The Samaritan by Mason Cross

outside Richard Boden’s place. Allen felt bad about that, but knew it was inevitable. At least she could take comfort from the knowledge that Boden would have no problem telling them where to go if he didn’t feel like talking to them.
    The door opened and Mazzucco walked in, carrying his phone. He took one look at the scene, the group of detectives staring in fascination at the screen, and looked at Allen. “What?”
    She didn’t take her eyes away from the screen.
    “Tell me you have some good news.”
    “Depends how you define good,” Mazzucco said, bouncing the phone in his hand. Then he looked back up at the screen, reading the ticker. “Ah, shit.”
    “Some . . .” Allen cleared her throat and composed herself. “Someone has talked to the media.” She looked at Mazzucco, waving a hand at the screen. “Not just talked. Sounds like they have every goddamned detail. Burnett, Boden’s name and picture, the number of bodies, even the goddamned wound pattern.” Her eyes widened in disbelief as the graphic changed to display the line: LAPD INVESTIGATES SO-CALLED SAMARITAN SLAYINGS. “Jesus!”
    “ The Samaritan ,” a voice across the room intoned in a deep, movie-trailer voice. “Your boy’s a star.”
    “Shut the fuck up, Coleman,” Mazzucco said without giving him the dignity of a glance. He turned back to Allen. “Who was it?”
    Allen said. “This is guy-on-the-scene stuff, I’m guessing. One of the uniforms, maybe even one of the coroner investigators.”
    “There could be a silver lining,” Mazzucco said as Sarah Dutton’s picture flashed up on the screen. They’d already been working with the media to publicize the search for Sarah, but if nothing else, that part of the investigation had just gotten a major ratings boost.
    The blonde on TV continued. “Unconfirmed reports suggest that the search for this woman, Sarah Dutton, is related to the ongoing investigation. Anyone who knows the whereabouts of Sarah is urged to call . . .”
    Allen shook her head. “It’s not worth it. We’re not going to find her, are we? Not alive.”
    For the last couple of hours, they’d been chasing leads. Silver Porsches were being routinely stopped, regardless of license plate, leading to a lot of pissed-off rich people. AAA had come back with a list of no-shows for the past month, but all of the callers had been accounted for. They’d worked the phones and batted theories back and forth over too many cups of coffee. Allen liked to push Mazzucco to think outside of the box, Mazzucco tried to keep Allen focused on the sparse facts they had at their disposal. It was a relatively new professional relationship, and they were both still feeling their way, learning how to play to each other’s strengths. Allen appreciated the back-and-forth, but she suspected they were both glad of the respite when Mazzucco had gone outside for a cigarette.
    He was back now, though, and she realized he was holding his phone up for her to look at the screen. Another carefree social media profile picture of a brunette, slightly older than the others, but probably still in her twenties. She looked a lot like their remaining unidentified victim.
    Allen’s eyes flicked from the phone screen to Mazzucco’s expectant face. “Well? Are you going to keep me in suspense?”
    “Rachel Morrow, twenty-eight years old.”
    Allen’s brow creased. “She’s not famous as well, is she?”
    Her partner shook his head.
    “Rich?”
    “Nope. I mean, she’s an accountant—was an accountant, I mean—so she was doing okay, but not exactly rich and definitely not famous.”
    “We didn’t get a hit off her prints, I’m assuming.”
    “Correct. This is from MPU. We’d have matched her earlier today, but the missing persons report was only filed yesterday. Her husband was out of the country for more than a week. Got back yesterday to find an empty home.”
    Allen was incredulous. “He didn’t speak to his wife on the phone for a week ?