After I go to all the trouble of getting you all dolled
up, you go out and roll in the dirt."
She shook her head. He knew exactly how to get to
her. What he was reminding her about was that his was the lone voice
speaking up for her when Caruthers' legal eagles wanted her fired as
a "potential corporate liability" on account of her
operation. Indeed, when the agreement was over, not only did she
still have her job but she had her leave of absence, too. And during
those awful months after the operation Will was her best friend, no
question. At her blackest moment he appeared on her doorstep bearing
a white Afghan he had crocheted for her bed, then came back more than
a few times with tea and sympathy. He always had the filthiest joke
imaginable for her, or a shoulder to cry on. She owed him, no
question. All he had to do was ask—any time, any place. Except now.
These "missing" girls, plus the murdered Terri, took
precedence, at least temporarily.
"Will, you're not fooling me with all this smoke
about what we do and what they do."
There was a moment's hesitation, and then with his
back still to her, "You're a smart lady, I always say that. What
I want you to do is a little digging and then give me a piece on a
man named Felix Ducroit. I need it ASAP, by Halloween at the latest.
That's the last day of October, if memory serves."
"Felix Ducroit?"
"A real estate developer—"
"I know who he is, but why?"
"I've gotten some calls from people who are very
interested in Mr. Ducroit."
"What about the girls?"
"Laura, sorry, but right now this is more
important to me."
"Will, I've met Felix Ducroit. I can't imagine
he's more important than the lives, and deaths, of these girls. But
I'll make a deal with you. Let me follow up on the girls and I'll do
the other for you, too."
Will swiveled around to face her.
"What gets priority?"
She knew what the answer had to be or there would be
no deal.
"Felix Ducroit."
"And remember one
thing when you write it. I want no mention of a serial killer. I want
this treated like an isolated incident. People start to panic at the
mention of serial killers, and neither I nor our revered owner wants
to be responsible for that."
* * *
Sloan, feeling just a bit like Hill Street Blues,
called the meeting of Seven Squad to order. The room was thick with
stale smoke, and the detectives slumped behind metal desks looked as
tired as they felt from their morning at the old depot.
"All right," said Sloan, head so stuffy
that his voice sounded in his ears as if from a tunnel. "Let's
go over what we've got."
He glanced at the file on the desk in front of him.
"The lab work's not in yet. Evans, where is it?"
Evans, a stocky man whose tie fell short of his belt
by a good six inches, said, "Like you told me, I took it to
Wakefield and Pollack. It won't be ready for a couple more hours."
On account of a heavy weekend of crime the police lab
was jammed, and he'd okayed that Terri's specimens be sent to a
private group, Wakefield and Pollack. They were the best. No problem
there.
"Each of you has copies of the rest of the
stuff. The remains have been ID'd. The deceased is Terri DiFranco,
one of the missing girls. I'm betting we've got a serial killer here
and that this Peter is our man. In addition to the deceased, we know
from missing persons Peter's name was linked with at least two other
of the missing girls. From what they could turn up, he courts them a
while, then one bad night they just disappear."
An officer raised her hand.
"Kane, what is it?"
"We haven't found a trace of any of the other
girls. Why do you think he broke the pattern with this one?"
"I don't know. Maybe for once he did something
spontaneous instead of premeditated."
A boyish detective with curly hair and glasses asked,
"What about the other bodies?"
"Right now, Spivak, I don't know, but it doesn't
surprise me we haven't found them. There are lots of places . . .
hell, ten blocks of Fifth Street is deserted, so is a lot of
up, you go out and roll in the dirt."
She shook her head. He knew exactly how to get to
her. What he was reminding her about was that his was the lone voice
speaking up for her when Caruthers' legal eagles wanted her fired as
a "potential corporate liability" on account of her
operation. Indeed, when the agreement was over, not only did she
still have her job but she had her leave of absence, too. And during
those awful months after the operation Will was her best friend, no
question. At her blackest moment he appeared on her doorstep bearing
a white Afghan he had crocheted for her bed, then came back more than
a few times with tea and sympathy. He always had the filthiest joke
imaginable for her, or a shoulder to cry on. She owed him, no
question. All he had to do was ask—any time, any place. Except now.
These "missing" girls, plus the murdered Terri, took
precedence, at least temporarily.
"Will, you're not fooling me with all this smoke
about what we do and what they do."
There was a moment's hesitation, and then with his
back still to her, "You're a smart lady, I always say that. What
I want you to do is a little digging and then give me a piece on a
man named Felix Ducroit. I need it ASAP, by Halloween at the latest.
That's the last day of October, if memory serves."
"Felix Ducroit?"
"A real estate developer—"
"I know who he is, but why?"
"I've gotten some calls from people who are very
interested in Mr. Ducroit."
"What about the girls?"
"Laura, sorry, but right now this is more
important to me."
"Will, I've met Felix Ducroit. I can't imagine
he's more important than the lives, and deaths, of these girls. But
I'll make a deal with you. Let me follow up on the girls and I'll do
the other for you, too."
Will swiveled around to face her.
"What gets priority?"
She knew what the answer had to be or there would be
no deal.
"Felix Ducroit."
"And remember one
thing when you write it. I want no mention of a serial killer. I want
this treated like an isolated incident. People start to panic at the
mention of serial killers, and neither I nor our revered owner wants
to be responsible for that."
* * *
Sloan, feeling just a bit like Hill Street Blues,
called the meeting of Seven Squad to order. The room was thick with
stale smoke, and the detectives slumped behind metal desks looked as
tired as they felt from their morning at the old depot.
"All right," said Sloan, head so stuffy
that his voice sounded in his ears as if from a tunnel. "Let's
go over what we've got."
He glanced at the file on the desk in front of him.
"The lab work's not in yet. Evans, where is it?"
Evans, a stocky man whose tie fell short of his belt
by a good six inches, said, "Like you told me, I took it to
Wakefield and Pollack. It won't be ready for a couple more hours."
On account of a heavy weekend of crime the police lab
was jammed, and he'd okayed that Terri's specimens be sent to a
private group, Wakefield and Pollack. They were the best. No problem
there.
"Each of you has copies of the rest of the
stuff. The remains have been ID'd. The deceased is Terri DiFranco,
one of the missing girls. I'm betting we've got a serial killer here
and that this Peter is our man. In addition to the deceased, we know
from missing persons Peter's name was linked with at least two other
of the missing girls. From what they could turn up, he courts them a
while, then one bad night they just disappear."
An officer raised her hand.
"Kane, what is it?"
"We haven't found a trace of any of the other
girls. Why do you think he broke the pattern with this one?"
"I don't know. Maybe for once he did something
spontaneous instead of premeditated."
A boyish detective with curly hair and glasses asked,
"What about the other bodies?"
"Right now, Spivak, I don't know, but it doesn't
surprise me we haven't found them. There are lots of places . . .
hell, ten blocks of Fifth Street is deserted, so is a lot of
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