The Competition

76

When we got back to the station, we checked in with Graden to find out if there’d been any tips worth hearing about.

“Evan’s been sighted everywhere from Eureka to Tijuana, and they’re not even a quarter of the way through them all. We’re running down every one that’s even marginally close, but none of them look good so far.”

I looked at the television in Graden’s office that was perpetually tuned to the local news. “I have to believe he’ll try to disguise himself.”

Bailey nodded. “Yeah, a wig-or even just a hat and a pair of shades would probably be enough to do the trick.”

“But at least now people will be looking,” I said. “And we’re going to show Jax our photo of Evan and see if he can make some kind of ID.”

Graden looked hopeful. “He saw Evan close-up?”

“Yeah, but I’m not all that confident. He said the guy was wearing a baseball cap and shades. All he could give us was a general height and weight-”

Bailey moved toward the door. “Which fits Evan and about ten million other guys.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Graden said. “We know we’ve got the right guy. Evidence will pile up fast when we catch him. And you’ve got a nice start with those letters he had Amanda send you.”

“Is she…?” I asked.

“Just fine,” Graden said. “And she hasn’t heard a thing from our Bachelor of the Year.”

We headed to Bailey’s desk. “Mind if I use your computer?” I was desperate for ideas about where Evan might strike, and I thought it could help to check out the stories of the other mass killers-juveniles in particular. I’d just finished looking at the entries for the two middle school shooters when Bailey got an urgent message on her cell.

“Yeah?” Bailey listened for a few moments, then quickly pulled out her notepad. “Give that to me one more time.” She made some notes, then said, “I’m leaving now,” and ended the call. She stood up and handed me my purse. “Let’s go.”

I ran to keep up as we headed for her car. She peeled out of the parking lot so fast I had to hold on to the dashboard to keep from being thrown against the door. I waited until she’d steered us through the Harbor Freeway and onto the 101 northbound. “Okay, Mario Andretti, want to tell me why we’re setting a land-speed record?”

“They spotted the car-”

It took me a moment to catch on. “You mean Logan’s car?”

“Yep. It was parked in front of a Chipotle on Topanga Canyon Boulevard.”

I waited for her to give me the rest of the story, but she fell silent. “And? Was Evan in it?”

“No one’s in it right now. They’ve staked it out and they’re waiting.”

“You still have an extra vest in your trunk?”

“Of course.”

I tried to tamp down the hope that was rising in my chest. I’d had too many letdowns in this case. Still, this looked good. The fact that no one had spotted Logan’s car all this time was some indication that it had been hidden. And who else besides Evan would’ve had access to it? He was probably living in that car. After all, he didn’t have much money, and this wasn’t a killer with any long-term plans for survival.

In less than half an hour we pulled onto the side street where the stakeout was being coordinated. A patrol officer started to wave us along, but when Bailey held up her badge, he pointed her to a parking spot nearby. A legal parking spot. She looked peeved as she pulled into the space. “You could ask him if there’s a fire hydrant around here,” I suggested.

“Shut up.”

We found the officer in charge, which turned out to be a lieutenant. A lot of firepower for a stakeout. Then again, this was no ordinary stakeout. Lieutenant Scott Braverman, whose buzz-cut blonde hair and muscled torso looked like a poster for a fitness video, was sitting in the driver’s seat of a patrol car with the door open.

Bailey held out her badge again and identified us. He scanned the two of us. “So now you Robbery-Homicide dicks carry around your own personal DAs?”

His tone was just the wrong side of snotty. This was not an uncommon attitude in the local divisions-they really didn’t dig the fact that RHD stepped in to take over all the hottest cases.

Bailey gave him a cold smile. “Not all of them. Just me. When was the car first spotted?”

Braverman’s lip curled. I could see he was dying to get into it with Bailey. But this was no time to indulge his baser instincts. He reined himself in with an effort and looked at his watch. “Just about forty minutes ago. The car’s parked in front of the Chipotle, but he could be anywhere on that corner.”

We’d passed the corner on our way here. It was the size of about four city blocks. Chipotle, a small Mexican fast-food diner, was on the outer edge of a complex that included two large grocery stores, a Petco, a FedEx store, three restaurants, and several specialty boutiques.

Bailey stood with her hands on her hips and looked toward Ventura Boulevard. “You have any officers inside the Chipotle?”

The lieutenant’s jaw muscle bounced. “No. I didn’t have any plainclothes available and I didn’t want to send any unis in there.”

Bailey looked at him steadily for a long beat, then nodded. “We’ll take it then-”

“You and…her?” He looked me up and down. “You’re kidding, right?”

Bailey turned to me. “You’re locked and loaded?”

I nodded. I knew she’d asked the question only to show I was a tough guy too, and I appreciated it. The problem was, Evan had seen both of us on television. He’d recognize us in a heartbeat. But I didn’t want to say that to Bailey in front of this jerk. So I followed her as she turned and headed down the block. I trotted to get alongside her so I could talk without being overheard.

“Uh, Bailey, that guy’s an asshat, but this might not be the best idea you’ve ever had.”

Bailey stared straight ahead and spoke out of the corner of her mouth. “Yeah. I thought of that about two seconds after the words fell out of my damn mouth.”

I started to chuckle and she shot me a look. I cleared my throat to stifle the rest of my laugh. “Too soon?”

“A sane person might think so.”

True, it wasn’t funny. We were about to walk into a tiny fast-food joint to confront a murderer who might well have more-and bigger-firearms than all of us put together. I opened my purse and kept my hand on my gun as we walked. We’d just turned onto Topanga Canyon Boulevard when a young man in jeans and a hoodie stepped out of the diner and headed toward Logan’s car.

Bailey whipped her gun out of the shoulder holster and shouted, “Police! Drop your weapon!”

At that moment, the rest of the officers, who’d been hiding behind the bushes that separated the parking lot from the sidewalk, sprang out with guns drawn and pointed as they shouted at him. “Put your hands on your head! Get down on the ground! Now!”

He put his hands in the air and slowly backed away from the car.

“Stop!” Bailey and the officers shouted. “Get down! Now!”

But he kept backing up until he bumped into the front door of the Chipotle. Then he reached behind, pulled it open, and slid inside.