ways to configure the man’s face based on the information in that photo.”

Klinger ditched his phone call and stepped in beside Rollins. Lena turned back to the monitor. The images were ultraclear. Ultravivid. As she examined the faces, committing them to memory, it seemed too good to be true. The young forensic analyst had everyone’s attention now.

“The man you’re looking for resembles each of these six faces in some fundamental way,” he said. “We won’t know how close they are until you actually find him. But I’ll make you this guarantee. When you finally meet this guy, he’ll look familiar. Very familiar.”

“Like they came from the same mother,” Rhodes said. “Different but the same.”

“Exactly. Variations on a theme of murder.”

Lena traded quick looks with Rhodes. “None of these head shots look anything like Fontaine. We’ll need to get a copy of this six-pack over to USC Medical Center. If he trained there before going overseas, this might be enough to trigger an ID.”