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crying? he wondered. I thought you loved these reptiles. Wasn’t it tortoises that she worked so hard to save? He popped two pain pills and swallowed them dry. He could have killed her hours ago but, for aesthetic reasons, he waited. That was his plan. He looked at the back of her head and stroked her hair. It’s almost time , he wanted to say. Thirty minutes and then you can rest . He had picked up the Los Angeles Times that morning and reread the article on the Best Restaurants in L.A. His next victim was profiled there. That pompous French bitch and her delicious little pastries; have I got a recipe for you! The thought, mixed with the meds and Jeanette trembling next to him, warmed his body with a dark pleasure. Must be the devil stirring inside me. He looked one last time at the chef in the Times picture.
    “I’ll see you tomorrow, my sweet,” he said aloud.
    At his feet, Janette squirmed and moaned.
 
    Day 2: 12:00 a.m.
    Jim Jovian entered the West Covina police station and punched in. He made his way to his desk, unlocked the top drawer and removed his gun. He had made a habit of leaving his piece at work. After the recent rash of shootings by off-duty policemen throughout L.A., the department strongly suggested that if you were not on the clock, leave your handgun at the station. It didn’t bother the cops too much, as most of them had personal backups on their ankles and in their vehicles; Jim was no exception. He holstered his .45 and looked for the captain, who was sitting in the lieutenant’s office, sifting through some charts.
     
    Captain Robert W. Jones, Jr. was a 33-year veteran on the Los Angeles Police Department. To Jim, he was tough, fair, and politically astute. Jones was considered by many to be a cop’s cop. He grew up in Compton, California; the South Central section that gave the world the Rodney King riots and gangsta rap. Jones’ older brother had been killed while holding up a liquor store at the tender age of 14. His mother, who raised her kids alone, was not about to let the same fate befall her only remaining son. She forced him to work hard in school and helped him with homework every night. She would not let him play basketball with the local hoodlums. She made him play the piano, exercising his gift of music - the only thing that the absentee father had left with his son before splitting to play jazz clarinet in the south of France. Robert excelled at everything he tried and was rewarded with a full scholarship to USC, not because he was black, not because of affirmative action, but because he earned it with grades. He could have gone to law school or had his alumni friends set him up in the private sector, but Robert Jones, Jr. wanted to be a cop, help police Los Angeles, and give back to his community. He worked hard and played by the rules. He rose quickly in the police ranks and now sat in a seat of authority, overseeing fifteen precincts stretching from Boyle Heights to Diamond Bar. Captain Jones watched Officer Jim Jovian get his bearings before calling him into the office.
    “Jovian, in here,” he called.
    Jim entered the room and saluted his commanding officer.
    Captain Jones smiled and saluted back, then motioned for Jim to take a seat.
    “Evening, Skip. What brings you out here at this hour?”
    “That nightmare on Pear Street. This Artridge thing has got everybody’s balls twisted downtown. It’s not enough that you found a man hanging from a tree, or that the dead man was dressed as Santa Claus on Christmas. No, this guy has to have a butt load of friends at City Hall. Apparently, he got the mayor out of some kind of jam when he was running for the last reelection and the little shit feels like he owes him. Also, some people think this was a hate crime directed at Mr. Artridge for his alternative lifestyle, which is a whole other can of worms. Now the mayor has the gay community leadership council up his ass, pardon the pun.”
    Captain Jones took a breath.
    “I