“No, I just want to make sure we eliminate him cleanly. Let's keep a nice, neat flow chart on this one.”

He put his palms down on his desk and leaned, stretching his fingers. “Now, about that German girl-”

Petra gave him the fax on Karlheinz Lauch. He read it and put it down.

She said, “So where do we go with it?”

“The Austrian police, again. Other countries where they speak German and have airports, which I guess would be Switzerland. Also Interpol, U.S. Immigration, though with a three-year window, good luck finding anything at passport control.”

“Sorensen already did all that.”

“Three years' time lapse means we do it again. Now that we've found one similar, we need to widen the net, make sure we don't miss others. That means Orange County, Ventura, Santa Barbara, even San Francisco. If we find nothing, I'd feel comfortable putting any notion of a local serial killer to rest. But you never know. There was a guy a few years ago, Jack Unterhoffer- an Austrian, as it turned out- moved between Europe and the U.S., strangling women. Took a long time to see the pattern. If we don't turn up other leads on Lisa and Schoelkopf gets really paranoid, he'll want us to go national, so let's preempt him, run Lauch through NCIC, whatever else the feds have to offer.”

Almost as if he wanted to do scut. That didn't fit her chance-for-promotion theory. Or did it?

“Fine,” she said, surprised at the impatience in her voice. “But Ramsey's still clearly our main guy, and now we've learned something that adds to his motive. I know the impotence thing is hearsay-”

“Less than hearsay. Lisa hinted in general terms.”

“But if we don't follow up on it, it's beyond malfeasance.”

“No argument,” he said, sitting back and playing with his suspenders. “We're not arguing here, Petra, we're prioritizing. There are only two of us, so either we ask for reinforcement, which will mean Robbery-Homicide boots us out, or we split the job. How about I take the whole Eggermann/Lauch thing and you talk to Ramsey? The phone work we continue to divide.”

Petra couldn't believe what he was saying. Giving her sirloin and keeping the gristle for himself. “You want me to do Ramsey alone?”

“It might work to our advantage, Petra.”

“In what way?”

“If Ramsey does have woman problems, your presence could get him antsy, open some cracks.”

Woman problems. Not potency problems. Not man problems.

She said, “Okay, but I don't mind some scut.”

“Don't worry about it, Petra. Tell the truth-” He started to say something, stopped. Falling into something he'd taught her about when they started working together: Watch out for suspects who say truthfully or frankly or to be honest or tell the truth. They're usually hiding something.

“I really think you're the best one to psych out Ramsey,” he said. “Not just the gender thing. It'd be better not to overwhelm him, make it obvious that we're interrogating him. One person rather than two could help with that. Also, back at his house, he seemed to focus on you.”

“What do you mean?”

“He wasn't exactly coming on, but there was interest. At least, I thought so. It tells us something about the way his mind works. His ex has just been murdered, he's putting on the grieving husband bit, and he's checking you out.”

So he had seen it. What else had he kept to himself?

“I'm not talking bait, Petra. If you don't want to do it alone, I understand. But you've got the talent for this one.”

“Thanks.” Why didn't she feel complimented? Was she growing truly paranoid?

She nodded.

“Okay, then it's all set.” He picked up his phone.

25

Runningrunning running notbreathing,

No looking back.

Trees jumping in front of me, trying to grab me, change direction.

Tear through the branches, they tear back, my face, my arms, my legs, all on fire.

I want to close my eyes, hurl myself through space, a missile. I try and it's good, but then I fall and roll, hitting rocks and branches and sharp things, hurting my head, opening up a hot wet cut on my arm.

It keeps bleeding. I can feel it dripping down, but it doesn't hurt. Nothing hurts; am I made of clay? Of shit?

Don't know where I'm going, don't care, just out of there, the park was a traitor.

Now I can breathe.

I can hear it in my ears, fuzzy, big bursts of fuzz that fill up my head, in air, out air, fuzz air, my chest hurts.

No more Places. Nothing's safe… my heart's beating too hard, too fast, suddenly I have to throw up.

I stop, bend over, it shoots out of me like lava, all over the ground, burning my throat.

When will I have a clean life?

No more, empty now, have to be quiet, have to be quiet.

I am quiet.

Everything's quiet.

I taste and smell like something dead.

I run some more, fall get up, run, walk, start to feel better and stop to breathe, but then I start shaking and can't stop.

I'm in a part of the park that I've maybe seen before, but I'm not sure.

Lots of trees, leaves all over the ground, rocks and dirt, could be anywhere in the park. I lie down and hug myself. My throat is still on fire, my teeth start knocking against each other dadadadadadadada.

It stops. I want to sit up, but so tired. The ground is bumpy. I find a rock, a smooth, cold one, hold it in both hands, squeeze hard, then I throw it away and take a deep breath.

The bleeding cut has dried into this purple line with wet spots and gold-colored stuff leaking out. Probably plasma. It helps you clot.

I start to hurt all over and find all the other cuts and marks, on my arms, my face. I scratch, raise some bloody spots, watch them clot too.

My body's working.

A bird cry makes me jump and my heart shoots up into my throat and I feel like vomiting again.

Breathe, breathe, breathe… now I'm dizzy.

Breathe. Listen to the birds, they're just birds.

Okay. I'm okay.

Time to start moving again.

Finally, the night comes.

I'm on a high spot, almost a hill, nothing to see but trees and behind them the huge black shadows of real mountains.

Still in the park, but not for long. Traitor.

I've got nothing now, my books, my clothes, my plastic bags, my food, it's all back at Five.

All the Tampax money. Except what's left of the five dollars I took to the zoo. I reach down in my pocket and feel three bills and some change.

How did all this happen? How did they know to go for me?

The park was their place, too.

My fault. Stupid thinking I could relax.

Nice and dark now. Darkness covers me, time to move, again.

I walk till I hear cars. Still can't see them, but I must be getting closer to Los Feliz Boulevard. I keep rubbing the hand that held the shit against rocks and dirt and tree trunks and after a while there's no more stink. The cars are really loud now and it is Los Feliz and I know where I am.

Hiding myself behind a thick tree, I think about what to do and she comes into my head.

The one who got chucked.

Why do I keep meeting evil, gross, sick people?

Is there some message I wear on my face like this kid is a loser; he should get messed up? Do I look weak, wimpy, something to be hunted down?

Am I giving off some kind of sign I can't see, the way you can't tickle yourself?

Do I need to be different?

One thing's for sure: I need to be clean.

And gone.