212

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

4:50 P.M.

Ellie had parallel-parked on Twenty-first Street and was about to open the car door when she spotted Lieutenant Robin Tucker in her rearview mirror. She decided to avoid an encounter and stayed put inside the car, watching as her lieutenant let the precinct door swing closed behind her. Tucker paused just outside the precinct, opened a slim gold metallic handbag, and swept some gloss across her lips. She reached into the same bag again and then clipped her hair into a messy bun at the nape of her neck. As she walked in Ellie’s direction, Tucker’s tan trench blew open, revealing a dark green wrap dress that played up her pale skin. From the looks of things, Tucker had spruced herself up for something.

Ellie slumped into her seat and continued to watch as Tucker smiled and gave a friendly wave to someone on the other side of the street. As she turned to cross Twenty-first, Ellie lost sight of her in the rearview mirror.

She adjusted the right side-view mirror to get a better look. Browsing the cars parked on the north side of the street, she speculated about which one was her lieutenant’s intended destination.

Then her eyes fell on a black Infiniti sedan.

“No fucking way,” she said to no one in particular. She adjusted the side-view mirror again to confirm what she had seen. Sure enough, she recognized the Infiniti’s driver.

Robin Tucker had spruced herself up for none other than Nick Dillon, the head of corporate security for Sparks Industries.

Ellie found Rogan hunched over a spread of documents across his desktop. She recognized the pages as call logs, most of them from AT&T wireless, and a few from Verizon.

“You got the call dumps already?”

Rogan nodded, but didn’t look up from his papers. “Cell phone and landline. A lot more activity on the cell, of course.”

Phone companies could produce itemized lists of call activity for cell phones, but for landlines they could provide information only about outbound long-distance calls. Fortunately for this case, young people tended to use their cell phones for most of their calls.

“You happen to see Tucker walk out of here?”

“Hmmm?”

“She was all dressed up.”

Silence.

“And guess who was waiting for her outside?”

“Hmmm?”

“Nick Dillon. Un-freakin’-believable.”

Silence.

“Find any Keiths yet on those call lists?”

“Nope,” Rogan said.

“Anything else in there to get excited about?”

“Nope.”

“Any chance I can get a few more words, just so I can pretend you’re listening to me?”

“Sorry,” Rogan said, finally leaning back in his chair and turning his attention to her. “Maybe I’m in a piss-poor mood after all.”

“Gee, you think? If the tables were turned, you’d be on your fifth PMS joke by now.”

“All right, so you were saying about the Lou?”

“She just left the building looking a hell of a lot better than I’ve ever seen her around here, and jumped into a car driven by Nick Dillon.”

“She told you yesterday she knew the man.”

“Knowing him’s different than boning him.”

“You think you might be jumping the gun? He called her yesterday to give her a heads-up about your ass being in jail. They go way back to patrol days, decide to get a drink—no big thing.”

“Well, you didn’t see her.”

“So cut the woman some slack. She wants to look decent around a guy like Dillon. I seem to recall you primping your hair and shit when you first met with Max Donovan.”

“Yeah, and look where that got me. She’s got something for Dillon.”

“So what if she does? The dude’s been decent to us, right?” He pointed an index finger at her. “You might’ve been in the doghouse with Tucker if he hadn’t schmoozed her and her smitten little ass on your behalf.”

Ellie plopped herself down at the desk across from him. “Maybe. So what’s up with the call records?”

“We got a ton of calls back and forth with her parents—I guess that’s normal for college students these days, can’t cut the cord. Local carry-out joints every couple of days. Bunch of girlfriends—the reverse directory listings come back to a handful of girls on that list you got from the mom.”

“Including Courtney Chang?”

“Yep, a bunch between her and your girl Courtney. No Keith. No other dudes. No late-night booty calls. This girl was chaste, man.”

Ellie shook her head. “Courtney couldn’t help us find this Keith guy either. I did get a photograph, though. Figured I’d search records for first name Keith with a lip piercing. See what comes up.”

Ellie’s phone buzzed at her waist. According to the screen, it was Jess.

“Hey,” she said.

“You busy?”

“Always. What’s up?”

“Please tell me you don’t have something going on with DJ Anus So Hottica.”

“Do I even want to know what you’re talking about?”

“Your e-mail.”

“How many times do I have to tell you to stay out of my cyber shit? There’s, like, actually real laws against that stuff. I am a cop, if you haven’t noticed.”

“Can’t help it, El. You leave your new-mail alert open on your laptop so your messages pop up and interfere with my porn surfing.”

“Nice. That’s an image I want in my head all day.”

“Oh, trust me, the images I’ve been working on are so much better.”

“So, I’m sorry. What was the point of all this?”

“Your e-mail. I couldn’t exactly ignore a subject line like ‘Predator,’ could I? So I opened the message, and what do I see but that electronica-loving poseur. I’m all for you finding some barely legal boy toy, but that lightweight?”

“Seriously, Jess. Who are you talking about?”

“The picture in your e-mail. He goes by DJ Anorexotica.” He dragged out the name dramatically.

“What picture? Wait. Are you talking about an e-mail from someone named Courtney Chang?”

“Yeah, I guess. The sender address says ChangBang@macmail. That plus the subject line had me, shall we say, intrigued.”

“Jesus, Jess. It’s an e-mail on a case. You mean you know the guy in that picture?”

“Duh. What have I been saying? You’re not going out with him, are you?”