and went back to what they were doing. Except for the guy who offered to help. He headed toward us.
He was a light-skinned African-American, big and well-built, his head shaved smooth and buffed to a soft glow. His eyes locked on me and Terry, slicing and dicing us as he approached. He stopped a foot away and stood eyeball to eyeball with me,
36
ť;
The Rabbit Factory
which made him six-foot-one. But he had at least twenty pounds on me, about nineteen and a half of which were muscle. His face, his bearing, his look, everything about him, said Cop. Everything but his clothes, which said Handsomely Paid Executive. I was right on both counts. "Gentlemen," he said, "I'm Brian Curry, Head of Security at Familyland."
H
CHAPTER 7
Cop-to-cop introductions at the scene of a homicide don't usually call for hearty handshakes, but Curry extended his hand, so I shook it. Terry hung about six feet back, folded his arms across his chest and nodded at him.
"I'm glad you're here," Curry said. That surprised me. Private cops are never glad to see city cops show up on their turf. "This is a terrible day for us. Whatever I can do to help you solve this crime quickly..." he cleared his throat, "and quietly, just say the word."
He walked over to Terry and extended his hand again, this time with a business card in it. "If it's really critical, I'll take down the little barrier we put up to discourage people from rubbernecking. However..."
Terry took the card. "Let's just leave it for now."
"Hey, guys... Lomax... Biggs... over here."
Another voice from the business side of the Crime Scene tape. This time it was the unmistakable twang of Jessica Keating. Nobody in all of LAPD sounds quite like Jessica. She's from Chicago where they apparently teach their young to run
every word through their nasal passages before actually speaking it. She could really mutilate the name Lomax, but I was thrilled to hear her. There are a couple of hard-ass, self absorbed, this-is-my-job-not-yours-fuckface LAPD Crime Scene Investigators. Jessica Keating is not one of them.
Jess is an amalgam of visual counterpoints. She's Janet Reno tall, with curly blonde Shirley Temple hair. Her face has wonderful hints of Audrey Hepburn. Creamy white skin, unblemished by a single ray of California sunshine, tapering off into an elegant slender neck. At the other end are two oversized Bozo the Clown feet.
She's Midwestern friendly with a glorious smile and a big goofy laugh. Homicide cases are inherently depressing, but if anyone can brighten up a murder scene, it's Jessica. I always tell her she's the Ghoul of my Dreams. The only time I ever saw her cry was in a high school gymnasium in Van Nuys. Every cop has a breaking point. For Jessica it was four dead kids and a gym teacher sprawled across a painted hardwood floor.ŚŚŚ'->
Terry and I gave her a big "Hey, Jess" and walked over with Curry and Amy close behind. Jess was on one knee, fiddling with the DOA, who was still inside his bunny suit. His size 42 rabbit head, an open pack of Marlboro Lights, and a red translucent plastic Bic lighter were on the floor nearby.
Terry and I hadn't crossed paths with Jessica for about a week, so she had a little catching up to do. "Nice going on the Marlar case," she said.
"Couldn't have done it without you, Keating," I said. It was true. She had determined that the murder weapon was a rock hard rawhide bone that had been the chew toy of the victim's dog, a massive golden retriever named Rudy. The dog hadn't
done it, but apparently the victim's husband had. Jessica had put us on the path to success when she picked up a single drool-covered Rudy hair from the victim's skull.
"What do we have?" I asked, getting down to the business at hand.
She smiled real perky and put on her instructor face, as if she were now going to teach us a simple, basic lifeskill, like how to stuff a turkey. "Cause of death, strangulation. This is a No Smoking facility. Looks like the vie snuck back
He was a light-skinned African-American, big and well-built, his head shaved smooth and buffed to a soft glow. His eyes locked on me and Terry, slicing and dicing us as he approached. He stopped a foot away and stood eyeball to eyeball with me,
36
ť;
The Rabbit Factory
which made him six-foot-one. But he had at least twenty pounds on me, about nineteen and a half of which were muscle. His face, his bearing, his look, everything about him, said Cop. Everything but his clothes, which said Handsomely Paid Executive. I was right on both counts. "Gentlemen," he said, "I'm Brian Curry, Head of Security at Familyland."
H
CHAPTER 7
Cop-to-cop introductions at the scene of a homicide don't usually call for hearty handshakes, but Curry extended his hand, so I shook it. Terry hung about six feet back, folded his arms across his chest and nodded at him.
"I'm glad you're here," Curry said. That surprised me. Private cops are never glad to see city cops show up on their turf. "This is a terrible day for us. Whatever I can do to help you solve this crime quickly..." he cleared his throat, "and quietly, just say the word."
He walked over to Terry and extended his hand again, this time with a business card in it. "If it's really critical, I'll take down the little barrier we put up to discourage people from rubbernecking. However..."
Terry took the card. "Let's just leave it for now."
"Hey, guys... Lomax... Biggs... over here."
Another voice from the business side of the Crime Scene tape. This time it was the unmistakable twang of Jessica Keating. Nobody in all of LAPD sounds quite like Jessica. She's from Chicago where they apparently teach their young to run
every word through their nasal passages before actually speaking it. She could really mutilate the name Lomax, but I was thrilled to hear her. There are a couple of hard-ass, self absorbed, this-is-my-job-not-yours-fuckface LAPD Crime Scene Investigators. Jessica Keating is not one of them.
Jess is an amalgam of visual counterpoints. She's Janet Reno tall, with curly blonde Shirley Temple hair. Her face has wonderful hints of Audrey Hepburn. Creamy white skin, unblemished by a single ray of California sunshine, tapering off into an elegant slender neck. At the other end are two oversized Bozo the Clown feet.
She's Midwestern friendly with a glorious smile and a big goofy laugh. Homicide cases are inherently depressing, but if anyone can brighten up a murder scene, it's Jessica. I always tell her she's the Ghoul of my Dreams. The only time I ever saw her cry was in a high school gymnasium in Van Nuys. Every cop has a breaking point. For Jessica it was four dead kids and a gym teacher sprawled across a painted hardwood floor.ŚŚŚ'->
Terry and I gave her a big "Hey, Jess" and walked over with Curry and Amy close behind. Jess was on one knee, fiddling with the DOA, who was still inside his bunny suit. His size 42 rabbit head, an open pack of Marlboro Lights, and a red translucent plastic Bic lighter were on the floor nearby.
Terry and I hadn't crossed paths with Jessica for about a week, so she had a little catching up to do. "Nice going on the Marlar case," she said.
"Couldn't have done it without you, Keating," I said. It was true. She had determined that the murder weapon was a rock hard rawhide bone that had been the chew toy of the victim's dog, a massive golden retriever named Rudy. The dog hadn't
done it, but apparently the victim's husband had. Jessica had put us on the path to success when she picked up a single drool-covered Rudy hair from the victim's skull.
"What do we have?" I asked, getting down to the business at hand.
She smiled real perky and put on her instructor face, as if she were now going to teach us a simple, basic lifeskill, like how to stuff a turkey. "Cause of death, strangulation. This is a No Smoking facility. Looks like the vie snuck back
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