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“Heidt?”

“Yeah, or... what about Flannery?”

“Wouldn’t the Church be delighted with that kind of publicity after the molestation epidemic,” said Jovanic sarcastically. “Heidt’s using his political clout as a shield, which is making it hard to get anywhere. Flannery also knew about the dungeon, and he knew Earl Nelson. He’s a prime suspect.”

“Someone’s got to know
something,
and be willing to talk.”

“I’m working on it. I’m going after his financial records.” Jovanic ran a hand through his hair in a gesture of frustration, tousling it into a cowlick. “No judge will give us a search warrant on what we’ve got. So he paid for legal kinky sex. That doesn’t tie him to anything else.”

Claudia reached up and smoothed the errant hairs. “What’s that F. Scott Fitzgerald line...
‘the rich are different from you and me’
?”

“Yeah,
‘they have more money.’
Okay, grapho lady, I’ve got a couple of angles I’m going after.” He slipped his arms around her and backed her up against the Jeep, cupping her ass and drawing her close. “I’m gonna be up most of the night, working.”

She leaned into him, tugging on his lapels until his face was close to hers. “Why don’t you come back tonight?”

His lips pressed against hers, tasting her warmth, probing, lingering for a long moment before he pulled away with a regretful sigh.

He phoned around noon. “I’ve found Preston Sommerfield.”

Sommerfield—the pedophile Earl Nelson had photographed molesting Lindsey. “So, give it up. What’d you find out?”

“Have you ever heard of Jordan Stanwyck?”

She thought about it. “Mmmm, sounds vaguely familiar. Who is he?”

“He’s a big time children’s advocate. You know... send your dollars to Timbuktu and feed a kid?”

She nodded, even though he couldn’t see her. “Yeah, okay. I’ve seen the commercials with that actress. She’s always holding some poor little ragged child, so you feel guilty if you don’t send money. What’s that got to do with Sommerfield?”

“Turns out his name is Preston
Stanwyck
Sommerfield.” Jovanic paused, waiting for the penny to drop. “Jordan’s an alias.”

Claudia’s hand flew to her mouth. “Holy shit, are you telling me that
pedophile
is a children’s advocate?”

“He got a legal name change fifteen years ago. He’s been operating a children’s charity headquartered in Mexico.”

“Mexico?”

“I haven’t found any connection to Lindsey there yet. Still digging.”

“What about his wife?”

“Drowned in a boating accident the year after Lindsey started college. Some coincidence, huh? Sommerfield was the sole heir.”

“No shit,” Claudia murmured, pushing her chair away from the desk. “His wife drowns, Lindsey drowns. Is there something wrong with this picture?”

“I pulled the file on the wife’s death.
Looks
like a clean investigation.”

“And Sommerfield is now Stanwyck, and he’s involved with children? Joel, you’ve got to do something! After what he did to Lindsey, can you imagine...”

“Take it easy. As soon as we hang up, I’m heading over to SECU... that’s the Sexually Exploited Child Unit to you.”

“Do you think he could have killed Lindsey?”

“He’s sure as hell made it onto my list of suspects.”

Jovanic’s news about Preston Sommerfield kept Claudia tossing restlessly in her bed. Unable to rid herself of the images of children being exploited by the man whom she knew to be a monster, dawn had broken before she finally slipped into a sleep tormented by dreams that bordered on nightmares.

She awoke late, choking, fighting for air. Tossing back the covers, she sat on the edge of the bed until the panicky feeling subsided, then stumbled into the bathroom. She turned on the shower faucets full-blast, avoiding the mirror. Knew what she’d see there—dark shadows under her eyes; fine lines carving into her face more deeply than they had yesterday.

Setting the jet of hot water to pulse, she pushed the thoughts aside and indulged in a few minutes of fantasy—Jovanic lathering her body with French milled soap, massaging away the tension.

She dressed in sweats and dried her hair; made coffee and took her cup outside to the basket chair, where the combination of cool air and caffeine brought her fully awake. Had Jovanic actually pulled an all-nighter at the office? she wondered. Right on cue, the phone rang.

“You awake?” His voice dragged, gravelly with fatigue. “I was just wondering the same about you.”

