There was a beer, half gone, in front of him.
“DS Haggerty?”
“That’s me. Lieutenant Dallas.”
“Thanks for making time.”
They shook hands; she sat.
“Want a beer?”
“Could use one, thanks.”
She let him order it, since it was his territory, and let him take his time sizing her up.
“You got an interest in one of my open cases,” he said at length.
“I got a vic. A strangulation, rape with object. A run-through IRCCA for like crimes turned up yours. My theory is he was practicing, perfecting, before he did the New York job.”
“He wasn’t sloppy in Boston. Neither am I.”
She nodded, sipped her beer. “I’m not here to bust balls, Haggerty, or to question your investigation. I need a hand. If I’m right, the guy we’re both looking for is working in New York now, and he’s not done. So we help each other, and we shut him down.”
“And you get the collar.”
She drank more beer, let it simmer. “I take him in New York, I get the collar. That’s the way it works. But your boss will know if any information you share with me aided in the arrest and conviction of this son of a bitch. And you’ll close your case. Your cold case,” she added. “Unless you’re a fuckup, you’ll be able to hang another murder on him. When this goes down, there’s going to be a lot of media. You’ll get your share of that, too.”
He sat back. “Pissed you off.”
“I start off my day pissed off. My investigation has led me to believe this asshole has killed at least six people to date. I suspect there are more, and I know goddamn well there will be more.”
He sobered. “Stand down, Lieutenant. I was testing the waters. I don’t give a skinny rat’s ass about the media. Not going to say I don’t care about the collar. Fucking right I do. My vic was beat to shit before he tied his goddamn bow around her neck. So I want him, and I got nothing. I worked the case hard, and got nothing. Yeah, officially it’s cold, but it ain’t cold to me.”
He took a long drink of beer. “It’s under my skin, and I work it whenever I get the chance. So you tell me you got a case in New York, and it brings you back here, to mine, I want a piece of it.”
Because she understood, she lowered her hackles and took the first step. “He’s imitating historic serial killers. One of the reasons he hit Boston—”
“Boston Strangler?” Haggerty pursed his lips. “I played with that awhile. Copycat thing. Had enough of the same elements. I studied up on those cases, looking for an angle to work. Nothing gelled, and since he didn’t hit again . . .”
“He did a homeless woman in New L.A. before Boston, and he’s hit New York. He’s also killed three LCs, Paris, London, New York, by emulating Jack the Ripper.”
“You’ve got to be shitting me.”
“It’s the same man. He left me notes with my two.”
“Nothing like that with mine,” he said, answering her unspoken question. “Don’t have a single witness. The security system on the building, if you can call it that, was taken out the day before he killed her. Nobody got around to fixing it. Let me get out my notes.”
She took her own from his. Before she’d drained her beer they’d agreed to exchange case files.
She checked the time, calculated. A call to the West Coast netted her a meet with the primary there. Another got her Roarke.
He seemed to be in some sort of a bar himself, but from the pretty lights, the quiet hum, and the glint of what she thought was crystal, it was several steps away from Haggerty’s hangout.
“I’ve wrapped up here,” she told him. “I’m on my way to transpo. How much time do you need?”
“Another half hour on this will do me.”
“Fine. Just meet me there. I’ve got enough to occupy myself with until you show. Any problem for you if we head straight to the West Coast from here?”