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She drags them over to Shenton’s desk. “Toby, pull up that bit of post we had earlier.” She directs him, pointing to the photographs on the monitor. “There. The one they found in the trash can of 213.”
“214,” Griffin reads out loud. He looks at Cara. He knows that expression. “What are you thinking?”
“Toby, who lives there? Pull up council tax records.”
He does as she asks, expertly navigating the system.
“DeAngelo,” Shenton says excitedly, gesturing at the screen. “Joseph DeAngelo.”
Griffin looks from Cara to Shenton and back again. They’re smiling. Cara raises her hand and Toby slaps it with a high-five.
Griffin knows that name. Until recently, an unknown. Ex-Navy. An ex-cop. And now?
“Joseph DeAngelo,” Shenton repeats. “The Golden State Killer.”
Cara picks up the phone. “We’ve got to get into that apartment.”
CHAPTER
34
“WELL, I DON’T know …”
Cara stands outside the block of apartments with Griffin, the same block of apartments as the day before. The white scientific services vans are still parked outside; Cara knows the SOCOs will be there for days yet, piles of evidence to log and take away. The landlord stands next to them, nervously wringing his hands.
“He’s potentially killed eleven men,” Cara says.
“Not Joe. Joe’s a good guy.”
“You’ve met him?”
“No, not actually met him. But …”
He glances upward. Cara follows his gaze. The window of apartment 214 seems to be covered with something; they can’t see any blinds or curtains.
“How did you come to rent him the apartment? How does he pay?” Griffin asks.
“He put a note through my door about a year ago when I advertised. Cash every month, right on time.” The landlord’s gabbling now.
“And you took identification?”
“No, he … er …” He stops, looks down. “He paid me double to keep quiet. Ignore the usual paperwork.” Cara and Griffin both glare at him. Chastened, the landlord holds out the spare key. “I’m sorry. How was I to know he’d be a serial killer?”
Cara takes the key and they walk toward the main door.
“How do you want to play this?” Griffin asks. “Call in armed response?”
Cara frowns. “That could take hours.” She looks at Nate. “There’s no way he’s there, right? I mean, still staying at the apartment while the place crawls with crime scene officers and cops?”
“Seems unlikely.”
“So let’s just go and look around. What’s the worst that could happen?”
Griffin stays silent. They walk toward the door of the block of apartments where Cara remembers vomiting in the flower bed just forty-eight hours before. She’s glad Nate didn’t reply. She knows the answer. More bodies. A serial killer with a gun.
But they can’t waste any more time.
They pass the open door of apartment 213, blue and white tape across the entrance. Cara picks up two new white crime scene suits from the pile and hands one to Nate. They both put them on, along with the shoes and gloves. They keep their hoods down, masks in hand.