“If I died at my desk they wouldn’t find me for a week with all the paper. Hey, I got a question for you. Does the name Nasrin Kardosian mean anything to you?”

She frowned, concentrating, waiting for a prick of familiarity, not getting one. “Don’t tell me it’s another alias for Sommerfield?”

“Nah, nothing like that. We got a match on those prints they found at Lindsey’s. This guy’s got a jacket two feet thick: burglary, assault, dope, you name it.”

Instantly, Claudia’s hands began to tremble. Coffee slurped over the side of her mug, splashing onto her sweat pants as she jerked upright and set the basket chair swinging. She put the mug down on the mosaic-tiled garden table and shook coffee off her hands.

“This is the guy who killed Ivan? Are you sure?”

“Sure enough to get an arrest warrant. Uniforms are on their way to pick him up as we speak.” Jovanic turned away from the phone and spoke in a low voice to someone in the background. When he returned he gave her the rest of the news. “You’re gonna need to look at a lineup.”

No!

The last thing on earth she wanted was to come face-to-face with the man who had attacked her and Destiny. But somehow, the words wouldn’t come out. “Normally, we’d use a photo lineup,” Jovanic continued, filling the silence. “But I know you didn’t get much of a look at him. Hey, even if you could get a feel for his general build and height it would help.”

“That’s not much to go on.”

“Come on, you gotta do your civic duty. Anything that could identify him would help. The report said you noticed something about his hands.”

In her mind, she saw them again, those hairy mitts clasping the dull black gun; she saw its deadly cargo aimed straight at her heart. “He had hands like an ape... hairy down to the fingers... but you said there was a bloody hand print. Do you really need me?” She hated the pleading quality that had entered her voice, felt powerless to make it stronger.

“A palm and a partial thumb,” Jovanic corrected her. “We need to be able to link him to Ivan’s homicide,
and
the attack on you and Destiny.” His tone softened. “At least take a look at him, Claudia. He won’t see you, he’ll be on the other side of a two-way mirror.”

“I know how it’s done,” she said, resigning herself. “I used to watch
Law and Order
.”

The next time the phone rang, the caller was Zebediah, wanting to talk about the Graingers’ Halloween party.

“I didn’t know you were invited,” said Claudia.

He pretended affront. “How could it be a party without me?”

“How do you know Lillian Grainger?”

“Same as you... met her after the funeral. I bowled her over with my charm and good looks.”

Claudia had to laugh. “You dirty old dog, you do have a way with women. Who’s your date?”

“Lillian confessed she needed single men who could dance, and I fit both categories, I’m going stag.”

“Jovanic and I are going as Anthony and Cleopatra. How about you?”

“Just look for the god in the gold thong, darling.”

Before she could make a wisecrack in return, the call-waiting beep sounded. She said good-bye to Zebediah and clicked over.

“Our boys had a little trouble locating Mr. Kardosian,” said Jovanic, sounding satisfied. “Slippery sonofabitch, but we got him.”

“Okay, what do I have to do?”

“I’ll pick you up in fifteen minutes. We’re going downtown.” Jovanic paused, did his Columbo thing. “Oh, did I mention that Mr. Kardosian was taken into custody wearing a cast on his arm?”

Debates continued over the nearly four-hundred million dollar cost of the proposed new police headquarters, but for today, their destination was Parker Center on Los Angeles Street. The building felt cold and unwelcoming to Claudia as Jovanic ushered her to the fifty-year-old elevators and they rode up to the fourth floor.

The room he took her to was plain to the point of ugly. Ceiling tiles bore brown water stains and an electrical outlet was missing its cover, showing bare wires. It smelled of stale coffee and old french fries. Jovanic introduced her to Paul Barnes and Mario Zuniga, who were waiting for them there.

Barnes was the older of the pair. His hangdog, jowly face gave the impression of a jaded cop who had been around one block too many. Sandy brown hair was arranged in a pathetic comb-over, and the gut bulging over his belt could have used a few weeks with a personal trainer.

Zuniga seemed to be all arms. A tall, loose-jointed Hispanic in his mid-thirties who waved his hands around a lot when he spoke, his gaze bounced from Jovanic to Claudia with friendly interest. “Ready for the show?”

Claudia responded with a weak smile. “Oh, yeah, give me a ringside seat.”

