Robie grins. "Smile. You’re on Candid Camera."

"Yup. So, Olson, just think of this as a ‘Where’s Waldo’ game where the stakes are a wee bit higher."

"Let me get those tapes."

Now we’re cooking.


* * *


We’ve been in front of the monitor/VTR here for four hours straight. Working quickly, we’ve been able to get through a good deal of footage. There are a few people who look like they’ve shown up more than once. We’ve noted the date/time stamp on each of those tapes and set them aside.

Only a couple more hundred tapes to go. And I’m not moving until I’ve looked at each and every one.

Robie stretches. "I’m gonna get more coffee. You want some?"

"Definitely. Make it a double."


* * *


Seven hours.

My cell phone rings. "Kingsley." I pass it immediately to Robie. "Handle this." I keep my attention on the monitor. I’m going to find the bastard.

I’m gonna find him and rip his fuckin’ heart out with my bare hands. But, I repeat myself.

I spot another person who looks familiar in the crowd. Good. Now we have eight incidents recorded.

"Mama is going to bring us over dinner." Robie folds up my cell phone and hands it back to me.

"We’re not studying for finals, for God’s sake!"

Robie waves Olson out of my office. He leaves gladly. "Harper," Robie begins, softly.

"What?" I bark.

"I know you’re upset. And I know the way you’re coping is by looking at these tapes."

"It’s more than coping. I’m gonna find the psycho."

"I know, I know. But, listen: Mama is coping by taking care of her kids. And that means keeping us fed. So, when she and Papa and Rene and Clark come by … you’re gonna be damn grateful. And nice to her."

I stare at him, trying to intimidate him. It doesn’t work. It never has. "You’re right."

"Good girl."

"I’m not a girl," I growl.

He laughs and nudges me in the ribs. "Well, don’t tell Kelsey that. She’ll dump your ass for sure."

I lean over and kiss his cheek. I love Robie. He always manages to get me back on track.


* * *


It’s midnight. We’ve been working for almost twelve hours. And we’re almost through all of the tapes. We’ve set aside two dozen of them for further review. Robie and I agreed early on that we wanted to look at everything before narrowing down our choices. With Kelsey’s life at stake, we didn’t want to run off half-cocked and miss the real bad guy accidentally. It’s taken more time, but it’s an investment I can live with.

God, I hope I can live with it.

I’d really like to live with Kelsey, that’s for sure.

Kels, why couldn’t you have locked yourself in the bathroom? Stayed in there, safe and sound? Of course, you might have been in the living room when he came in and never had a chance.

A better question is why did I leave that afternoon?

Since when did driving my Harley mean that much? What did I do? Pay a few bills, mail a couple letters, check on Trouble. Nothing significant. Nothing important enough to have left her.

I knew he was out there. I knew he was escalating.

And I left.

I am an idiot. I am a horrible, evil person.

Kelsey must hate me.

Oh God. Please, don’t let her die hating me. I don’t know if I could survive that. Let her live and hate me. That would be fine. Let her live and come kick my ass for having left her alone. I’d deserve it.

But, please, don’t let her last thoughts be hating me.

I swear, I’ll never leave her alone again. She’ll think I’m her shadow for the rest of her life. If you let her live. Or, if she wants, I’ll never be around her again. Which would be understandable.

I failed her.

What a time to start being a fuck-up.

"Hey, you two," a voice calls from the door of my office.

Torn from my thoughts, I look up to see Bear and CJ standing a few feet away. They both look tired and rumpled from long hours of work. I don’t think Bear has taken one break since finding out Kelsey was the object of the psycho’s attentions.

Unlike me.

God, forgive me.

"You okay, Harper?" Bear asks gently.

No, and I don’t think I ever will be again. "Fair enough. Come on in. We’re about to review the repeat faces in the crowd."

"Good, we’re just in time." Bear lumbers over to the couch, like his namesake would, and plops down. Without being asked, Robie hands him a coffee mug, which the large man takes gratefully.

CJ waves off a similar offer.

"Here’s what we have so far," I mutter, sliding the first tape in. I point out the crowd clustered around us after the library shooting spree. I freeze the frame. "That’s one." We all stare at the man. He’s a bit blurry, but we can make out his general features: blond, tall, early thirties, cheap suit.

