"Hey, it's just Robbery-Homicide, you know? We get the hot cases, and the press tags along. No different than what you do here."

Dolan didn't look good playing modest, but maybe that was just me.

Murray asked how he could help her, and Dolan said that she wanted to look at an old juvie packet, but she didn't have a court order for it. When Murray looked uneasy about that, she grew serious and leaned toward him. "Something we got down at Parker Center. Headline case, man. The real stuff."

Murray nodded, thinking how cool it would be to work the real stuff.

Dolan leaned closer. "You ever think about putting in for RHD, Murray? We need sharp cops who know how to make the right call."

Murray wet his lips. "You think you could put in a word for me?"

Dolan winked at him. "Well, we're trying to find this kid, you see? So while we're reading his file, maybe you could run a DMV check and call the phone company. See if you can't shag an address for us?"

Murray glanced at the older detectives. "My supervisor might not like it."

Dolan looked blank. "Gee. I guess you shouldn't tell him."

Murray stared at her a moment longer, then got busy.

I shook my head. "You're something, all right."

Dolan considered me, but now she wasn't smiling. "Something, but not enough."

"Let it go."

She raised her hands.

Twenty minutes later we had the file and an interview room, and Murray was making the calls.

Laurence Sobek had been booked seven times from age twelve to age sixteen, twice for shoplifting and four times for pandering. The DOB indicated he would now be in his late twenties. Abel Wozniak was twice the arresting officer, first on the shoplifting charge, then later for the second pandering charge. Sobek's most recent booking photo, taken at age sixteen, showed a thin kid with a wispy mustache, stringy hair, and aggravated acne. He looked timid and cowed.

At the time of his arrests, he had lived with his mother, a Mrs. Brasilia Sobek. The record noted that she was divorced, and had not come to pick up her son or meet with the officers any of the seven times.

Dolan scowled. "Typical."

Murray interrupted us, knocking once before opening the door. He looked crestfallen.

"Doesn't have a California driver's license and never had one. The phone company never heard of him, either. I'm really sorry about this, Samantha." He was seeing his chance at the hot stuff fizzle and melt.

"Don't worry about it, bud. You've been a help."

The booking sheets showed that his mother had lived in an area of South L.A. called Maywood.

I said, "If she's still alive, maybe we can work through the mother. You think she's still at this address?"

"Easy to find out."

Dolan made a copy of the booking photo, then used Murray 's phone to call the telephone company.

As Dolan called, Murray sidled up to me. "You really think I got a shot at Robbery-Homicide?"

" Murray, you've got the inside track."

Three minutes later we knew that Laurence Sobek's mother was still down in Maywood.

We went to see Drusilla Sobek.

Detective Murray was disappointed that he could not tag along.

Drusilla Sobek was a sour woman who lived in a tiny stucco house in a part of Maywood that was mostly illegal aliens come up from Honduras and Ecuador. The illegals often lived eighteen or more to a house, hot-bedding their cots between sub-minimum-wage jobs, and Drusilla didn't like it that they'd taken over the goddamned neighborhood. She made no bones about it, and told us so.

She peered at us heavily from her door, her flat face wrinkled and scowling. She was a large woman who filled the door. "I don't want to stand here all goddamned day. These Mexicans see me here with this door open, they might get ideas."

I said, "These folks are from Central America, Mrs. Sobek."

"Who gives a shit? If it looks like a Mexican and talks like a Mexican, it's a Mexican."

Dolan said, "We're trying to find your son, Mrs. Sobek."

"My son's a faggot whore."

Just like that.

When she'd first come to the door, Dolan had badged her, but Mrs. Sobek had said we couldn't come in. She said she didn't let in strangers, and I was just as glad. A sour smell came from within her house, and she reeked of body odor. Behind the hygiene curve.

I said, "Can you give us an address or phone number, please?"

"No."

"Do you know how we can find him?"

Her eyes narrowed, tiny and piglike in the broad face. "There some kind of reward?"

Dolan cleared her throat. "No, ma'am. No reward. We just need to ask him a few questions. It's very important."

"Then you better look somewhere else, lady. My faggot whore son ain't never even been close to important."

She tried to close the door, but Dolan put her foot in its base and jammed the sill. Dolan's left eye was ticking.

Drusilla said, "Hey! What the hell you think you're doing?"

Dolan was a little bit taller than Drusilla Sobek, but a couple of hundred pounds lighter. She said, "If you don't get the stick out your ass, you fat cow, I'm gonna beat you stupid."

Drusilla Sobek's mouth made a little round O, and she stepped back. Surprised.

I started to say something, but Dolan raised a finger, telling me to shut up. I shut.

She said, "Where can we find Laurence Sobek?"

"I don't know. I ain't seen him in three or four years." Drusilla's voice was small now, and not nearly so blustery.

"Where was he living the last time you knew?"

"Up in San Francisco with all those other faggots."

"Is that where he's living now?"

"I don't know. I really don't." Her lower lip trembled and I thought she might cry.

Dolan took a breath, forcing herself to relax. "Okay, Mrs. Sobek, I believe you. But we still need to find your son, and we still need your help."

Drusilla Sobek's lip trembled harder, her chin wrinkled, and a small tear leaked down her cheek. "I don't like being spoken to in such a rude manner. It ain't right."

"Did you ever have an address or phone number for your son?"

"Yeah. I think I did. A long time ago."

"I need you to go look for it."

Drusilla nodded, still crying.

"We have his booking photo from when he was sixteen, but I'd like a more recent picture, too. Would you have one of him as an adult?"

"Uh-huh."

"You get those things. We'll wait here."

"Uh-huh. Please don't let in the Mexicans."

"No, ma'am. You go look."

Drusilla shuffled away into her house, leaving the door open. A fog of the sour smell billowed out at us.

I said, "Christ, Dolan, you're harsh."

"Is it any wonder her kid turned out screwed up?"

We stood there in the sun for almost fifteen minutes until Drusilla Sobek finally shuffled back to the door, like a sensitive child who had disappointed her family.

"I got this old address up there with the faggots. I got this picture he gimme two years ago."

"It's a San Francisco address?"

She nodded, her jowly chin quivering. "Up with the faggots, yeah."

She handed the address and the picture to Dolan, who stiffened as soon as she saw them. I guess I stiffened, too. We wouldn't need the address.

Bigger, stronger, filled out and grown, and with much shorter hair, we recognized the adult Laurence Sobek. He worked at Parker Center.

Final Action

Laurence Sobek, his true name and not the name by which he is currently known, finishes stapling black plastic over his windows. He has already nailed shut every window but the small one in the bathroom, leaving only the front door as a point of egress. It is sweltering in the converted garage.

The plan was simple and obvious once Sobek lifted DeVille's case file from the records section. There in black and white he knew all the people who had helped the Sex Crimes detectives put the Coopster into prison where he died, all the people who had lodged complaints or made statements, and fed the Coopster to the prison population like a sacrifice. Sobek designed the sequence of homicides to take advantage of the weaknesses in LAPD's system: He started with the peripheral complainants it would be impossible for LAPD to connect, intent on working steadily up the food chain until it was too late to stop him even when the Task Force finally realized what was happening.