Night Talk. Rebecca Daniels

it was they were discussing with him, it had to be serious. You didn’t disturb a man on his wedding day unless it was big—and judging from Ted’s reaction, it was. He had become agitated and for Ted that was serious.

      Jake continued down the steps and soundlessly crossed the pavement. It really wasn’t any of his business, but old habits died hard. Cops were nosy, even ex-cops like him. Something was up and he wanted to know what.

      As he made his way across the blacktop, Ted looked up, spotting him.

      “Jake, over here,” he said, waving him close.

      “Looks serious,” he said as he approached the three men.

      “It is,” Ted said in a grim voice. “Jake, this is Tom Walker, Hank O’Brien. They’re with CAP.”

      The Crimes Against Persons unit, a division of the LAPD’s Robbery Homicide Division in which Ted acted as supervisor, meant it had to be a rape, battery or assault.

      “Somebody get hurt?”

      “I’m afraid so,” Ted said. He turned to the two detectives. “I don’t want to get anyone inside upset, so why don’t you two wait here. Sit tight and I’ll be back.” He turned to Jake. “We need to find a place to talk.”

      The hair on the back of Jake’s neck bristled. He recognized Ted’s tone. This was something serious. “Sure. Want to go for a walk? Maybe around the block?”

      Ted nodded.

      “You know,” Jake said after they’d been walking in silence for a few minutes, “I’m not afraid to admit you’re scaring me a little.”

      “I’m sorry,” Ted said with a heavy sigh, his pacing slowing. “I don’t mean to. I’ve had something I’ve been working on turn really ugly.”

      “Someone I know?”

      “Yes and no. A woman was assaulted about an hour ago.”

      “Somewhere close?”

      Ted shook his head. “A parking garage out near Westwood.”

      “Rape?”

      “No, but her attacker nearly killed her.”

      “Attempted murder.”

      “Actually, it’s only by accident that it wasn’t murder.”

      “You mean he got interrupted before he could finish the job?”

      Ted slipped his hands into the pockets of his tux. “Not exactly. More like the guy realized he had the wrong woman before he killed her.”

      “Wrong woman?”

      Ted nodded. “The guy was nice enough to leave the intended victim a little note scrawled across one of the walls in the garage, telling her he’d make sure he got it right next time.” Ted’s voice was ragged and his breathing strained and uneven. “Of course, he wrote it in the blood of the innocent woman, who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and bore a slight resemblance to the woman he was after.”

      “Sounds like you’ve got a sicko loose.”

      “Even worse than that. This sicko has been stalking the intended target for months—letters, telephone calls, stuff like that.”

      “Well, I’d say he upped the ante tonight.” Jake was still troubled by Ted’s reaction. They’d all worked cases that struck a nerve, that could get to you more than usual, but it wasn’t like Ted to get personally involved—at least not to the point that he would allow himself to be pulled away from his own wedding. “Any leads?”

      “Nothing of any significance.”

      “Any chance the victim tonight could ID him?”

      “I doubt it. At least not for a while anyway. She’s barely hanging on as it is.”

      “And you’re worried about keeping the intended victim safe, is that it?”

      “Something like that.”

      Jake couldn’t seem to shake an odd sense of foreboding. As tragic as the situation was, Ted’s reaction just didn’t seem to match the circumstances. “So go back there and send Tom and Jerry—”

      “Hank.” Ted corrected.

      “What?”

      “It’s Hank,” he repeated, obviously missing the joke. “Tom and Hank.”

      “Okay, Tom and Hank,” Jake said, regarding his friend carefully. “Send them out to pick up your intended victim and stash her until you pick the bastard up.”

      “It’s not quite that easy.”

      “Sure it is. If the woman is interested in staying alive, it’s damn easy.”

      “You don’t understand. The attack tonight took place in the KLAM Building. The woman works there.”

      “Clam Building? Where is that? Out near San Pedro docks or something?”

      “Not clam. K-L-A-M. They’re call letters.” He stopped in the middle of the walk and turned to Jake. “The building houses Wave Communications, the radio station where ‘Lost Loves’ is broadcast.”

      Jake’s entire body went cold. “The woman tonight, this is someone Kristin knows?”

      Ted nodded. “An assistant producer in the news division.”

      “And you have to tell Kristin about the attack,” Jake concluded.

      The growing darkness triggered the sensor on the street-light and it suddenly flickered to life. A pale pink glow bathed the sidewalk around them and they both turned in unison and started slowly back toward the reception hall.

      “There’s more to it than that,” Ted continued as they walked. “Like I said, the attacker was after someone else, another woman who works at the station.”

      It hit Jake right in the face. Suddenly it all made sense—the detectives showing up at the reception, Ted’s reaction. He’d acted personally involved because he was.

      “Kristin.” Her name slipped from his lips without any conscious effort on his part.

      “The calls started coming into the station about eight months ago, usually during the broadcast. Nobody thought too much about it at first. They get all kinds of crazy calls into the program, you can imagine—heavy breathers, crank calls. Of course, all calls are screened before they reach Kristin, and this guy never made it onto the air. They were more of a nuisance than anything else. She even talked to him off air once, you know, confronted him, tried to reason with him to get him to stop. It seemed to work for a while, but then the letters started arriving.