Ben Paris sat on the corner of the desk, toying with a Lucite paperweight. Harris knew him well enough to understand that Ben liked something in his hands when he was thinking. Young, Harris reflected, but seasoned with ten years on the force. A solid cop, if a bit loose on procedure. The two citations for bravery had been well earned. When things were less tense, it even amused Harris that Ben looked like the Hollywood screenwriter’s version of an undercover cop-lean-faced, strong-boned, dark, and wiry. His hair was full and too long to be conventional, but it was cut in one of those fancy little shops in Georgetown. He had pale green eyes that didn’t miss what was important.

In a chair, three feet of leg spread out before him, sat Ed Jackson, Ben’s partner. At six-five and two hundred fifty pounds, he could usually intimidate a suspect on sight. Whether by whim or design, he wore a full beard that was as red as the curly mane of hair on his head. His eyes were blue and friendly. At fifty yards he could put a hole in the eagle of a quarter with his Police Special.

Harris set the paper aside, but didn’t sit. “What’ve you got?”

Ben tossed the paperweight from hand to hand before he set it down. “Other than build and coloring, there’s no connection between the two victims. No mutual friends, no mutual hangouts.

You’ve got the rundown on Carla Johnson. Barbara Clayton worked in a dress shop, divorced, no kids. Family lives in Maryland, blue collar. She’d been seeing someone pretty heavily up to three months ago. Things fizzled, he moved to L.A. We’re checking on him, but he looks clean.“

He reached in his pocket for a cigarette and caught his partner’s eye.