Private

“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.”

“Okay,” Justine said. “He comes in. Now he’s in the box. You say he was identified driving past the street where Borman was kidnapped five years ago.”

“Sure. That could work. Maybe he gets nervous and says something incriminating. Or maybe he leaves his DNA on a Coke can,” Nora said. “Maybe coming into the station throws him off. So he cancels the kill tonight, and then, partner, we’ve bought more time, at least.”

Justine nodded. “He works on Wilshire, near Fairfax. At ten forty a.m. he should be there.”

Nora hit the gas and drove for fifteen minutes up Wilshire, located the address easily, and parked. Then she and Justine entered the chilly office building with a vivid barn-sized Frank Stella construction in the lobby.

Nora badged the blade-thin receptionist at the long green marble desk on the second floor. She asked to see Rudolph Crocker.

The receptionist said, “Mr. Crocker isn’t in. He’s taking a vacation day.”

“Fuck!” Nora said, and banged her fist on the desk.

Back in the squad car, Nora drove toward Crocker’s apartment building. “If he’s not home, we wait for him like last time,” she said to Justine.