Next Victim Read Free

asshole. Up against the trash bin. Come on, move it."
    Payton handcuffed the suspect, then made him spread his legs as he patted him down. In the pocket of the young man’s pants he found a bag of white powder.
    "Coke," the patrolman said. "He was probably going into the bar to make a sale. Saw a uniform and freaked."
    Tess had put her gun back into the special compartment in her purse now that Payton was in command of the situation. "Well, it’s your bust. Local crime."
    "Unless you want to make it assault on a federal officer," Payton said, obviously hoping for a bigger collar.
    "I’ll let it ride. The knife probably just slipped a little in my direction. Isn’t that right, sir?"
    The suspect, who hadn’t said one word so far, looked at her and muttered, "Suck me off, bitch."
    Payton told him that was no way to address a lady. Tess just laughed.
    "LA’s one hell of a town, isn’t it?" Payton said wearily.
    "I wouldn’t know. I’m just visiting."
    "Lucky you."
     
    "You didn’t really think it was him, did you?"
    Tess looked at Special Agent Collins as she climbed back into the van. "You never know," she answered. "He was the right height, right build, and he ran from a cop. Thanks for backing me up, by the way."
    Collins shrugged. Diaz, wearing headphones as he listened to the sounds in the bar, was more conciliatory. "We had to keep an eye on Barber." Julie Barber was the agent stationed inside Aspen, whose job was to fend off come-ons from patrons who didn’t match the profile, while encouraging anyone who looked like a possible suspect.
    "Anything happen inside?" Tess asked.
    "Not a thing," Collins said. "Like last night, and the night before that, and the night—"
    "Point taken." Tess refused to be ruffled. "We’re not the only ones pulling this detail. Maybe one of the other squads will get lucky."
    "Maybe pigs will fly. Face it, this son of a bitch is too smart to return to this neighborhood. He’ll show up someplace else next time. Santa Barbara, San Diego. Anywhere but here."
    Tess was inclined to agree. Trouble was, they couldn’t watch every bar on the southern California coast. They had to make a stand somewhere.
    She was about to point this out when her purse began to chirp. Her cell phone was ringing.
    She answered it. "McCallum."
    "You’d better get over to the field office," said a voice she recognized as belonging to Peter Larkin.
    She disliked Larkin. And she didn’t intend to let him order her around. "I’m working surveillance, remember?"
    "I remember. Let Collins and Diaz handle it. You got your own vehicle there?"
    "Yes, but—"
    "Stop wasting time, Agent McCallum. Just haul ass over here."
    "What’s going on, Peter?" she asked in a more cautious voice.
    "Nothing much. It’s just that we may have got him, that’s all. I really hope you can find time to join us."
    He clicked off, and she was left staring at the silent phone in her hand.
     

 
    2
     
     
    We may have got him .
    The words chased Tess McCallum like ghosts as she guided the bureau sedan west on Wilshire Boulevard, past the shops and palm trees of Beverly Hills. The sunset had faded out hours ago, and somewhere above the smog, the stars were shining.
    She powered through an intersection as the stoplight cycled from yellow to red, ignoring a horn that blared at her. She would not be stopped by traffic lights.
    She had to see him. Had to look at his face.
    Could they really have caught him—finally, after two years? There was no way to be sure. But she wouldn’t have been pulled away from the undercover detail on Melrose if all they had was another "possible," like that one last week, the salesman who had turned out to be only a run-of-the-mill adulterer.
    The streets were busy, as always, and she had to swing from lane to lane, passing slower cars. The bureau car—or "bucar" in the ridiculous terminology of the FBI—was a blue Crown Victoria, only two years old, with good acceleration and smooth handling. It invited