The 20th Victim (Women's Murder Club #20)(58)

I got to the Hall at eight, alarming the security guard in the lobby with my Halloween mask of a face.

I said, “I got a few licks in, too.”

The guard said, “I don’t doubt it for a second, Sergeant.”

I held my face as I laughed, knowing that there was going to be more of this kind of talk as my bruises spread.

Upstairs in the squad room, Conklin said, “You’ll be fine. You’ll be fine.”

The repetition made me think otherwise, but I let it pass.

“Who’s in with Brady?”

“Detective Noble from LA.”

“He flew in? Does Brady want us to join them or take Noble to the war room?”

Conklin said, “War room. I brought churros. Only ate one.”

He picked up the phone and tapped the keys. My long view from the front to rear of the squad room included the back of Noble’s head and Brady, behind his desk, picking up his landline. He and Conklin had a short exchange about logistics, then they hung up.

“I’ll set up the room,” said Conklin.

“Allow me,” I said.

Conklin said, “I got it,” and went to make coffee. I sighed and walked to Brady’s office, steeling myself against his comments when he saw my face. I introduced myself to Detective Noble, who winced when he stood up to shake my hand and got a good look at me. Brady didn’t even blink.

Noble and I walked through the empty bullpen to the war room, which was now wallpapered with photos of the sniper victims. Conklin played Inspector Mom, offering refreshments, including churros and just-brewed police department mud with a choice of flavored creamers. Then Detective Noble brought us up to speed on yesterday’s shooting.

“It’s not in the papers yet,” he said, “but three people were killed yesterday. One was former LAPD narc Barry Pratch.”

Noble showed us pictures. First one, Pratch was in his dress uniform, possibly for his photo ID. The second photo was nearly identical to those of the other sniper victims.

Pratch was spread-eagle, facedown in a street that had been cordoned off and banked by cruisers. He wore civvies: jeans, polo shirt, running shoes. His khaki jacket had reinforced shoulders, patches on the elbows—a hunting jacket or what you’d wear to a shooting range.

I looked up and asked Noble, “Do you know anything about who killed him? Why was he wearing a shooting jacket? Please say you’ve got witnesses.”

Noble said, “If only. No. The whole thing is odd. Pratch had been with LAPD for a decade but got written up a number of times for suspicious shootings on the job. Rumor had it, never officially stated, that he was using oxy, very likely taken off perps. Maybe he was selling, too. Wouldn’t surprise me,” Noble said.

Clapper had said similar things about Detective Carl Kennedy. The only difference that I could see was that Kennedy had moved from LAPD to Houston and was on the job when he was murdered. Maybe Pratch and Kennedy had been friends.

Noble said, “Pratch was about to get canned, so he took early retirement three years ago. But listen to this. He was going after the shooters. And he killed two of them. He was hunting down drug dealers like he was still on the job.”

“What does this mean to you?” I asked Noble.

“My theory is that Pratch took out two of the snipers and would have kept going. But someone, a third shooter, capped him first. Dead men don’t shoot.”

Noble went on to tell us about the shooters’ bodies.

One of the dead men had been found on the roof of a two-story office building. The other had been standing outside an apartment house. Neither of the snipers had been identified yet. But LA’s overworked Forensics Unit had photos, prints, and expended bullets, and would ID the dead men as soon as they could.

“Which could be weeks,” Noble said.

We refilled our coffee cups and kicked it around.

Why had a disgraced police officer killed two trained assassins? How had he known them, and how had he known where they would be? Was he one of them? Had he gone straight and decided that shooting drug dealers was dead wrong? Or had he had Moving Targets in his sights from the beginning and joined them? Maybe he’d seen a way to redeem himself by bringing them down.

All good theories, but where was the key to the answer?

Would we ever know?

Noble had said, “Dead men don’t shoot.”

Correct. And they don’t talk, either.





CHAPTER 85





BRADY STIFF-ARMED THE door and burst into the war room, saying, “Barkley was just seen entering the Sleep Well in Portola.”

I knew the place. The Sleep Well Motel was pinkish in color with a traditional motel design: a square-U-shaped building enclosing a parking area, which faced San Bruno Avenue.

Brady snapped out his orders. “Take Lemke and Samuels. I can’t raise Nardone. Boxer, you’re first officer. SWAT’s on the way.”

I followed Brady down the center aisle with Conklin right behind me. Lemke and Samuels were at their desks. Lemke’s jutting lower jaw made him look like an old pit bull. Samuels was round shouldered with glasses and could pass for an accountant. People underestimated him. They were wrong to do so. They were both good cops, inseparable, and now Lemke had a halo because one of his snapshots at the Barons’ funeral had turned out to be Barkley.