Dark Prophecy by Anthony E. Zuiker Page B

good enough. You can’t quit now.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I think serial killers are like cancer. If you can catch them early enough, you save lives.”
    “The FBI does that, Ms. Graysmith.”
    “Not like you. That’s why you left, isn’t it? They moved too slow for you, muddled in bureaucracy. They didn’t trust your gut—even after all of this time. They kept you playing by their rules, and as a result, lots of innocent people died.”
    “That was nice. Do you mind if I write that down?”
    Graysmith leaned back and smiled. “You’re not taking me seriously, and why would you? I’m just some woman you met on the steps at UCLA.”
    “Not just some woman,” Dark said. “You’re quite attractive.”
    “I thought about the various ways I might approach you. I had all kinds of dramatic scenarios built up in my mind.”
    “Did you.”
    “I thought you’d appreciate the direct approach most of all. I suppose I was wrong.”
    “There’s nothing direct about this approach, Ms. Graysmith.”
    “Then here it is. I want to give you the tools you need to catch budding serial killers. Funding, equipment, access—everything. You report to no one. Not even me. That’s my offer.”
    An “offer” that was too good to be true. For all Dark knew, she could be someone Wycoff sent to trap him. Coax him out of retirement just long enough to arrest him.
    “No thanks,” Dark said. “I’m busy teaching and working on my house.”
    Graysmith’s eyes narrowed slightly, but she quickly recovered. “You’re testing me. You want me to come up with some kind of proof that I’m serious, is that it?”
    “You don’t have to do anything. I’m just going to sit here and finish my beer.”
    Graysmith smiled, then made her way around the table. She touched Dark’s shoulder, squeezing it gently. “See you later.”
    A few minutes after she left, Dark drained the rest of his beer, then used a napkin to carefully pick up Graysmith’s iced-tea glass by the bottom. He dumped a half-glass worth of iced tea into his pint glass, shaking it a few times. Then he pulled a plastic baggie out of his bag—he always carried a few around, out of habit—and tucked the glass into the bag.
    What troubled Dark was not Graysmith’s offer. It was that he had a hard time reading her at all . Clearly, she was as good at reading people as Dark. She sidestepped all of the major tells. She skimmed along on the surface, like an insect on a pond. Dark had no doubt she’d show up later. When she did, he’d be ready.

chapter 13
    First, Dark made sure he wasn’t followed. That meant an insanely circuitous route up Westwood to Sunset to Coldwater Canyon Drive, through Studio City, back up to Mulholland, then a few shortcuts he knew that led him back down to West Hollywood. If anyone had managed to follow him, well then they deserved to be parked up his ass. After easing the car into his driveway and double-checking the locks, Dark disengaged the security system and recovered his Glock 22 from his hiding spot in the living room. The mag was still full.
    Downstairs in his basement lair, Dark pulled the murder book on Brian Russell Day. He fed Julie Graysmith’s social into his database, then pulled up family info. Turns out there was one sibling: an older sister. Alisa.
    Or: “Lisa.”
    Dark clicked on her social and found that her records were sealed—by order of the Department of Defense. Interesting.
    Fortunately, Dark had left himself a backdoor when he worked with some of Wycoff’s lackeys a few years ago. He didn’t abuse it, which was probably why no one had noticed it yet. Some files popped up. Not much—which meant the bulk of it was probably buried deep, and not even on a computer server anywhere.
    But from what Dark could gather, Lisa Graysmith was a member of an organization with ties to DARPA—the defense department’s so-called “out there” research division. Got a crazy defense idea dream and a billion dollars? DARPA