Free Hillside Stranglers by Darcy O'Brien Page B

daughter, Grace. Bianchi beeped, everyone waved, and Bianchi headed the Cadillac for Hollywood.
    They turned down Western and out Sunset to the Strip, passing Carney’s, the railroad diner, glancing at each other to acknowledge a now-hallowed spot. The Strip was alive, the traffic thick, the sidewalks crowded, too crowded for a pickup. At La Cienega Boulevard, Buono told Bianchi to head back toward Hollywood. They would try the side streets, the dimly lit ones. “We could check out the parking lots,” Buono said. “I was thinking, she don’t even have to be a hooker, you know?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Why she have to be a hooker? With this scam, we could stop anybody. We could stop a fucking nun, see what I mean? We got our pick of the city, mi numi. We got it all. You got to think big. We could find us a virgin.”
    “You’re really on tonight, Angelo.”
    Angelo outlined the possibilities. Why, he wondered, couldn’t they carry their police ruse one step further? They could stop a girl, any girl. Say they’re taking her in. Once she’s in the car, it’s all over. The girl wouldn’t even have to be walking. She could be driving. They could spot some girl driving alone and just follow her. She would stop somewhere. She would be driving home. She would lead them to some side street with nobody on it and they could make their move. Bianchiagreed that it could work. It was worth a try. With this scam, there was no telling what they could do.
    “I can taste it,” Bianchi said. “I can taste it now.”
    “Just keep your pecker in your pants till we get home.”
    At Highland they turned left, northward toward the Hollywood Hills.
    “I’ll try around my place,” Bianchi said.
    “Not too close.”
    And then they spotted her. A dark-headed girl driving a lime-green Beetle convertible.
    “Follow that,” Buono said. “Get close enough we can look her over. Follow her.”
    The Beetle turned right onto Franklin with the Cadillac in pursuit, crossed Cahuenga and Vine, passed under the Hollywood Freeway, and turned left on Argyle Avenue, a street of apartment houses.
    “Slow down,” Buono said. “She’s going to park.”
    Near the corner of Argyle and Dix Street, the girl stopped against the curb and switched off her lights.
    “Just double-park behind her,” Buono said. “Get your badge ready. Be cool. Be real cool. Looks good. No one else around.
    As the girl got out of her car and started to lock the door, Buono and Bianchi were on her. Buono had his flashlight.
    “Police officers,” Bianchi said, quickly showing her his CHP star, which he had pinned to his wallet, and just as quickly slipping it back into the pocket of his leather coat. “May we see some identification?” The girl fumbled in her purse and brought out her driver’s license. Bianchi glanced at the license and handed it to Buono, who shined his flashlight on it.
    “Why am I being stopped?” Lissa Kastin asked. “Did I run a light or something?”
    “There’s been some trouble, Miss, ah . . .” Buono tried to puzzle out the syllables of her name on the license. Bianchi looked at it under the flashlight.
    “There’s been a robbery, Miss Kastin,” Bianchi said. “Your car was pointed out by a witness as leaving the scene.”

    “That’s ridiculous,” Lissa Kastin said. “I just got off work.”
    “Where do you work?” Bianchi asked.
    “Healthfaire Restaurant. I’m a waitress.”
    “A waitress. And what is the location of the Healthfaire Restaurant?”
    “Vine Street.”
    “That’s very near where the alleged robbery took place.”
    “You have to go along with us,” Buono said.
    “We’ll have to take you in for questioning.”
    “But this is a complete mistake,” she said. “I haven’t done anything. There must be hundreds of cars like mine around. There’s been a mistake.”
    “It’s a very distinctive color,” Bianchi said. “You’ll have to come with us. Just step over to our car there.”
    “You