"No connection to the victims. No way to predict who he might go for next."

"Right.

"Most killers kill people they know, and that's how they're caught. Husband kills wife. Junkie kills dealer. Like that. Most murders aren't solved by clues like you see on Murder, She Wrote, or forensics like you read about in a Patricia Cornwell novel. The easy truth of it is that almost all murders are solved when somebody rats out somebody else, when some guy says, 'Elmo said he was gonna shoot him,' and the cops go to Elmo's place and find the murder weapon hidden under Elmo's bed. It's that cut-and-dried. And when there isn't anyone to point the finger at Elmo, Elmo gets away.

"That's what we've got here, Cole. Julio Munoz was the only one of the vics with a sheet. He was a former prostitute who'd cleaned up his act and was working as a counselor in a halfway house in Bellflower. Semple was a roofing contractor who lived in Altadena. Totally unlike Munoz. No record, deacon in his church, the wife, the kids, the whole nine yards. Vivian Trainor was a nurse, a real straight arrow like Semple. Keech, a retired City Parks custodian, lived in a retirement home in Hacienda Heights. Now Karen Garcia. So we're talking about a street hustler, a Sunday-school teacher, a nurse, a retired custodian, and a wealthy college student. Two Hispanics, two Anglos, and a black, all from different parts of the city. We've gone to each of the families and floated the names of the other vics, but we haven't been able to link them. We're trying to tie in Garcia, but we're coming up empty there, too. Maybe you can help with that."

"How?"

"Krantz is scared to press the girl's father, but we need to talk to him. Krantz keeps saying to let him cool down, but I don't think we can afford to wait. I want to run the names past him. I want to look through the girl's things."

"You go through her apartment yet?"

"Of course. We didn't need his permission for that. But she might've left things at her father's house. I did, when I moved out."

"What do you want to find?"

"Something that puts her with one of the other vics. Anything like that, and we're not talking random anymore. That makes this asshole a lot easier to catch."

"I'll talk to Pike. We can make that happen."

"This guy's smart. Five head shots, all with a.22, and none of the bullets match. That means he's using a different gun each time. He probably chucks them, so we won't find the murder weapons in his possession. Each shooting takes place in an isolated location, three of the five at night, so we have no wits. We've recovered two.22 caliber shell casings. No prints, both fired from different semiautomatics, and different brands. We've found shoe prints at three of the murder scenes, but, get this, three different shoe sizes, ten, ten and a half, and eleven. He's playing mix and match with us."

"So he probably dumps the shoes, too."

The scowl deepened, but now it wasn't because of me.

"Probably, but who knows. A nut like this, he might videotape his goddamned murders. Jesus, I wanna bust this scumbag."

We sat there a while, neither of us saying anything until Dolan glanced at her watch.

"You've given me a lot of background, Dolan, but so far you haven't told me why I shouldn't level with Frank."

"A lot of times, these guys will initiate contact, like Son of Sam with his letters, you see?"

"I'm listening."

"Here was Berkowitz, getting away with murder, and he felt powerful because of it. He wanted to flaunt the fact that the cops couldn't catch him, so he started sending notes to the newspapers."

"Okay."

"Well, our guy hasn't done that. The Feebs say our guy doesn't want publicity, and may even be scared of it. That's one of the reasons we decided to keep this thing boxed. If we go public, maybe this guy changes his MO, or maybe he even moves to another town and starts all over again. You see what I'm saying?"

"But maybe if you go public, somebody feeds you a tip that lets you nail this guy."

Her eyes hardened, irritated. She had nice eyes. Hazel.

"Well, shit, World's Greatest, that's the problem here, isn't it? There's no goddamned rule book on how to catch a shooter like this. You make it up as you go along, and hope you're doing the right thing. Don't you think we've talked about this?"

"Yeah, I guess you've talked about it."

I thought about the change I'd seen up in Robbery-Homicide, how everyone was suddenly more relaxed, about the smiles and high fives, and even the grinning Feebs, and suddenly I knew there was more.

"Who's your suspect, Dolan?"

She stared at me as if she was deciding something, then wet her lips. "Dersh."

"Eugene Dersh?" That's why the cops were on him.

"Nuts like this, they can't stand not knowing what you know. They like to get up close and find out what you're saying about them. One of the ways they do it is to claim some connection to the crime. They pretend to be a witness or they say they overheard something in a bar, like that. The feds said we might get a break that way, and Krantz thinks Dersh is our break."

"Because Dersh found this body."

"It isn't just that. Krantz and a couple of Feebs flew back to Quantico to talk with one of their behavioral science people. They built a profile based on the evidence we had, and Dersh pretty much matches up with it."

I frowned. "You're talking the talk, Dolan, but you don't seem all that convinced to me."

She didn't say anything.

"Okay, if it's Dersh, how does Riley Ward fit in?"

"If the Feebs are right, he was just Dersh's cover for finding the body. You read their statements. Ward suggested that Dersh was directive in finding the body. When Dersh tells the story, he puts a different spin on how they went down to the lake. It makes everybody wonder which story is correct and why there are two stories."

"In other words, you've got nothing. There's no physical evidence, and you guys are trying to hang it on Dersh because of an FBI profile."

The hazel eyes stayed with me, but she shrugged. "No, we're trying to hang it on Dersh because Krantz is feeling heat from upstairs. Bishop gave him the Task Force a year ago, but he doesn't have anything to show for it. The brass are screaming a shitstorm, and that means Bishop can't carry Krantz forever. If another body drops, and Krantz doesn't have a suspect, he'll be out of the job."

"Maybe they'll give it to you, Dolan."

"Yeah. Right." She looked away.

I thought about Dersh and his Kenyan coffee. Dersh, with the bright paintings and his house smelling of Marks-a-lots. "What about you? Do you think it's Dersh?"

"Krantz thinks Dersh is the shooter. I think Dersh is a legitimate suspect. There's a difference."

I took a breath and nodded, still trying to figure out what to do. "The criminalist's report suggests the shooter was driving an off-road vehicle or an SUV Remember the homeless guy I told you about?"

"Krantz may be a dud, Cole, but not all of us got into Robbery-Homicide on a pass. I took a ride up there yesterday, but couldn't find Mr. Deege. Hollywood Division uniforms have been told to keep an eye out."

I suddenly felt better about Frank Garcia and what I would tell him.

"Well, okay, Dolan. I'm going to sit on it."

"You're not going to tell Garcia?"

"No. The only person I'll tell is my partner."

"Pike." Her eyes suddenly sparkled, and the bad girl was back. "Christ, wouldn't Krantz love that. Joe Pike knows his big secret."

I held out my hand. "Nice doing business with you, Dolan. I'll give you a call later about talking to Frank."

Her hand was cool and dry and strong. I liked the way it felt, and felt a faraway stab of guilt that I liked it a little too much.

She squeezed once, and then I opened the door to get out.