53

“M OVING INTO THE GUEST ROOM?” FRANK ASKED. HE WAS SURROUNDED by two adoring dogs, who pressed up against his legs while our cat, Cody, yowled a greeting.

“No,” I said, standing up and stretching over the menagerie to give him a hug. “Just going over some papers from O’Connor’s childhood.”

“His childhood?” He hugged back. Still had his gun on. His face had been chilled by the night air-and felt wonderful.

“Yes. Believe it or not, he was keeping a diary when he was eight. He started writing little stories for Corrigan around that same time. You should read a few of them-they’re hilarious. He was such a bright kid. And Corrigan obviously had a gift for teaching-O’Connor was learning how to identify reporters’ work by their style. He made a game out of it.”

“That’s wild. I hate to think what I would have been writing at that same age.” He gave me a kiss.

“I saved some chicken for you,” I said. He had phoned at five to say he had caught a new homicide case, and might be delayed. I glanced at the clock on the desk. “Only eight-you got out of there faster than I thought you would.”

He grinned. “Case went to L.A. County Sheriff’s. Turns out it all started in their jurisdiction.”

He changed into jeans and a sweater and put the gun away. It isn’t easy for me to watch that man get undressed and dressed again without making him keep his clothes off for a while in between, but he was hungry, so I didn’t interrupt the process. Still, I noticed a certain knowing light in his eyes, one that told me he was completely aware of the direction my thoughts had taken.

We went into the kitchen and talked about the day while he had dinner.

We’ve had to work out rules with each other, given our occupations-he doesn’t talk about my work at his workplace, I don’t talk about his at mine. He won’t tell the police what’s going on at the newspaper, I won’t tell the newspaper what’s going on in his department. I don’t ask him for information that would compromise an investigation, he doesn’t ask me for information that would cause me to reveal sources.

This has driven our employers crazy at times, and every now and then the pressures we’ve each been under at work have put a strain on our marriage. But over the long run, it has helped us to stay together. In our workplaces, others may suspect us of being less than loyal to our employers, of something akin to consorting with the enemy, but at home, our trust in each other remains.

And every once in a while, we manage to help each other.

“I left a voice mail message for Mark Baker about something you might be interested in,” he said, putting his dishes in the sink. “There’s an old prisoner up in Folsom who claims he’s got religion and wants to confess to a couple of murders he committed here in the 1940s.”

“In the 1940s? Wow. How old is this guy?”

“They told me he’s seventy-seven.”

“You know which cases?”

“Yes. He named them-a couple of young girls who were buried in an orange grove. Carlson’s handed the cases to me.”

“You’ve been getting a lot of these lately.”

“We can do more with these cases than we could before-even five years ago, the DNA testing wasn’t where it is now. It’s not just the DNA, either-we can do much more with fingerprints and other lab work than we could back when the murders took place.”

“Who were the victims?”

“Young women. I don’t have the information with me-haven’t even had a chance to go into storage and pull what we have on them. But ask Mark to give me a call tomorrow morning and I’ll fill him in on it.”

“Great. Hoping for some local help?”

“You never know. Sometimes people come forward. But I don’t expect it. Bennie Lee Harmon isn’t going anywhere, even if they don’t.”

“Harmon-that name is familiar…”

“He was paroled in the late 1970s-model prisoner and all that. About two years after he was released, he attacked and killed a woman in Riverside. But at that point he had a sheet, we had better labs and computers, and he was caught.”

“Wait, now I remember him. He had been serving on death row up in San Quentin. He got out when the court overturned all those death penalty convictions in the 1970s.”

“Right.”

“O’Connor wrote about him. He was upset that he was going free.”

“Well, O’Connor was right. Harmon’s confessing to seven murders, two of them here in Las Piernas.”

The phone rang. I answered it.

“Irene? It’s Max.”

“Max! Are you in town for a while?” I saw Frank frown. It always takes him a moment to remind himself that Max is a friend and not a former boyfriend.

“Yes, I’m here for a few weeks. In fact-well, I called to let you know I’m engaged.”

“Engaged!”

Frank’s frown became a grin. I was grinning, too.

“Yes, well, you weren’t available any longer, so I had to pick someone else.”

“Oh, right. As if you aren’t the most sought-after bachelor I know.”

He laughed. “You’ll like her, Irene. She’s as good for me as Frank is for you.”

“Then she must be perfect for you. And in that case, I’m sure I will like her. Does this perfect woman have a name?”

“Gisella. Gisella Ross.” The way he said her name told me all I needed to know. Max Ducane, who had withstood more matchmaking attempts, more women chasing after him, more flat-out onslaughts on his single status than any man I know, had fallen for someone.

“Is she here with you in Las Piernas?”

“Not right now. She’s going to join me here in a few days. Actually…I was wondering, do you think I could get together with you and Frank sometime before Friday?”

“You want Frank to do a background check on her?”

He laughed. “No. I’ve met her family. Very upper-crust New Englanders.”

“I’ll read up on my Emily Post before we meet. I don’t want to embarrass you.”

“You couldn’t do that. Besides, she’s not as stuffy as her parents are.”

“Hang on,” I said. I talked it over with Frank, then said, “Are you free tomorrow night? Why don’t you come over?”

He agreed to it, and we arranged for him to come by at about seven. I hung up and looked over at Frank. “Wonder what’s on his mind?”

“I don’t know,” he said, gently pulling me closer and nuzzling my ear. “How about if I tell you what’s on mine?”

I have always liked the way Frank’s mind works.

54

A T WORK THE NEXT MORNING, I FORGOT TO USE MY NEW PASSWORD, AND was immediately locked out of my computer. Computer services was tied up on another problem and couldn’t help me right at the moment.

“I thought I was supposed to get three tries before it locked me out.”

“You do,” the technician said. “I’ll check on that when I get a minute.”

I was going to try persuading him to take that minute right now, but one of my outside lines was ringing, so I hung up. It was Frank, calling from LAX.

“Hi, sorry I didn’t call you earlier, but everything has been rushed this morning. I’m flying up to Sacramento.”

“Today? I mean, of course you’re going today, but-”

“I need to talk to Harmon. Just a preliminary interview.”

“Oh.”

“Look, I haven’t forgotten about our dinner plans-I might be able to make it back, since it’s only an hour’s flight, but I might not. So-you and Max go on ahead without me if you haven’t heard from me by six, okay?”

“I can call Max, try to reschedule…”

“No, don’t do that. He’s excited about the engagement, and you’re the one he really wants to talk to, anyway.”

“Frank-”

“You’ll make me feel bad if you cancel. I’ll call you when I leave Folsom to let you know what’s going on.”

Over the next twenty minutes, I reached for the phone several times, thinking I should call Max and reschedule anyway, but ultimately I decided I’d take Frank at his word.