Free October's Ghost by Ryne Douglas Pearson Page A

side of their area. Frankie had her own on the small credenza, the result of the caf-decaf wars soon after their pairing.
    Lowe had been there all night, giving Art a chance to come down from the adrenaline high and get some sleep. “LASO found it in back of the Pacific Design Center, on fire.” The Los Angeles Sheriffs Office patrolled the nearby city of West Hollywood, just blocks from the site of the murders. “Listed as a stolen out of Culver City.”
    “These guys get around,” Art commented.
    “Listen, I appreciate you taking this on,” Lowe said.
    Art waved off the gratitude. “Cam, it’s no trouble. You knew his folks. You should be there.” Lowe and his boss, Assistant Special Agent in Charge Jerry Donovan, were leaving on a midday flight to St. Louis to deliver condolences to Danbrook’s parents. It was common for ranking members of the office where a fallen agent was assigned to visit the family, and at the request of the San Francisco office, Lowe and Donovan were going to do the duty. It was fitting, as the young agent had spent the majority of his short career in L.A. “How’d Bill take it?”
    “Like a sock in the gut” Lowe answered. Special Agent in Charge William Killeen was at the Bureau’s Quantico, Virginia, academy for a meeting of all fifty-eight SACs to advise the deputy director on budget and manpower needs for the next fiscal year. “He wanted to come back, but I convinced him to stay there. He can’t do anything more than we already are.”
    The machine was only up to cup number two, but Art couldn’t wait. He switched it off and poured himself a cup, then turned it back on. “You want any?”
    “Leaded?”
    “Un,” Art answered, getting a polite shake of the head in response. “Where are we at?”
    “Jacobs is going to bring down an evidence list in a while and anything that might help.” They could use anything at this point.
    “What about the other victim?” Anyone other than the dead agent was an “other.”
    Lowe motioned with his head to the file folder on Art’s desk. “Not much more than last night.”
    Art read through it quickly. “Francisco Portero. Sixty-five. Florida driver’s license.” He looked up. “Miami have anything yet?”
    “Luke Kessler promised it by seven,” Lowe replied.
    “Hmm.” It was the slimmest of the slim. Art was in charge of an investigation without a well-defined starting point. “Witnesses sure aren’t plentiful.”
    “That blond waitress is still in shock. The only thing she gave us was that Portero said he was meeting someone. No descriptions from her, though. Looking at the statements, I’d say your busboy is the best so far. His description matches the one you gave of the van’s driver more closely than any of the others.”
    A sudden hush fell over the room, the silence soon filled by condolences and comforting words as Frankie Aguirre waded through the sea of her fellow agents. She set her purse on the desk and went to the open arms of Cameron Lowe.
    “How’re you doing, little lady?” The senior agent, a father figure in the L.A. office, was entitled to call her that, probably the only guy in the place she’d let get away with it.
    “I’m okay.” Her eyes were a little swollen, but there were no tears. She had cried them all out the previous night.
    “Much sleep, partner?”
    “A few hours,” she answered, stepping back from the security of Lowe’s strong arms. “Enough for now.”
    Lowe reached out and placed his hands on her shoulders, bending his head to look her in the eyes. “You go easy.”
    “This is where I need to be, Cam. I need to help find the guys.” I want them .
    “We will,” Lowe said, bringing his hands away. “I’ve got to run home and get cleaned up before Jerry and I leave. Lou is senior here until Jerry gets back.” Lou Hidalgo was deputy assistant special agent in charge. “He’ll be in about nine, but he’s wrapped up in that investigation group that’s running with