and we would’ve made it a date,” I replied. “Where was the pic taken?”
“At a crime scene, picked up by a surveillance video. The responding team ran the plate number through the NCIC and found the record to be active.”
The NCIC, or National Crime Information Center, is the FBI database for stolen property, criminal records and missing persons—the first place where a law enforcement officer checks a plate number, a weapon, or a suspect.
“A crime scene?” I prodded, as we exited through the front office.
“Double murder, husband and wife, whacked in the head in their home in Beverly Hills. The guy was a big fish at this genetic company—” She turned the fax over and read through her handwritten notes. “Chromo Inc., it’s down in Century City. Anyways, Gomez said you’ve been investigating the vehicle’s owner.”
I stood outside the range office, gunfire blasting in the background, and froze. Huxley’s note . GN WHITE, AGE 8, CHROMO .
Huxley vanishes, and one week later her car turns up at a murder scene, the victim linked to the name Chromo .
My missing persons just got upgraded to double murder .
“Was the case transferred over to us?”
Nelson nodded a little too enthusiastically. “Yup. Ready to go check it out?”
“With you?”
Pretty or not, the rookie’s best police work so far had been writing speeding tickets.
Her lower lip curled into a pout. Without a word, she turned away and started down toward the parking lot. I shouldered my bag and followed.
“Gomez wanted me to remind you your partner’s on light duty and RHD is down on manpower,” Nelson sang. The sky was clear and the light bright. I kept my glasses on.
“Nice of him to remember.”
A black and white cruiser was parked on the west end of the lot, but Nelson spun to the left, walked straight to my Dodge, and clutched the door handle to the passenger’s seat. It didn’t yield. “Track,” she said, glaring.
Car keys jingling in my hand, I said, “Spit the bubble gum out before you step into my vehicle.”
She stared at me half smiling. “Why?”
“It stinks.”
Her lower lip curled again. She spat the bright yellow blob into her fingers, crouched down, and stuck it in a groove in the front tire.
Sleek little thing .
“Track, have you ever wondered why you’re still single?” she said as we wound down Tujunga Canyon Road.
“Who says I am?”
Nelson let out a snort, which sounded more like a mew in her voice. “Look at you. You’re handsome, even charming on a good day, and yet you keep being such an asshole with women.”
I grinned. “I’m for equality, Nelson. I’m an asshole to everybody.”
“You know, I could give you a few tips.”
I shot her a sideways glance. There she was, slouched in my vehicle with her perfectly ironed uniform buttoned all the way up to the neck, soaked in some artificial fragrance she got half price at Macy’s during one of their end-of-the-season clearance events.
“Tips? In exchange for what?”
“You know I’m pricey, huh?” she replied, her voice as gold as honey. She leaned closer, brushed a finger along my shoulder while purring a little sexy roar, then slumped back on her seat and laughed. Cute, had it not been for the stinky bubble gum breath.
“Ah, you’re funny, Track. No, all I need is a word with Gomez so I can stay at the Homicide table after the freeze. Right now I’m on a six-month loan,” she added, switching off the mellow in her voice.
“So I’m funny, huh? Because suddenly your heartfelt compliments—handsome and charming—assume a completely new meaning.”
“Oh, come on, Track.”
“Fine. You gotta work for it, though. Asshole Track wants to know about the crime scene.”
Nelson unrolled the sheet of specs she had brought along. “Double homicide. Vics are husband and wife, whacked in the head in their home at 12300 Cielo Drive, Beverly Hills, some time after ten p.m. last night—the pics you saw was taken at ten
“At a crime scene, picked up by a surveillance video. The responding team ran the plate number through the NCIC and found the record to be active.”
The NCIC, or National Crime Information Center, is the FBI database for stolen property, criminal records and missing persons—the first place where a law enforcement officer checks a plate number, a weapon, or a suspect.
“A crime scene?” I prodded, as we exited through the front office.
“Double murder, husband and wife, whacked in the head in their home in Beverly Hills. The guy was a big fish at this genetic company—” She turned the fax over and read through her handwritten notes. “Chromo Inc., it’s down in Century City. Anyways, Gomez said you’ve been investigating the vehicle’s owner.”
I stood outside the range office, gunfire blasting in the background, and froze. Huxley’s note . GN WHITE, AGE 8, CHROMO .
Huxley vanishes, and one week later her car turns up at a murder scene, the victim linked to the name Chromo .
My missing persons just got upgraded to double murder .
“Was the case transferred over to us?”
Nelson nodded a little too enthusiastically. “Yup. Ready to go check it out?”
“With you?”
Pretty or not, the rookie’s best police work so far had been writing speeding tickets.
Her lower lip curled into a pout. Without a word, she turned away and started down toward the parking lot. I shouldered my bag and followed.
“Gomez wanted me to remind you your partner’s on light duty and RHD is down on manpower,” Nelson sang. The sky was clear and the light bright. I kept my glasses on.
“Nice of him to remember.”
A black and white cruiser was parked on the west end of the lot, but Nelson spun to the left, walked straight to my Dodge, and clutched the door handle to the passenger’s seat. It didn’t yield. “Track,” she said, glaring.
Car keys jingling in my hand, I said, “Spit the bubble gum out before you step into my vehicle.”
She stared at me half smiling. “Why?”
“It stinks.”
Her lower lip curled again. She spat the bright yellow blob into her fingers, crouched down, and stuck it in a groove in the front tire.
Sleek little thing .
“Track, have you ever wondered why you’re still single?” she said as we wound down Tujunga Canyon Road.
“Who says I am?”
Nelson let out a snort, which sounded more like a mew in her voice. “Look at you. You’re handsome, even charming on a good day, and yet you keep being such an asshole with women.”
I grinned. “I’m for equality, Nelson. I’m an asshole to everybody.”
“You know, I could give you a few tips.”
I shot her a sideways glance. There she was, slouched in my vehicle with her perfectly ironed uniform buttoned all the way up to the neck, soaked in some artificial fragrance she got half price at Macy’s during one of their end-of-the-season clearance events.
“Tips? In exchange for what?”
“You know I’m pricey, huh?” she replied, her voice as gold as honey. She leaned closer, brushed a finger along my shoulder while purring a little sexy roar, then slumped back on her seat and laughed. Cute, had it not been for the stinky bubble gum breath.
“Ah, you’re funny, Track. No, all I need is a word with Gomez so I can stay at the Homicide table after the freeze. Right now I’m on a six-month loan,” she added, switching off the mellow in her voice.
“So I’m funny, huh? Because suddenly your heartfelt compliments—handsome and charming—assume a completely new meaning.”
“Oh, come on, Track.”
“Fine. You gotta work for it, though. Asshole Track wants to know about the crime scene.”
Nelson unrolled the sheet of specs she had brought along. “Double homicide. Vics are husband and wife, whacked in the head in their home at 12300 Cielo Drive, Beverly Hills, some time after ten p.m. last night—the pics you saw was taken at ten