“Maybe you know how this works,” Barnes said, stuffing an unlit cigarette behind his ear. Smoking was forbidden in the building, but a sprinkling of grey ash soiled his lapel.

He indicated the darkened two-way mirror. “We’ll bring some guys into the room on the other side of this glass. They won’t be able to see you. We want you to look at them all and tell us whether any of them is the person who assaulted you and Ms. Cardoza.” He leveled a stern look at her. “It’s important that you understand, the actual suspect may or may not be in the lineup, so don’t feel like you
have
to pick anybody.”

“I only saw his face for an instant.”

“That’s fine,” Barnes responded, indicating an orange plastic chair that had been placed in front of the window. “Please have a seat. We want you to keep in mind that it’s better for a guilty man to go free, than for an innocent man to be placed in jail.” Jovanic stood with the other two detectives, which left Claudia feeling isolated.

Them and me.
She clasped her hands in her lap to steady them. The body holds onto past trauma and repeats the physiological response, even though the threat is past. That explained her dry mouth and rapid heart rate. Conditioned Response, behaviorists called it—psychobabble that meant she’d rather lie on a bed of nails than come face-to-face with her assailant again.

Zuniga raised his brow at her and when she nodded that she was ready, he spoke into an intercom mounted on the wall. “Bring ‘em in.”

In the room on the other side of the glass the lights went on and five men trooped single file into the room.

Claudia stared at them, fully aware that they couldn’t see her through the glass, but still utterly creeped out. Jovanic had earlier explained that there would be four fillers in the group and only one real suspect. All five of the men wore short-sleeved shirts. Four of them had been given a sling to put on their right arm to match the fifth.

Number One was a stocky African-American with a shaved head that shone under the glare of the overhead lights. The Number Two position was occupied by a brown-skinned youth who slouched against the wall in baggy corduroys that hung low on his hips. A pencil-thin moustache looked as if it had been drawn onto a face that was fixed in a permanent smirk.

Number Three was around five-nine, one-ninety with an olive complexion and dark, wavy hair. The backs of his hands and his right arm were covered in dark, curly hair. He gazed straight ahead, his face set in a carefully emotionless expression.

Number Four was a light-skinned Hispanic with an acne-pitted face, around five-eleven, medium build. Number Five had a long ponytail of matted black hair hanging over his shoulder. All of the men had a generally similar build and look, but only one commanded Claudia’s attention.

“It’s Number Three,” she said, her mouth so dry she could hardly get the words out.

“I’m going to ask them all to repeat what the suspect said to you,” Zuniga said, without acknowledging the identification she had just made. “Please listen carefully and see if you recognize any of their voices.”

She muttered an assent and closed her eyes to help her concentration. Zuniga spoke into the intercom microphone. “When I call you, step to the front, one at a time and say, ‘Where’s the fuckin’ video?’ Number One, step forward.”

The first guy stepped up and in a bored, flat voice said, “Where’s the fuckin’ video?”

“Step back. Number Two, step forward.”

Number Two marched forward, yelled, “Where’s the fuckin’ video, man? I fuckin’ mean it.”

Wiseass.

“Step back. Number Three, step forward.”

The man in the middle sneered directly at the mirror and spoke the incriminating words.

“It’s him,” Claudia said, breathless, but trying to keep her voice level.

“Are you positive?” It was Jovanic who spoke up.

“I remember his voice and he has arms like a werewolf.”

“We need you to hear Number Four and Five speak, to make sure,” Barnes said.

She got to her feet and pointed at Kardosian. “There’s no point. I’m telling you, Number Three is the guy.”

Barnes flicked a glance at Jovanic, then back at Claudia. “Ms. Rose, we need you to listen to the others. We don’t want anyone’s attorney saying we stacked the deck against their client.”

She plopped back down on her chair and listened with bad grace to Numbers Four and Five repeat the line. “It’s Number Three.” She got to her feet again. “Where’d the other guys come from?”

“Some come from the jail, and sometimes an undercover guy will fill,” Zuniga said, opening the door and standing aside. “Hey, JJ, you wanna watch the interview?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Jovanic said. He’d been denied the collar, but at least he could participate at this level.
The privileges of membership.
All Claudia wanted to do was bolt.