Totem Phase

The clock ticked past one-thirty. Rachel and Albi Manser had twenty sharp-edged questions-some polite, some lethal. They'd agreed: let the killer lead. No pushing. No pissing him off. He wanted to talk. They knew the no-go zones.

She dialed. Second ring, he picked up.

"Good choice," he murmured. A low hum in the background-electrical? Static? Bad line or burner phone? Albi flicked the speaker on, leaned in.

"I thought about calling the cops," Rachel said. "Didn't want more bodies piling up."

"But your hunger for headlines outweighs your bleeding heart."

"That's not true. You wouldn't have pulled me in if you thought I was a sellout."

Silence. Then a louder hum, static chewing at the line.

"You there?"

"I'm here."

"Where are you calling from?"

"The line isn't tapped, if that's what you mean."

"Not important. You got questions?"

"I have a list. Don't know what I'm allowed to ask."

"Ask and find out."

"Alright. What do I call you?"

"The cops gave me some weak-ass nickname. Starman. Bullshit. Bowie song. I have a better one. Rainbow Warrior."

"Why that?"

"It's who I am. And who Angel isn't."

"You said you kill for power. Why do you need it?"

"I don't need power. I am power."

"There are other ways to use power."

"Killing is the peak of power. People want to do what I do. They're too weak."

"How old are you?"

"No answer. Next."

"Do you want to stop?"

Laughter. Hard, bitter.

"Stop? I just got started."

"What's your endgame?"

"Notoriety. Fear. Power."

"Do you want to be caught?"

"If I did, I'd walk into a precinct and put my hands up. That 'killers want to get caught' theory? Bullshit. Fed to the public by people who don't know the game."

"Are you sick? On meds?"

"You a doctor now?"

"I'm trying to understand why you kill innocent people."

"Innocent? Who says they're innocent?"

"I do. The cops do. The state does."

"You think people don't kill for kicks?"

Albi gestured: cool it. Rachel pressed on.

"You get off on this?"

"That's another question I won't answer. But I'll give you some freebies. I'm not gay. No voices in my head. No Satan, no God. No master. I eat corn dogs. Hate peppers on pizza. And John Angel Rideout? He's miles from catching me."

"Are you going to kill again?"

"That depends on you. But it's a question I won't answer."

Silence. A slow, creeping dread. Then:

"Call me at 11:30 tonight. From your apartment. Not your agent's office."

Click. Dead air.

Rachel stared at Albi. Then bolted to the window. Scanned the street. Cars rolled. Pedestrians shuffled. Then-

A man. Stocky. Stepped out from an alley. Pulled on mirrored shades. Walked slow toward a bus stop. Paused at a travel agency window. Ducked behind parked cars. Rounded a corner. Gone.

"I just saw him," Rachel whispered.

Baldwin Hills. A place of history, catastrophe, and reinvention. The '60s dam break drowned a white neighborhood in mud and wreckage. A flood took cars, condos, lives. Then came the rebuild. Then the riots. Now, Baldwin Hills was Black. Private homes, apartments, stories etched in every street.

Crenshaw got hit, too. And it was here, before they vanished, that Ricky Thornton and Trish Brandt lived.

212 and 213 Crenshaw. Adjacent homes. Morning of their disappearance: Trish called for Ricky at 7:55. They walked to school. Met two friends. Routine. Lunchtime: they broke from the group. Not unusual. Ricky skipped class often. Trish followed.

By sunset, they were gone.

Jack Brandt sat in a rocking chair on his porch, old grief carved into his face. A fish pond bubbled at his feet.

"She fell for that boy. Hard. Like a kid falls for a stray dog."

Angel had Cole handle the interview. One predator a day was enough.

"She was a sweet girl," Brandt murmured. "Then she met Ricky. He was bad news. School called. She was missing. I knew."

"Sir," Cole said carefully. "You heard what Rrameraz claimed about you."

Brandt snorted. "Lies. The cops knew it. The prosecutors knew it. The goddamn tabloids didn't. They ran with it. Ruined me. That bastard's rotting where he belongs."

Cole pushed on. "We're investigating similar crimes. We need to know: where did Ricky's family go?"

"His parents split. Couldn't take the grief. His old man moved to Rhode Island, died with Alzheimer's. His mom stayed. Killed herself six years after Ricky was butchered. Slit her wrists longways-not that 'cry for help' shit. She meant it."

"Your wife?"

"Died too. Doctor said 'natural causes.' I say 'broken heart.'"

Silence. Then:

"Do you know a woman named Lucia Madora?"

Brandt's brow furrowed. Cole pressed on. "She was arrested for prostitution and drugs in '63. Never linked to the murders back then. Now? Her name's come up."

Brandt shook his head. "Means nothing to me."

Cole leaned in. "Her fingerprints were found. On money in Rrameraz's pockets. And on the dead kids."

Brandt tensed.

"That money was his. It was found on them. And it links back to her."

Brandt exhaled slow. "Angel Madora. That's a name I recall."

Cole's pulse ticked up. "Who?"

"Junkie. Maybe a hooker. Had a kid at Trish's school. Sickly. Small. Odd."

"You sure?" Angel asked.

"Yeah. Gossip spread fast back then."

Cole's phone rang. He turned away to take the call. Angel pounced.

"Trish had money on her when she died. Did you give it to her?"

"She got fifty cents for chores. Candy money when we had it. She asked for some before she died. We had nothing to spare."

"She had three bucks in change. Any idea where she got it?"

Brandt frowned. "She didn't save. And we didn't give it to her."

Cole turned back. "Lucia Madora's off the grid. No records. No trace."

Brandt's eyes flickered. "She's dead."

Cole and Angel exchanged a look.

Outside, in the car, Cole exhaled. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"

Angel's eyes darkened. "The circle of friends."