Private

It was an unusual gold star, almost like a starfish, with the points waving at the ends. It looked custom-made, one of a kind, and it was. The jeweler in Santa Monica was still in business and could identify the piece.

The lawyer stared at the picture, then looked up with a question on her face.

Justine reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a small glassine bag with Wendy Borman’s necklace inside.

“Your client was using this as a light pull, Ms. Hunt,” she said. “Mr. Crocker’s fingerprints are on it-and so is Ms. Borman’s blood. It’s engraved on the back: ‘To Wendy with Love, M and D.’

“I photographed this charm hanging in Mr. Crocker’s closet. Lieutenant Cronin witnessed it. We’ve got more than enough to hold your client on suspicion of murder while we negotiate with Mr. Fitzhugh.”

“I want to speak with my client in private,” Hunt said.

“Great. Do that,” said Nora. “A couple of things you should know. We obtained a warrant for Mr. Crocker’s office computer and it’s being strip-searched right now. We’ve already found incriminating e-mails between Mr. Crocker and Mr. Fitzhugh saying where and when each of the thirteen girls was killed.”

Justine watched Crocker go from Cool Dude Rude to a kid who was about to shit his shorts.

“Something else you should both know,” Nora went on. “Mr. Fitzhugh is in the hospital under police protection. He hasn’t seen a lawyer, but we’ve explained to him what we’ve just explained to Mr. Crocker. Ms. Hunt, you know the drill.

“You can take a chance with a jury. Or. You have a very small window of time to get ahead of this before Mr. Fitzhugh flips on your client and makes his own deal.”

“I saw Mr. Fitzhugh this morning at the hospital,” Justine said. “He understands that picking up a fifteen-year-old girl with intent to kill isn’t going to play well with a jury.

“Professionally speaking, I don’t think Mr. Fitzhugh has the stomach to wait on death row for the needle. He’s a sensitive and very logical person. And logically, that’s too much stress for him. Frankly, he’s on the verge of cracking wide open. If he hasn’t already.”

Justine felt a little giddiness lifting her voice, but it didn’t matter, so she went on. “The district attorney wants to try both of you,” Justine said to Crocker. “But Michael Fescoe, my good friend and chief of police, wants to keep things simple. The first confession wins.

“So you decide,” Justine said, clasping her hands on the table in front of her. “Who gets life? Who gets death? Right now, it’s up to you, Rude.”

Chapter 116

JUSTINE FELT WIRED and almost high as she left her office for the meeting at city hall. She touched up her lipstick, took the elevator down to the street, and got into the backseat of the fleet car.

Jack was at the wheel, Cruz in the passenger seat.

“You okay, Justine?” Cruz asked her.

“Yeah. Why do you ask? Because the mayor wants to see us now and didn’t say why? Or because my brain has been permanently polluted by a serial killer?”

“Tell him, Justine,” Jack said with a big smile. “I haven’t had a chance.”

Cruz turned his head and grinned at her. “Yeah, Justine, tell me everything.”

“So okay. After Crocker fires his attorney, he tells us about killing Wendy Borman in this grandiose, halfway laughing, private-school voice of his.

“Here’s a quote, Emilio,” Justine went on. “‘It was a game, and I want credit. Why else would I have done all this planning and, you know, execution?’ ”

Cruz whistled. “You’ve got to be kidding me. He actually said that?”

“He was shooting for the top slot,” Jack said. “Or the bottom-depends on how you look at it.”

“Exactly. ‘Rude’ wants to be known as the most atrocious piece-of-crap serial killer in his ‘age bracket’ in the history of LA,” Justine said.

“Like it or not, I guess he’s going to have to share that honor with Fitzhugh. As for the fourteen victims we knew about? Crocker hints maybe there are more. He may even have some information for us on Jason Pilser’s so-called suicide. Then he asks to speak to the DA.”

Jack picked up the story from there. Justine put her head back and closed her eyes as Jack told Cruz that Bobby Petino had made a deal with Crocker: no death penalty for a full confession to the other killings, whatever number there were.

After that, Bobby had left the interrogation room as cool as ice. He didn’t care why the kid was a psycho-killer.

But Justine had to understand why these privileged kids had become monsters. Crocker and Fitzhugh reminded Justine of Nathan Leopold and Richard Loeb, another pair of brilliant teenagers who killed a schoolmate in the early 1900s, to see if they could get away with it. Smart as they thought they were, they made a rookie mistake and were sent to prison for life. It came out later that those boys had had an acted-out but unacknowledged homosexual attachment.

Crocker and Fitzhugh had tortured their female victims, but none of the girls had been sexually assaulted. Were Crocker and Fitzhugh Leopold and Loeb all over again?