Livia Lone (Livia Lone #1)(16)

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.