Livia Lone

7-NOW

Livia woke after only an hour, before the alarm went off. She had been too excited to sleep deeply-from killing Barnett, of course, but even more because of everything that was going to happen next.

She rolled out of bed, opened a window, and inhaled the air of a spring morning far too glorious for the Jeep. She rode the Ducati to headquarters, tossing the contractor bag near a homeless encampment under the interstate along the way.

She was at her desk well before roll call-her usual practice, and it was important not to do anything out of the ordinary immediately after a kill. No news about Barnett, but it was still early. Probably Marysville PD hadn’t even had time to positively identify the body. She wouldn’t be surprised if Hammerhead learned of his demise before word reached Seattle PD. It didn’t matter. People would be talking about it soon enough either way.

In lieu of anything on Barnett, she worked her usual caseload. In the last week, she’d arrested a peeper in Ballard and a man exposing himself in Olympic Hills, so things were momentarily light. But she also had a sex worker victim, raped by a john out by Sea-Tac. The prosecuting attorney wasn’t going to like this one-not a good victim, meaning not sufficiently sympathetic to a jury, as though only nuns and candy stripers could be raped-and Livia knew she needed an unusually strong case if she was going to persuade the prosecutor to go to trial. She’d already identified a suspect, and was now looking for ways to connect him with similar attacks. There had to have been others-it was just too unlikely this was the first time the guy had decided to attack a sex worker. If Livia could find his other victims and persuade them to come forward, it would go a long way toward getting the prosecutor off his politically calculating ass and putting a serial rapist behind bars.

Sometimes, she almost wanted the prosecutor to say no, or to plea the charges down. It was a reason, an excuse, to do it her way instead. But she knew she had to be careful of that temptation. There was a balance. She respected the system, but she wouldn’t be a slave to it. Her real allegiance was to her victims, and if the system didn’t get them justice, she would get them justice another way.

She’d been at it for close to forty minutes when her lieutenant came in-short, brown hair neat, expression wide awake despite the early hour. Donna Strangeland. A Brooklyn transplant with an accent to match, and a damn good cop. It was odd-some of the women on the force dealt with discrimination by identifying with the men, competing with their sister cops, putting them down, trying to step over them like crabs in a bucket. But a few dealt with it through mutual support and solidarity. Donna was in the latter camp. Beyond which, Livia had never seen a better interrogator. The woman could project incredible levels of compassion and understanding even to the most vile criminals. Murderers. Child rapists. Sadists. She made her suspects feel she understood them, and that if they would only explain to her, be honest with her, open up to her, she could forgive them. Something about her made them crave understanding, the possibility of forgiveness, to the point where Livia had seen her get people to sign confessions stained with their own tears. She was like some kind of surrogate mother, persuading her suspects to trade honesty for the chimera of her love.

She had explained to Livia it wasn’t exactly an act. When she walked into that interrogation room, she set aside all her horror, her disgust, her rage. She always looked for something that would enable her to feel sympathy, and then focused on that thing, not allowing herself to feel anything else. Until after she’d gotten a signed statement, of course. But first she made her suspects want that confession almost as badly as she did.

“Guess I shouldn’t really be surprised to see you,” Donna said, pausing on her way to her office and sipping the department’s strong-smelling coffee from a Styrofoam cup. “Though I did think you might throttle it back a little after the last two.”

She was talking about Ballard and Olympic Hills-both closed cases now. “Yeah,” Livia said, lacing her fingers and stretching her arms over her head to crack the knuckles. “I was going to. But something turned those guys into what they are. So I thought I’d poke around a little. See if there was a teacher, a coach, whatever, picked up for molestation. Cross-reference. Maybe I can spot the next one before it happens. Plus there’s my Sea-Tac victim. Prosecutor’s not going to like her.”

None of it was a lie. Not really. It was just a matter of emphasis.

Donna nodded. If it had been anyone else, she might not have bought it. But she knew Livia’s habits. Her obsessions. “All right,” she said. “See you at roll call.”

“You bet. Unless you have something for me now.”

“I always give you the child stuff, Livia. No one else wants it, anyway.”

Almost no one who had kids, or even nieces and nephews, could handle the child cases. It was too much to bear. But everyone knew that for Livia, it was a crusade.

“Just asking.”

