“You mean normal, like cops?”
She laughed. “My folks think an alien deposited me in the hospital nursery, since I’ve never had any interest in the business. Thank you for asking for me, Agent Savich— Dillon.”
He smiled at her. “Try to remember that only bad guys call me Agent Savich.”
“When you have them in a half nelson, right?”
“Sometimes. With the murder in Las Vegas, we have five dead movie stars, all young women, in four different jurisdictions. The Serial’s M.O. is always the same. He cuts the alarm wires, comes in through the back door, cuts their throats during the night when they’re in bed, asleep. There’s never been any signs of a struggle. Then he’s gone. Clean, fast, silent. Now, something that’s been kept out of the news: he takes their tablets or laptops and their cell phones.”
Cam sat forward. “Any idea why? You think he’s afraid there’s something to connect them to him?”
“We don’t know yet, but we know they’re important to him. This past Saturday night in Las Vegas, not even the burglar surprising the Serial was enough to rattle him. Even when he couldn’t catch the burglar, he didn’t panic. He went back and took the victim’s Toshiba and her cell phone that she’d left charging on her night table. Very cool, very together.
“Molly Harbinger had a boyfriend, name’s Tommy Krug, a car salesman. Agent Poker said the guy wouldn’t stop crying, admitted he was there until sometime after midnight. A buddy picked him up on a motorcycle. The buddy is a blackjack dealer at the Mirage casino, verifies Tommy’s alibi. The two of them went to Tommy’s place and played cards.”
Savich gave her Agent Poker’s email and cell phone. “If you have questions, or as Aaron gets more information, he’ll call you or you’ll call him.
“But you’re not going to Las Vegas, Cam, you’re going to the Lost Hills Sheriff’s Station in Calabasas, to work with a Detective Daniel Montoya. He’s the lead on Connie Morrissey’s murder. He was also the first to realize we had a Serial. He’s been working the case, and he’ll be the one to brief you.”
“Why won’t I be working with the LAPD? The last murder was in North Hollywood and they have more resources. Why a sheriff’s detective?”
“First let me tell you about Montoya. He’s thirty-one years old, a year out of Army Intelligence, and fairly new to the job. He was bright enough and experienced enough to get promoted into a newly retired detective’s slot. He’s got the background for it.
“As I told you, he was the first to figure out we were dealing with a Serial and alerted all the law enforcement agencies in the L.A. area. It took Montoya and three murders to get that far, even though the first two victims were both young actresses who had their throats slashed and their computers and cell phones taken. And why is that? I wonder.” He arched an eyebrow at her.
Hallelujah, Cam knew something about that. “So many young people in L.A. are would-be actresses. On the Hollywood food chain, the victims were still guppies. They were all hoping to luck into that one glowing role that would put them on the red carpet, but hardly any of them ever walk it. My parents told me these women were a very long way from being household names. So, to the detectives, at the beginning at least, they’d simply be individual cases.”
Score one for Wittier. “So that’s one question you’ve answered. Another you’ll have to address is how and why the Serial picked them.
“We don’t want you staying at your parents’ house while you’re on the job, it could get complicated. You’ll be staying at the Pinkerton Inn in Malibu. As you know, the Calabasas sheriff’s station handles Malibu. The sheriff—”
“—Dreyfus Murray. I know him, Dillon. My mom dated him before she met my dad. Way back in the day.”
And with those few words, she knew she’d proved her value to him. Of course, she would bet her next paycheck he already knew all about Dreyfus Murray.
“That should assure your cooperation with that office, unless your mother broke his heart and he hasn’t gotten over it.”
“Nah, he’s been married twenty years. Mom said they’re good friends, wife, too.”
“Mr. Maitland spoke to the LAPD chief of police Martin Crowder. They’ve known each other a very long time, he told me, and he could speak frankly.” He paused, raised a brow.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know him.”
“That’s okay. Chief Crowder is a bit peeved that his people won’t be running the case, but he’s resigned it to. He informed Mr. Maitland that the LAPD would have tagged the Serial by now if two of the murders hadn’t happened in outlying sheriffs’ districts. David Elman, head of their Homicide Special Section, had already spoken to the sheriffs’ people. Mr. Maitland asked him to arrange a meeting at LAPD headquarters tomorrow with all the sheriffs’ detectives and LAPD detectives who’ve been working the case, get everyone together, face-to-face, with Montoya. Make it perfectly clear you’re in charge, Cam, that it’s you who will decide what directions to take them.
“I’ll download all the separate murder books to your iPad so you can review them on your flight to L.A. this afternoon—autopsy reports, crime scene reports, bios of all the detectives working the cases.
“You’ll have to start by not shooting any of them at the meeting tomorrow. I doubt the sheriff’s department detectives will give you any trouble, but you never know. Sherlock told me you deal well with male egos at the gym.”
An eyebrow went up. “Me? I marvel at her skill at that, Dillon. There’s never any bloodshed.”
Since he did as well, he couldn’t disagree.
4
* * *
Savich watched Cam Wittier stroll through his unit, taking her time because there were eight agents to touch base with, and, of course, there was Shirley the unit secretary. Cam had her smiling and talking—about her health, her family’s health, about all her pets’ health. That was smart. Any agent with a brain knew the unit secretaries ran the FBI universe. Shirley was grinning from ear to ear when she handed Cam her airline tickets and itinerary.
He’d picked the right agent to work with the local cops in L.A. It wouldn’t be easy with all those territorial egos vibrating when a federale walked through the door. There was something about Special Agent Cam Wittier, something shining and vital. Energy seemed to pulse in the air around her. She could draw people in like a magnet, maybe even some of those suspicious L.A. cops who would think she was there to bigfoot them. Yes, he’d picked right. If an outsider had a chance of navigating the alligator-infested waters of L.A. without undue carnage, it was Wittier.