Justine knew that Cronin had worked hard on the case since Kayla Brooks was strangled two years ago, and that she was conceivably more frustrated than Justine. Cronin had more at stake too. The Schoolgirl case was her number one job.
After parking her car on Martel, a narrow road in West Hollywood, Justine walked a dozen yards to where Nora Cronin was lying on her stomach, peering underneath an ancient Ford junker parked at the curb.
“Hey, Nora, it’s me,” Justine said.
“Oh, happy day,” Cronin muttered. She came out from under the car with a knife in her gloved hand. She gave the knife to a uniform, saying, “Edison, bag this, tag it, take it to the lab.”
“Yes, ma’am, Nora, ma’am. Forthwith.”
Cronin stripped off her latex gloves and scowled at Justine. “So what’s the deal, Justine? I hear you and Bobby are kaput, and you didn’t even tell me. I have to wonder: Are you still even working the Schoolgirl case?”
“Private is under contract to the city. We’re doing this for free. No billable hours.”
Justine waited for Cronin’s next crack, but it didn’t come. Cronin put a hand on her hip and said, “Is your air conditioner working?”
The two women sat in the Jag with the air on high while Justine briefed Nora on Christine Castiglia.
“In 2006, Castiglia saw two kids toss a girl who looked like Wendy Borman into a black van. An hour ago, she identified one of them. I think Wendy Borman might have been the first schoolgirl in the spree.”
“I know about that Castiglia girl. Kid was eleven at the time, right? Her mother put up a firewall to keep the cops away from her. You saying you trust her five years later to make a positive ID?”
“Not entirely, no. I got Borman’s clothes out of evidence, ran them at our lab. The DNA is good,” Justine said to Cronin. “Two male single-source samples. But no bells went off in the database.”
“So what do you want from me? I’m a little lost here.”
“We have reason to believe that another murder is going down in two days.”
“Oh, really? But you can’t tell me how you know this, right? So, I repeat, what do you want from me?”
“Christine Castiglia saw a Gateway Prep decal on the kidnap van,” Justine said. She tapped buttons on the dashboard computer and called up the photo of Rudolph Crocker’s face.
“This is the guy Christine Castiglia ID’d. Name is Rudolph Crocker. He graduated from Gateway in 2006. Now he’s a suit at a brokerage house. Christine is sure he’s the one she saw.”
“Uh-huh. Now what, Justine?”
“So, I’ve got a suspect over here,” Justine said, holding up one hand. “And I’ve got a DNA sample over here.” She held up the other hand. “If we can put this hand and this hand together, we might just put a bloody psychopath out of business.”
“Saying I want to do it, I’d have to know everything you know,” Cronin said. “None of this ‘We have reason to believe’ crap. You hold anything back from me, I quit.”
“Of course.”
“I don’t answer to you.”
“No, you don’t. And you can’t bring anyone from LAPD into this without my okay. Okay?”
“Yeah,” said Nora.
She was smiling now. It was probably the first time Justine had seen a smile from her. “I’m gonna take a lotta crap for working with you. After all the names I’ve called you.”
Justine nodded. “Deal?”
“Deal.” They slapped high fives in the frigid air.
“We’re going to make a great team,” said Justine.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” said Nora Cronin. “I still don’t particularly like you.”
Justine finally smiled. “Oh, you will.”