The Samaritan by Mason Cross

Allen. It reminded her of something the uniform at the gravesite had said earlier, about the undiscovered dead in the mountains. That made her wonder how long Boden and the other two might have lain in their unmarked graves had it not been for the rain and the landslide.
    “Hello?” Sanding said. “Allen, you still there?”
    “Yeah. Sorry. Just thinking. The guy in the Potomac, do you remember anything else about him?”
    “He had that weird slash cutting his throat. Like somebody had hacked away at it with a butter knife or something. The ME thought maybe it could have happened after he wound up in the river. Like he got caught on something that ripped the wound up more.”
    “Did you ever see anything else like that?”
    There was silence at the other end. No tapping this time.
    “Actually, yes. Maybe a couple of months before that. A snitch down in Columbia Heights. We found him in a boarded-up apartment; figured it was his homies did it. Looked like they’d found out he was telling tales out of school.”
    “How so?”
    “He’d been tortured. It was bad, Allen. Maybe the worst I’ve seen.”
    “Throat cut?”
    “Nah. Cigarette burns, missing digits, castration. His belly had been ripped open at the end of it, like he was literally spilling his guts. And the wound looked kind of like the one on the homeless guy.” He paused; then his voice got louder again, like he was returning to the present. “What’s this about, Jess?”
    “I’m not sure yet,” she said. “Thanks, Mike. I’ll call soon.”
    She hung up before he had a chance to question her further and stared at the postcard she’d pinned on the partition separating their desks. It was kind of a joke, a reproduction of some fifties advertising art, showing a glamorous couple lounging on the beach. Come to Los Angeles, California—City of Dreams! She always got a kick out of that whenever she looked up from crime scene pics of some grisly murder. She stared at the vibrant colors and the upbeat sentiment, lost in thought.
    Mazzucco’s fingers tapping on the partition snapped her out of it.
    “What?” she said, looking up.
    “The shift runner at the Triple A branch confirmed the timeline on Carrie Burnett. They took a call from her last Sunday night, saying she’d broken down on Laurel Canyon Boulevard. The tow truck driver got out there pretty quick because they prioritize single women. When he made it to the scene, there was no sign of her or her vehicle.”
    Allen opened her mouth to ask about the driver, but Mazzucco stopped her.
    “We’ve got somebody going to talk to the driver, but I think he’s clean. The manager checked the record before calling me back. Turns out these guys all ride with an onboard digital video camera now, for security. He drove out to the scene and the car wasn’t there. He made a call back to base and they told him to come back in. The tape backs up his account perfectly, as does the mileage on his truck and the fact he was assisting a different driver in West Hollywood a half hour later.”
    Allen thought about it. “Can we get them to check if there are any other no-shows? Anybody we can’t account for?”
    “Worth a shot.”
    Mazzucco’s hand was on the phone to call the AAA guy back when it rang again. He picked it up and said his name, then listened. He said okay and thanked whoever was on the other end, and then hung up.
    “We got confirmation on Carrie Burnett. Her prints were in the system for a DUI last year.”
    “Okay,” she said. “We need to find Sarah Dutton, and we need to know who the third victim is. I want to nail this guy, Mazzucco.”
     
14
     
Fort Lauderdale
     
    Since I was temporarily in the position of having nowhere in particular I had to be, I spent a day exploring Lauderdale on foot, getting to know a little more about the geography of the place, in case the local knowledge ever came in handy again. I avoided the area around the bar from the previous night, but covered a