My friend studies me some more, and I realize again how much of my life is in his hands. Should he decide that I’d had enough excitement for one day, he would usher the detective out, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. But Numi knows this is important to me. More important than anything I have left in this life. Even Mary.
“Please,” I whisper.
He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like any of this. But he finally nods and eases off from the doorjamb. Soon, I hear quiet conversation in the living room.
I breathe and envision my lungs healthy and working fine. I make sure my shirt is tucked in properly and then rejoin them.
“Sorry about that,” I say lightly to Dobbs. I ease myself into my chair, propping myself up. “Small side effects from my new regimen.” This is somewhat true.
Dobbs regards me for a moment. I do not smile as I pick up the file again and pretend to study it. It’s a copy of the original, and I know Dobbs will leave the file with me, as well. All I have to do is maintain a healthy appearance until he leaves.
Just a few more minutes, goddammit.
I motion to the gruesome pictures. “Was he murdered prior to being left in Laurel Canyon?”
“We think so.”
“Like the others,” I say.
“Yes. Murdered elsewhere, dumped in Laurel Canyon.”
“But not quite dumped,” I say. “Carefully arranged.”
The detective nods, and then shakes his head all over again.
I say, “But unlike the others, this one isn’t marked.”
I could have said carved or inscribed, but that seemed too horrible to say aloud.
Dobbs glances at me and I see the confusion on his face. He’s at a total loss. And there’s a lot riding on this case, on him. A serial killer loose in L.A. doesn’t reflect well on the city. He needs me. Hell, he needs anyone who will help.
“I was hoping you’d have some insight about that, Booker.” Dobbs reaches into his shirt pocket and removes a packet of cigarettes. “You mind?”
“Yes,” says Numi. “We do mind.”
My friend, who has been sitting back on the couch with his eyes half-closed hasn’t opened them any wider, hasn’t given any indication that he has seen what Dobbs has been referring to. But the force of his word is unmistakable and unshakeable.
Dobbs, a man who hunts down the scum of the earth for a living, swallows and puts the box back into his pocket. Numi never moves.
After Dobbs collects himself, he continues, “As I said, I was hoping you might have some insight. Between me and you and your bodyguard—”
“Friend,” I say.
“Whatever. Look, between me and you, you’re the best private dick I’ve ever worked with. If anyone can help me with this, it’s you.”
“Takes a big man to admit it,” I say.
“You noticed I emphasized dick,” he says.
“I noticed,” I say. “Tell me more about the boy.”
Dobbs nods. “He was a special kid. His mother told us he’d been bullied in school about his weight. He’d gotten together some other overweight kids, and some others who’d been bullied in other ways, and established an after-school program for latchkey youths. Not a month ago, he was interviewed for his fund-raising and educational efforts. The day of his death, he’d lost a little over thirty-one pounds. Said he had another forty-two to go. He was happy for the first time since kindergarten, his mother said.”
I make my own noncommittal sound, mostly because my broken heart has broken all over again. Jesus, who could do this to such a sweet boy? I also notice I have started shaking and perspiring again. I wipe my forehead with the paper napkin I’d brought along with the drinks.
“Let’s start with the similarities,” I say. I don’t have the strength to list the similarities, but the healthy detective certainly does.
He leans back, an indication that he doesn’t plan on leaving anytime soon. “We have the obvious ones: all three found near the same clearing in Laurel Canyon. Two of the three marked. All had been killed prior to placement. All three posed like dolls, including their expressions.”
I think about that, and then add, “What about fast food? Olivia had a pepperoni in her hand. This kid had cheesecake stuffed in his mouth.”
Dobbs nods. “That, too. Except your brother.”
My brother, who had only the number “8” carved into his chest. Dobbs seems reluctant to point that out. He knows that I know the circumstances of Matt’s case all too well.
“None are related,” I say.
“No. Neither did they appear to know each other.” He glances at me. “Do you recognize the boy?”
“No.”
“Is anything else standing out?”
I hear the desperation in his voice.
“Where was the boy last seen?”
“Brentwood. Walking home from school.”
I think of the O.J. Simpson case in the same Brentwood neighborhood for no reason other than my brain is free-associating right now. “Did anyone see anything?”
“No. He didn’t arrive home. He was last seen saying good-bye to some friends.”
I study the crime scene pictures and remove my emotion. Something wants to click inside me, but it’s not there yet. Perhaps not even close. But it’s there… waiting to snap open.
“I need time, Detective,” I say.
He nods, disappointed.
Numi takes this as a cue and sits forward smoothly. “Thank you for your time, Detective.”
Dobbs gets the hint, although he doesn’t like it. No homicide cop ever wants to be shown the door. He stands. I stand, too. On shaky legs, of course. I should be in a hospital bed. Not discussing the most important case of my career.
At the door, Dobbs pauses and stares ahead, his back to me. “Let’s find this fucker,” he says without turning.
“We will.”
He continues standing there, staring ahead, and then he moves off, without looking back.
And without shaking my hand.
CHAPTER TWENTY
It is the next day.
My living room now looks like a CSI investigator’s office. At my request, Numi has bought four easels and now they stand next to each other so I can study them from my chair. The first three are reserved for each murder, consecutively.
My brother is up first. Notes down the left side, photos on the right. Next is Olivia’s, set up in the same fashion. Then the latest victim, the fourteen-year-old boy. Each disturbing, heartbreaking, and fucked up beyond reason.