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“I like it,” DeAngelo said to Lula. “You want to spank me?”
“No, I don’t want to spank you,” Lula said. “That’s disgusting. I don’t know you good enough to want to spank you.”
DeAngelo winked at her and went to pick up his coffee.
“He’s giving me the runs,” Lula said.
I pushed back from the table. “I have to talk to the FBI this morning.”
“Then what?” Lula asked. “Who’s up for today?”
“Big Buggy and my RAV4 for starters. I’ll call when I’m done downtown.”
TEN
BERGER, THE FBI ARTIST, and Chuck Gooley were waiting for me in a conference room on the sixth floor. We started with face shapes, and from there we went to specifics like eyes and mouth and nose. By the time we were done, I was thoroughly confused and had no idea if the drawing even remotely resembled the guy in the photo.
“So is this the guy?” Berger asked me, pointing to the composite sketch.
“Sure,” I said. “Maybe. So about the maniac in my kitchen who wanted to kill me …”
“What did he look like?”
“Middle Eastern complexion. Lots of unruly curly black hair. Crazy eyes. Six foot. Slim. Early forties. An accent I couldn’t place. Tattoo of a rose on his knife hand.”
“I’ll feed it into the system and let you know if we get a match.”
I left the sixth floor, exited the building, and stopped in the middle of the sidewalk because Lancer and Slasher were standing by the Buick, half a block away. Okay, here were my options. I could call Berger, but I wasn’t sure what that would accomplish. Berger’d made it clear my safety wasn’t his priority. I didn’t want to drag Morelli away from his murders. If I asked Ranger for help, he’d have me under twenty-four-hour surveillance. Ranger tended to be overprotective.
I decided none of those options were going to work for me, so I transferred my stun gun from my bag to the pocket on my sweatshirt and approached Lancer and Slasher.
“Hey,” I said. “What’s new?”
Lancer was leaning against the Buick’s passenger-side door. “Looks like you’re cozy with the FBI.”
“They’re interested in the photograph.”
“No shit,” Lancer said. “Did you give it to them?”
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“I told them the same thing I told you. I don’t have it.”
“Yeah, but you saw it, right?”
“Wrong.”
“You’re lying,” Lancer said. “I can tell.”
“There’s another guy after the photograph,” I said. “Tall, curly black hair, looks Middle Eastern, rose tattoo on his hand.”
Lancer and Slasher looked at each other and grimaced.
“Raz,” Lancer said.
“Who’s Raz?” I asked.
“No one knows his real name,” Lancer said. “Raz is short for Razzle Dazzle. That’s what he goes by. You don’t want to deal with him. He has no scruples.”
