She frowned. ‘Is there an echo in here? I already told you that.’

‘Don’t screw me over, Jo.’

‘Have I ever screwed you over before?’

He didn’t respond, because the answer was no.

‘Did you see the story?’ he asked.

She nodded. It had been in yesterday’s Times, on page four: an update on the suicide of Donald Klein, looping in his connection to the Star Inn, the body in the tub, the acid, the red station wagon and the fact that the victim at the motel still hadn’t been ID’d. The moment she’d stormed out of the squad room two days ago, slighted, boiling with rage, she’d got on the phone to O’Hara and set the wheels in motion. The story he’d written was, in truth, a zombie, full of no new information, but it served a purpose for both of them: first, Klein was an LAPD case, so Jo had an insurance policy if Hayesfield ever came knocking as she could claim that – because the story had led with Klein – it had come from the LAPD, not from her; second, it got the details of the motel murder fully out into the open, where it would get seen by the public and, in turn, by potential witnesses to whatever had happened on the night of the killings; and, third, it was a bridge to carry O’Hara to what he ultimately wanted.

Not answers to the motel murder. He didn’t care about that.

What he wanted was the Night Stalker.

Jo had told him that she wasn’t working on the task force, but he didn’t care: he wanted colour, not details. He already had another source who was on one of the teams – Jo suspected at Glendale PD – and so what O’Hara needed from Jo was the soap opera: how the task force looked, the stress levels, the kind of hours they were pulling, dominant personalities, arguments, all the bullshit that would add shade to what his insider gave him about the actual Stalker murders themselves.

Jo hated having to do it, because the Stalker was no game.

But the real killer of Gabriel Wilzon was still out there.

O’Hara pushed the personal stereo towards Jo, handed her a pair of headphones and pressed Play.

In Jo’s ears, the tape whirred into life.

‘Sorry about that. I just wanted to move somewhere quiet.’ It was O’Hara, and he was feeding the caller some bullshit; he’d put whoever had phoned on hold because he was setting up a recording device.

‘So you’re the dude that wrote that article about the bathtub case?’

It was a woman, maybe Hispanic.

‘Yeah, that was me.’

‘What’s the name of the cop that’s dealing with it?’

‘Why, do you know something about it?’

‘You got the name of the cop or not?’

‘Joline Kader,’ O’Hara said, and read out her number.