Cold Hit by Stephen J. Cannell

deal with it."
    "Okay, then just look me in the eye and tell me he's not fucking up."
    She was angry. But she was also right and she was under a lot of pressure from Tony. She had recommended me for this case and after seven weeks I was nowhere. Since my position on Zack was untenable, I did what most outflanked husbands do. I got pissed off.
    "People go through tough periods," I almost shouted. "God knows I did, and Zack was the one who . . ."
    "I don't want to hear about how Zack saved you back in the day! I'm talking about now. Four men are dead and if this fourth John Doe is a copycat, then the only clues we have on this damn serial murder case in seven weeks just evaporated." She threw her empty beer into the trash can next to the barbeque. "So tell me, Shane, is this guy the problem?"
    "No, dammit! He's not the problem. You're th e p roblem! You and all the other backstabbers at Parker Center."
    I got up and stalked into the house, immediately feeling like a total ass. She wasn't the problem. Zack was. And I was, for protecting him.
    I went into the den, picked up the murder book and angrily flipped it open. Proving Alexa's point, the binder was a complete mess. Things were filed wrong. The initial victim, whom I had named Woody after finding him in the wash at the Woodman Avenue overpass, had one of John Doe Number Three's crime scene photos pasted in his section by mistake. The section on John Doe Number Three, dubbed Cole for Colfax Avenue, was also a mess. Alexa and Cal were right. Zack was just going through the motions. He didn't give a damn. In fact, he was screwing up evidence.
    I sat in the den and worked for almost two hours, reorganizing and bringing the murder book up to date. Some of it I had to do from memory because the transcriptions of our original crime scene audio tapes were missing. Fortunately, I'd held on to the cassettes. If Zack couldn't produce the transcripts, I'd have to get them redone. When I finished, I thought it was about 90 percent accurate. There was still paperwork missing that I'd have to look for in the morning.
    I closed the book and went down the hall to our bedroom. Alexa was already in bed. I took off my clothes and lay down beside her. It was dark, but I knew she was awake.
    After a long moment, she spoke softly. "I'll do th e b est I can to hold off the task force. And I'll leave Zack up to you unless it becomes impossible."
    What more could I ask?
    Then she rolled over and took me into her arms. "Because I know a man with good work ethics and a sense of the team is going to take care of business." Using Pete Carroll's words.
    What do you say to a woman like that?
    I guess you say, I'm sorry, I was wrong. So after a short internal struggle, that's what I did.
    I lay in the warmth of my wife's arms and thought about that. Pete Carroll said you win by depending on your teammates. But how could I depend on Zack?
    Before I fell asleep, I remembered Cindy's translation of the old Cyrillic warning.
    Don't wake up, the tattoos cautioned.

    Chapter 9
    It poured down rain during the night. I heard it hitting the roof of our house around 3 A . M . banging loudl y i n the downspouts. By morning the storm had passed and L . A . was reborn and washed clean. The air had a brisk crispness, all too rare in this city of fumes.
    As I drove from Venice across town to the Glass House, I decided to take a detour and stop by the city forensic facility on Ramirez Street. The crime lab is a very busy place, and even though I was working a red ball that should be afforded top priority, sometime s p eople make strange choices. One of my jobs as primary investigator was to make sure my Fingertip murder got the proper attention. Sometimes, by just showing up with a box of Krispy Kremes, you can work wonders.
    I stopped at a mini-market just before getting on the I-10 freeway and bought two dozen, then drove up the ramp and joined a long line of angry freeway commuters who were bumper-to-bumpering their way