Good Morning, Killer - April Smith [40]
“Something new just came up on that caper,” Barbara was saying thoughtfully as she contemplated the Mission Impossible photo.
Some of us can recall that Reggie Jackson hit three home runs on three swings in the final game of the 1977 World Series; Barbara Sullivan can quote the take from every heist on the wall.
“They recovered a ski mask.”
“A ski mask?”
“The guy wore a ski mask, right?”
“Right.”
“Well, they found it—a janitor found it—kicked behind some boxes. About two months ago.”
“That branch was robbed half a dozen times,” I said. “Could belong to anyone.”
“But Mission Impossible went in through a door in the roof.” Barbara had moved to the computer. “Used a Makita drill with a diamond blade, like a knife through butter.”
“You’re amazing.”
“Then,” said Barbara, laughing at the audacity, “he climbs down a ladder to a utility room, goes out to the second-floor employee lounge and sits up there for a couple of hours watching TV until the bank opens. Life is good.”
It summoned up the smell of enclosed waxy floors that had greeted Andrew and me when we cautiously entered the lounge—empty except for a TV set on a dusty Art Deco coffee table—and a stench I first made as sweat that turned out to be the dead meat aroma left by the McDonald’s the bandit ate for breakfast.
“The ski mask was found in the utility room where the ladder was, where you go up to the roof.” Barbara nodded toward the information on the screen. “Black nylon, standard-issue army surplus store.”
“You know this same guy, Detective Berringer, caught the Santa Monica kidnapping?” I said tapping the photo insistently. “We’re working together again, how funny is that?”
“How funny is that?” She had instantly picked up on my tone.
That was the devilish part. I had to tell someone. I wanted her to know. This is how we give ourselves away.
“We’re going out.”
“You’re going out with a detective?”
I nodded.
“On a case you’re both working?”
I nodded again.
Barbara, the Irish girl, said, “Oy vey.”
“Thanks for reserving judgment.”
“I’m not passing judgment. He looks pretty cute from the rear.”
“He’s hot.”
“Divorced?”
“Twice.”
“So when do I meet him?”
“Soon. Maybe. I hope. Things are a little shaky right now. But they can get better.”
Barbara was nodding, absently fingering a picture of Deirdre. Up, down, on, off. It wasn’t her game anymore.
“Tell him about the ski mask. His case, he should know.”
“I will,” I said, and forgot about it.
Ten.
Since the night she walked out of the fog, we had been monitoring the use of Juliana’s home computer, thinking the suspect might try to contact her again. Or maybe in her personal communications she would reveal some sliver of the attack that had surfaced from memory. Juliana (JMM3) spent hours online, mostly in chat rooms that seemed to attract local kids. The following transcript, posted on Rapid Start, got my attention:
FD-823 (Rev. 8-26-97)
RAPID START
INFORMATION CONTROL
Case ID: 446-702-9977 The Santa Monica Kidnapping
Control Number: 5201 Priority: Immediate
Classification: Sensitive Source: Internet Chat Room
Event time: 11:35 PM
Method of contact: Monitoring of personal computer belonging to victim, Juliana Meyer-Murphy
Prepared by: Diaz, Ramon Component/Agency: Tech support, FBI
Transcript attached.
* * *
JMM3@aol.com 11:35 PM
YOU ARE IN CHAT ROOM TOWN SQUARE
MasterMynd: i am so fucked
LiquidFlo: what’d ur mom say?
MasterMynd: grounded don’t describe it
TruHacka03: u hear what happened to ethan?
MasterMynd: what?
Truhacka03: took his car
LiquidFlo: away?
Truhacka03: yeah, fool …
BlackStar01: be that bitch
MasterMynd: where is she?
LiquidFlo: she a ho on Hollywood Blvd
OoRaver4LiveoO: shut up you don’t know shit
OoRaver4LiveoO: is she coming back 2 school?
MasterMynd: if I see her I’ll kick her face
LiquidFlo: might help she damn ugly
MasterMynd: why would someone want to fuck that?
OoRaver4LiveoO: