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“My God, you actually believe I’m capable of it, don’t you?”
She fought to make herself understood. “Please don’t consider it an insult when in the case of Felix and Bobby Clyde, it would have been a heroic deed.”
“You think vigilantes are heroic? I don’t. I’m trying to set an example here of how a responsible adult handles his life. It would defeat my whole purpose to step outside the law.”
“I didn’t actually accuse you of murder,” she stressed with forced calm.
“Fine.” The muscles clenched along Luke’s jaw as he pushed away from his desk. “But if I were going to do it, I’d gather a group of men who share my commitment to troubled youth. That way, none of us would have to handle more than a single killing, and it would be nearly impossible to link any of us to the crimes. But I sure as hell wouldn’t squeeze myself into an eye-catching red dress to commit murder.”
When he put it that way, Catherine had to laugh. She rose and reached for his hand. “That’s a convincing argument right there, but something very peculiar has to be going on for the woman in the red to want to call attention to herself.”
“I agree, but let’s let the police work it out.” He drew her close and dipped his head.
She reached up into the kiss, then regretfully broke away. “Lunch,” she reminded him. “You’ll be missed.”
“I miss you,” he breathed out against her lips. As he kissed her a second time, he hugged her tightly and lifted her clear off her feet. A loud knock at the door jolted them both.
“We were discussing the mural,” she whispered anxiously. She smoothed her hair with her fingertips and backed out of his embrace.
Luke shook his head. “This is my office, and I won’t make excuses to anyone.” He crossed to the door and pulled it open. When he found a pair of detectives flashing their brightly polished badges, he gestured for them to enter. “Let me get us another chair.”
“That won’t be necessary. We won’t stay long.” A handsome Latino walked into the office and nodded to Catherine. A neatly trimmed mustache set off his smile, and his dark eyes shone with a teasing sparkle. “I’m Gerry Garcia, but before you ask, I was named for Geronimo rather than the star of the Grateful Dead. This is my partner, Detective Salzman.”
Garcia was dressed in a tan suit, white shirt and gold patterned tie reminiscent of a Gustav Klimt painting, while his partner, a petite brunette, wore a severely tailored navy blue suit and the sturdy black heels worn by women in the military.
Startled by their arrival, Catherine responded as warmly as she could. “I’m Catherine Brooks. If you’ll excuse me, I’m sure you’d rather speak with Dr. Starns privately.”
Luke swung the door shut. “You’re one of our most trusted volunteers, Mrs. Brooks. I’d like you to stay. These are the detectives who came to take the girls’ statements after Felix Mendoza died. What progress have you made on that murder?” he asked them.
Chagrined, Garcia cleared his throat noisily, while his partner flipped open a small notebook and scribbled the date.
Catherine moved to the chair nearest the window and gestured for Detective Salzman to take the one closest to the door. After a slight hesitation, she sat on the edge of the seat, but her posture remained perfectly erect.
“You needn’t point out that Bobby Clyde Flowers wouldn’t be dead if we’d solved Felix Mendoza’s murder,” Salzman chided.
Luke slid into the chair behind his desk. He grabbed up the LATEXTRA section of the Los Angeles Times and flung it down on the desk top. “We were just reading about it. Do you believe it’s the same woman?”
Garcia jammed his hands into his pants pockets and began to pace the narrow space in front of the door. The new carpet swallowed the sound of his footsteps. “Frankly, I thought the witnesses to Felix’s murder were too rattled to provide an accurate description, but apparently they did.”
“Or some copycat killer was inspired by the news coverage to adopt a similar disguise,” Salzman murmured almost to herself.
“Do you regard that as a serious possibility?” Catherine inquired.
“Not really,” Garcia replied. “But it was no accident that the witnesses to Felix’s murder came here; and the girl meant for the main course at last night’s party had one of your cards listing your programs. I’d say that’s two important links to Lost Angel and the murders.”
“We work awfully hard to get word of our services out to the kids who need them,” Luke responded. “You can’t blame us if we succeed.”
Salzman tapped her pen against her notebook in a nervous beat. “Let’s cut to the chase. The killer must have had a good reason to despise Mendoza and Flowers. They won’t be missed, but we really dislike unsolved crimes. As we see it, the killer will continue her brutal attacks unless she’s stopped cold. Because the dead men were known to traffic in young girls, and you’ve plenty passing through here, we need you to provide us with the names of all those with long blonde hair.”
“No way,” Luke swore. “We keep no records of who visits Lost Angel. We tally the numbers to be certain we’ll have enough food, but that’s it.”
Garcia waved aside that objection. “Even if there are no written records, you must know the names of your regulars.”
“Sure,” Luke replied with a shrug.
“Well?” Salzman persisted, pen at the ready.
“Well, nothing. If I begin giving names to the police, the kids will scatter faster than cockroaches at dawn, and unlike those hideous insects, they won’t return. I always encourage the kids to contact you if they have knowledge of a crime, but I won’t rat them out.”
