Lahat ng Kabanata ng Leesa's Advent: Kabanata 571 - Kabanata 580

Th e appartment was dark, illuminated only by the ghostly flickering of the television. Stretched out on his worn couch, Pete Weber shoved the crumbling remnants of his second double cheeseburger into a white Burger King bag and tossed the bag to the floor. He rubbed his greasy palms on his jeans, then pushed the stop button on the remote control of the new DVD player he had stolen the day before. The room went black, but Weber had never minded the darkness.After a moment, he sat up and switched on the table lamp next to the couch. He looked at the piece of old shopping bag he’d scribbled on during his first two viewings of the show, nodding in approval as his eyes scanned down the paper. His notes were thorough. They contained everything he needed to remember.He grinned, remembering how he used to mock First Lieutenant Frank Osborne Jr., Columbia class of ‘73, for the notes he made and studied before each mission of their ten-man Special Forces team. Web

Wednesday morning, Conner arrived at work to find Sloane waiting in his office, looking completely at home in Conner’s chair with his feet stretched out atop the desk, his cell phone pressed against his ear. Sloane grinned and held up his index finger, signaling he would be through in a minute. Conner plopped onto the leather visitor’s chair beside his desk and waited. He hadn’t spoken to Sloane since Saturday, when he had relayed Jo Hegan’s information about Christy DeMars, but he didn’t need to be a detective to know Sloane’s visit was not a social call. Sloane’s presence meant only one thing—some new development in the case. Either Miller and Sorenson had come up with something important, or else the killer had struck again. Conner prayed it was the former, but he had a sinking feeling it was not.Sloane was doing a lot more listening than talking, but from the little Conner could hear, he was talking to someone back at headq

Sitting on the matted brown carpet of his sparsely furnished apartment, his back propped against the front of his couch, Conner watched the shoot-em-up climax of the “Christ Killer” episode of Vice Squad. Gunshots blasted from the screen as the cops traded fire with the cornered killer, a welcome sign the show was almost over. He could have watched the recording at his office or downtown at Police Headquarters, but this was more convenient, so he had gone ahead and bought a DVR player. He had the grim feeling he would be watching and recording more episodes in the weeks to come, so having the player seemed like a good idea. He’d been singularly unimpressed with the show, finding it nothing more than an hour-long paean to violence and sex. While the writing was imaginative in some ways, the show was full of impossible situations, clichés and completely unrealistic stereotypes of criminals and police. The real Vice Squad dealt with vice—prostitution, gambling, pornography—not

Saturday morning, Sloane dropped by Conner’s apartment to brief him on what the task force had learned since Wednesday. He approached the door with trepidation. This was the first time he’d been to his friend’s home in almost a year, since shortly after the Smithson killing, when he tried to talk Conner out of quitting the force. The hallway was as dingy and unwelcoming as he remembered it. He hesitated a moment, then knocked softly upon the scarred wooden door. A few seconds later, Conner opened the door and ushered him in. “Coffee?” Conner asked once they were inside. “If it’s already made, yeah. If not, don’t bother.” “It’s ready. Be right back.” While Conner disappeared into the kitchen, Sloane glanced around the barren apartment, shaking his head in resignation. The place still looked as if Conner had just moved in. The couch was the same beat-up, tan plaid monstrosity the place’s previous occupants had decided not worth the effort to carry down

Prowling back and forth across his living room, Weber reviewed his notes one final time before folding them twice and shoving them into the back pocket of his jeans. He was primed and ready to go, a bomb whose fuse had been set and activated. His body felt charged, as if a mild electric current was continuously circulating through his muscles. He loved the feeling. It was the feeling he’d carried through Vietnam, a feeling he thought lost forever. But he had rediscovered it, and he vowed never to lose it again. He checked his watch. Nine o’clock. Still early, but there was much to do. Tonight’s mission was far more complex than the previous two, but that only heightened his anticipation. Last night had been for planning and reconnaissance—tonight was the night for implementation. He wondered if the cops thought the respite meant his spree was ended. They would know soon enough it was not. He drove to West Los Angeles, to a sprawling apartment complex picked out the n