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have come from a long distance to leave her there. He could have come a few blocks.”
    I noticed the use of
our,
as in
our killer.
I knew if Frankie had come with me he would’ve blown a gasket by now. I let it go.
    “Did you look at the list I gave you of the forty-six names?”
    “Yes, I looked at everything. And I think your instincts are good. The two potential suspects you highlighted both fit the profile I constructed for this killing. Late twenties with a history of crimes of escalating nature.”
    “The Woodland Hills janitor has routine access to industrial cleaners—we could match something to the cleaning agent used on the body. He’s the one we like best.”
    McCaleb nodded but didn’t say anything. He seemed to be studying the photographs, which were now spread across the desk.
    “You like the other guy, don’t you? The stage builder from Burbank.”
    McCaleb turned and looked directly at me.
    “Yeah, I like him better. His crimes, though minor, fall more into line with the sexual predator maturation models we have seen. I think when we talk to him we have to make sure we do it in his home. We’ll get a better feel for him. We’ll know.”
    “We?”
    “Yes. And we need to do it soon.”
    He nodded to the photos covering his desk.
    “This wasn’t a one-shot deal. Whoever he is, he’s going to do it again… if he hasn’t already.”

    I had been responsible for many men going to San Quentin but I had never been there myself before. At the gate I showed ID and was given a printout with instructions that directed me to a fenced lot for law enforcement vehicles. At a nearby door marked LAW ENFORCEMENT PERSONNEL ONLY I was ushered through the great wall of the prison and my weapon was taken and locked in a gun vault. I was given a red plastic chit with the number 7 printed on it.
    After my name was put into the computer and the prearranged clearances were noted, a guard who didn’t bother introducing himself walked me through an empty rec yard to a brick building that had darkened over time to a fireplace black. It was the death house, the place where Seguin would get the juice in one week’s time.
    We moved through a mantrap and a metal detector and I was passed off to a new guard. He opened a solid steel door and pointed me down a hall.
    “Last one on the right,” he said. “When you want out wave at one of the cameras. We’ll be watching.”
    He left me there, closing the steel door with a thunderous bang that seemed to reverberate through my marrow.

    Frankie Sheehan wasn’t happy about it but I was the lead and I made the call. I allowed McCaleb to come with us on the interviews. We started with Victor Seguin. He was first on McCaleb’s list, second on mine. But there was something about the intensity in McCaleb’s eyes and words that made me defer and go with Seguin first.
    Seguin was a stage builder who lived on Screenland Drive in Burbank. It was a small house with a lot of woodwork you might expect to find in a carpenter’s house. It looked as though when Seguin wasn’t finding movie work he was home building handsome window boxes and planters for the house.
    The Ford Taurus with the license plate number 1JK2LL4 was parked in the driveway. I put my hand on the hood as we walked up the driveway to the door. It was cold.
    At 8 P.M., just as the light was leaving the sky, I knocked on the front door. Seguin answered in blue jeans and a T-shirt. No shoes. I saw his eyes go wide when he looked at me. He knew who I was before I held up the badge and said my name. I felt the cold finger of adrenaline slide down my backbone. I remembered what McCaleb had said about the killer tracking the police while they tracked him. I had been on TV talking about the case. I had been in the papers.
    Giving nothing away, I calmly said, “Mr. Seguin, that’s your car in the driveway, isn’t it?”
    “Yeah, it’s mine. What about it? What’s going on?”
    “We need to ask you about it, if you