Donna nodded. “By the way. Word from the chief. There’s a guy coming in. Homeland Security. Something about a joint anti-trafficking task force. They’re looking for the right personnel, and it sounded up your alley. You interested?”

“Maybe. Any other intel?”

“That’s it. You know the feds. All very hush-hush. But if it’s DHS, it’s safe to say there’s an overseas component. And maybe some kind of terror angle, I don’t know.” She paused, then added, “I don’t know if it’s about kids. Certainly could be.”

Overseas… right now, she didn’t want anything that would distract from the Hammerhead funeral. Or from Weed Tyler, whose release was imminent, who was the only possible key to what had happened to Nason. Livia nodded and said, “Can I think about it?”

Donna took a sip of coffee. “I don’t even know when the guy’s coming in. We’ll learn more then.”

“Great. Thanks.”

Roll call was the usual-an hour of updates on what had happened the night before; discussion of changing policy and procedures governing the use of force; information-sharing on open cases. Just before dismissing everyone, Donna glanced at her tablet. “Oh, look at this,” she said. “Seems one Billy Barnett has met his maker.”

Some of the assembled detectives raised their eyebrows. Others glanced around, looking for clarification. Outside Sex Crimes and the Gang Unit, Barnett was hardly a household name.

“Hammerhead soldier,” Donna said. “And twice-convicted sex offender. Got himself strangled in a park up in Marysville. Just released from Monroe, too. Terrible loss for humanity.”

“Marysville PD like anyone for it?” That was Suzanne Moore, another good cop who, like Donna, had early on taken Livia under her wing.

“Yeah, about a hundred different people. Barnett wasn’t exactly Mr. Popularity. One theory is he tried to rape the wrong girl. But more likely, Hammerhead itself did the hit. Barnett’s last trip to Monroe caused them a lot of headaches. Good chance they decided they didn’t want any more of his bullshit.”

Suzanne laughed. “Always good when the garbage takes out the garbage.”

There was a generalized murmur of assent to that. Then Donna said, “There’s a third possibility, and it’s one we need to be aware of. Another gang might have been behind this. If so, there are apt to be reprisals. So work your CIs. If there’s going to be trouble, we want to spot it in advance. Speaking of which, Barnett was a Texas native, but G thinks Hammerhead is going to bury him locally, at Crown Hill. If so, all of Hammerhead’s going to be there. Now, the G guys will be all over the periphery-high profile, as a deterrent in case Deuce 8 or the East Union Street Hustlers or whoever decides to show up looking for trouble. But we’ll want to look sharp, too. A Hammerhead white power funeral is like a full moon on a hot, humid night. It just gets people riled.”

Livia raised her hand. “If there’s going to be a funeral, Lieu, I wouldn’t mind swinging by. Check out a Gossamer, get a little intel about who’s who. We know Barnett didn’t always rape by himself, and most of his vics were afraid to come forward once they learned they were dealing with a gang. I want to know who he was close to. With Barnett dead, if there’s another Hammerhead rape, chances are it’ll be one of his good buddies.”

The Gossamer was a handheld cell phone tracker that could place a mobile phone to within less than a yard of its actual location. SPD had a half dozen of them, all purchased with a grant from the Department of Homeland Security. The public knew about the location-tracking function, of course, but what wasn’t as widely understood was the technology’s versatility. The devices could track dozens of phones simultaneously, and could be programmed to key on the proximity of any two cell phones, or five, or ten. The G-unit used them to head off gang battles, setting their Gossamers to sound an alert if phones known to be carried by members of rival gangs were converging in a way that suggested a street fight was imminent. Narcotics used them to map the movements and associations of known traffickers, and to eavesdrop on their conversations. And High Risk Victims used them to uncover networks of pimps, their suppliers, and their customers.

Because of the DHS grant, inventory was monitored closely. But Livia had thought of a way around that. She’d only been waiting for the right moment to act, and if Barnett’s funeral was going down in a day or two, the moment was now.

Donna nodded. “Makes sense. I’ll send the paperwork to the Tool Shed.” She took a moment to look around at the assembled detectives, then said, “All right, everyone. Let’s go get ’em.”

Livia’s expression remained perfectly neutral-a routine request, a routine permission granted. But inside, she felt the familiar stirring. The heat. The power. The dragon.

Go get ’em, she thought. Oh yes, I will.