"Hard to see him real well," CJ says, sliding closer to the monitor for a better view.

"Hand me the next tape, Robie." I hold out my hand and accept the next one, sliding it in and cueing it up. "Here he is again … I think."

"Could be," Bear concedes. "Got any more?"

Robie consults the index we’ve made. "Blond guy appears on four other tapes, we think." He pulls the next one.

It’s a bit clearer.

"Let’s see the rest," Bear says softly.

The next three we watch in rapid succession. I can feel the tension rising in the room from both Bear and CJ.

"You know him," I accuse.

Bear checks with CJ, then nods. "That’s Detective Bill Danes."

"My ex-partner," CJ adds.

"And part of the Threat Management Unit."


* * *


It’s one a.m. and we’re standing in the Twenty-third Precinct. Well, Bear, CJ and Robie are standing. I am pacing.

"Take it easy, Harper," Robie chastises.

"Don’t tell me to take it easy," I growl back. Then I shake my head. "Sorry, I’m such a bitch lately."

"It’s understandable. Just don’t make a habit of it, ok?"

I nod. I don’t make that promise. If Kelsey has been hurt, I don’t know what I’ll be like in the future. If Kelsey has been hurt … geez … how ignorant I am. I am really worthless. I never should have left her alone.

Greg Komansky walks into the room we’re in, closing the door behind him. He looks like he’s been dragged out of bed to come here. And he has been. Bear called him from my office and gave him a quick overview of our suspicions. Komansky said he’d meet us here.

"Morning. Tell me what you have, Brice."

"Detective Danes has shown up in a number of videotapes, apparently following Kelsey Stanton."

Komansky interrupts. "Would there be any official reason for him to be at any of the scenes? I seem to remember that a number of her stories are ones involving police support."

"Yes, sir, they are. However, Detective Danes was not on duty for any of those events. I checked the duty log while we were waiting for you."

"Good. Go on."

"Second," Brice continues, "the log also indicates that he was off-duty on the dates of the other abductions."

"All of them?"

"Yes, sir, every last one of them."

"Go on."

"Third, Detective Danes knew Kelsey Stanton and had previously been infatuated with her."

Komansky looks up, his eyes cold, serious. "Says who?"

"I do, sir," CJ speaks up. "Kelsey Stanton was my roommate for a period of three years when she first came to Los Angeles. During that time, Detective Danes was assigned to the Eleventh Precinct. We were partners there, before he made detective. He knew Kelsey. He repeatedly spoke to me about his desire for a closer relationship with her."

"Why didn’t you report it at the time?"

CJ shrugs. "There was nothing to report, sir. It wasn’t inappropriate. It was just unrequited. Kelsey wasn’t interested in him. I thought it was over with, naturally."

"Sir," Bear says, "he’s been on vacation this week. The second day of his vacation corresponds to the date of Ms. Stanton’s abduction."

"Come with me," Komansky orders and leaves the room.

I happily follow. Finally. Action.

He leads us back to another section of the building. We enter the detectives’ room and go over to a desk in the corner. A rumpled looking man is seated behind it. "Thanks for coming in, Vic," Komansky says.

"Glad to help out."

Komansky turns to us, filling us in on what’s going on. "Vic Jerone is Detective Danes current partner. They share this desk. I was wondering if we could take a look in the desk, Vic."

"Of course, sir." He unlocks the drawers and pushes his chair back.

Komansky steps behind the desk and begins systematically looking through it. From the middle drawer comes the usual assortment of office supplies – paperclips, rubber bands, pencils, pens, pushpins, scissors, stapler. He moves to the next one – envelopes, paper, report forms, folders. The last – more folders, copies of reports, a packet of photos.

Komansky hands the photos to Bear. "Look through those, Detective." He kneels down and pulls out the middle drawer, to look for anything that might be taped to the bottom of the drawer. He does this for each of the drawers.

I am growing increasingly despondent over the search when something on the desk captures my eye.

"Those are wrong," I say.

Everyone looks at me.

"The scissors. They’re the wrong type. Those are hair shears, like you’d find at the barber shop or beauty salon."

Komansky looks at Vic. "Those yours?"

"No, sir."