“Don’t you understand English? I said she needs help.”
The girl’s face stretched in anger. She screamed, “You liar. Get away from me.” She backed up into a train of shopping carts, stumbled, righted herself, tried to run.
Fitzhugh caught up with her easily. He grabbed her arm, dragged her to a halt, and held her firm. “Stop, Gracie, you moron. Stop that. I’m for real, okay? Look—I’ll let you go.”
The girl was almost buying it. He was going to tell her that Lulu was waiting in the van, but he never got to say another word.
There was a stunning blow to his ribs. He fell back, looked up at the slick Mexican guy who had thrown him to the ground and was now yanking his arms behind his back, practically wrenching his right shoulder out of the socket. Fitzhugh screamed.
“What are you trying to do to this girl, you little prick? What’s your name?” Cruz said. “I’m talking to you!”
Cruz bent down, grabbed the kid’s wallet out of the back of his jeans, and handed it to Jack. Then he said to the guy on the ground, “Where’s Rudolph Crocker?”
“I don’t know any Rudolph Crocker. Let me go or I’ll yell for the police.”
“Don’t sweat it, Mr. Fitzhugh. The police are already on the way. I called them for you.”
Chapter 110
JUSTINE GRIPPED THE armrest tightly with her right hand, held her phone with the other, and shouted to Jack over the sirens. “I’m with Nora Cronin. We’ve located Crocker’s van a block from Ralph’s. The van is pinned in by black-and-whites…. Jack, I’ll call you back. This thing could blow up right now.”
Nora braked in the street, and she and Justine jumped out of the squad car. One of a half dozen uniforms came up to Nora.
“LT, here’s the thing. He was already parked when we located him. As soon as we pulled up, he put his hands on his head. His doors are locked and he won’t get out.”
“He’s refusing to get out of the vehicle?”
“Right. Who does that? He must have something locked in there. Dope, maybe. Or hot electronics. Guns. He can’t go anywhere, though.”
Justine looked through the windshield at the young white guy with the wire-rim glasses. He looked out at her, seeming oddly calm.
It was definitely Crocker, the savage sonofabitch psycho. She knew his face from the yearbook, and from seeing him yesterday in the Whiskey Blue. For the past two years, every couple of months he’d lured and killed young women who’d fallen for whatever story he and his partner had concocted.
Justine knew the names of the victims and all about their promising, too-short lives, all thirteen of them. She hated Crocker. And she was also afraid.
Neither she nor the LAPD had anything substantial on Crocker except for a five-year-old ID from a minor who might not even testify.
Justine edged forward until she was close enough to Crocker to see that his nostrils were blanched, his eyebrows hitched up, and that he had a smile on his face.
It was almost like he was excited and just daring someone to shoot him.
What was this? A bid for suicide by cop?
That would not do. Would not do.
Justine went back to Nora’s car and took the ASP baton from where it rested on the console. She returned to where Nora held her gun with both hands, the muzzle pointed at Crocker through the closed driver-side window.
“Get out of the car,” Nora shouted again to Crocker. “This is the last time I’m telling you. Get out. Keep your hands where I can see them.”
Crocker shouted back, “I’m not armed. I don’t really think you’re going to shoot me.”
Justine knew her anger was calling the shots here, but she didn’t care. She flicked the ASP down and out, the sound of it like racking a shotgun. The heavy six-inch metal bar extended to become a sixteen-inch nightstick.
Justine said, “Stand back, Nora.”
Holding the ASP like a bat, she swung it at the Sienna’s driver-side window. Crocker ducked too late. Glass shattered.
Then Justine swung and hit the glass again.