Semua Bab Leesa's Advent: Bab 581 - Bab 590

EARLY THURSDAY MORNING, still not quite sure why he’d agreed to it, Conner slogged along in an unending stream of brake lights on the San Diego Freeway, inching his way south with thousands of commuters on the clogged highway. Most were heading to work—in a way, so was he. When his phone had jarred him from sleep twenty minutes earlier, he knew instantly it was Sloane, calling to tell him the Video Killer had struck again. Sloane had been blunt. Would Conner go to Venice to take a look at the scene? His automatic reaction had been to say no; this was exactly the type of involvement he wanted to avoid. He had no stomach to subject himself to the grisly realities of the case, realities that would be driven home by viewing the killer’s work first hand. But instead of following his instincts and saying no right away, Conner had allowed himself to think. He remembered the way he felt the day before, waiting to hear from Sloane that another body had been found, frustrated by his i

The sun had melted the marine layer while Conner was underground, leaving a clear blue sky in its place as he headed home on Sepulveda Boulevard, preferring to take his chances with local traffic and red lights rather than fight the congestion on the freeway. He needed to be moving, not stalled in some four-lane parking lot. Despite the clear sky and bright sunshine, there was little appealing about the drive. The street was flanked by an endless string of ugly, sign-cluttered storefronts and massive, block-long apartment complexes with flapping For Rent banners strung from seemingly every balcony. The cheerless buildings matched his mood. Images of the mutilated bodies flashed in his mind like a series of strobe-lit snapshots. He cranked up the radio, pressing the station buttons until he found the throbbing beat of “Jumping Jack Flash,” but even Mick Jagger’s screaming vocals couldn’t distract him from the gruesome images. He could feel the muscles in his b

Conner drove away from Parker Center shortly after one o’clock, heading for the 101 on his way to the West Hollywood offices of Collins-Cline Productions, the producers of Vice Squad. Having committed himself to a more active investigative role, he was eager to get started, before he had a chance to rethink his decision. Sloane had provided some background on the company. They were a small outfit, and Vice Squad was the only show they had on the air, though they were in talks with the networks about two other shows. Conner wanted to gather as much background information as he could about the show and the people working on it, and he thought the main office would be the best place to start. Traffic was pleasantly light, at least for midday on the Hollywood Freeway, and Conner even managed to get his speedometer above sixty a time or two before exiting west onto Sunset Boulevard, where his pace slowed considerably as he moved through the drab but busy commercial area that made

“You don’t look like a cop, Case.” Conner returned his attention to Alexa. “No?” He had heard that once a cop, always a cop. “Well, you do, but you don’t,” she explained. “There’s something cop-like about you, but it’s hard to put a finger on.” She paused for a moment, thinking, and then her face brightened. “I know what it is. You’ve got the manner, but not quite the look. You’re too tan, too healthy looking, not quite hard enough. Hell, look at your clothes. I’ve seen cops in uniform, and cops in suits, but never in slacks and a golf shirt. You look more like an actor playing a cop than a real cop. You know, sort of like Peterson on CSI.” Conner smiled inwardly, amused by her insight. Maybe that’s what he was now, an actor pretending he was a cop. “I hope that’s a compliment,” he said. She smiled. “Oh, it is. I don’t think I’d be attracted to a real cop.” There was no longer any doubt about it—she was flirting. Conner knew it was his move.

Conner was mystified. Stuart Chesterton had been a rising film star, known almost as much for his temper as his talent, and he had been compared favorably to DeNiro and Pacino. He’d won an Academy Award nomination for his portrayal of an offshore oil worker in Autumn Springs Eternal and had seemed on the verge of even bigger things, but somehow, his career never took off. Conner hadn’t heard his name in years.“What happened to him? He looked like a sure thing to make it big.”“Success happened,” Hollenbech explained, his voice edged with an impatience that said he seen too much of similar things. “Drugs and booze. ‘Substance abuse,’ they call it now. If you’ve got talent, they’ll put up with a lot in this business. And Chesterton had talent. But there’s one thing that’s not tolerated, and that’s being unreliable. Too much money involved. Chesterton became unreliable. He’d go on w