JF Gonzalez - Fetish.wps by phuc Page A

pulling this off."
    “I'll have to meet him sometime to thank him personally,” Rachael said.
    “I'll introduce you,” Daryl said.
    “He's involved at the church, right?” Rachael asked, watching as Lance seemed to ease into the quick photo session. The laughter of the gang members echoed in the dusty hangout. “The gang counselor?"
    “That's right,” Daryl turned to her and smiled. “He's a good guy. He's in tight with these kids here in the streets. Used to be one of them. He runs a youth ministry at Our Lady of Guadalupe Catholic Church in East Los Angeles."
    “Maybe I can talk to him next,” Rachael said. She put her notes in her jacket pocket. Lance was finishing up the shoot.
    “I'll give him a call,” Daryl said.
    They bade the gang members goodbye, climbed in their cars, and turned around, heading out from under the bridge. As they drove down the dusty road out of the squalid neighborhood, Rachael couldn't help but ask Lance how he felt.
    “Better now that we're out of there,” he said. He looked at her from the rearview mirror, his brown eyes showing relief. She smiled at him, then turned her attention back to Daryl.
    “Thank you,” she said. “For everything."
    “Don't mention it,” Daryl said, watching the road ahead. “You just write yourself one hell of an article. If you need to talk to Danny Hernandez, let me know."
    “I'll call you tonight,” she said. He nodded, a little smile on his face. She smiled back. I can't string him along anymore , she thought. I think he's hooked a little too deep.
    Maybe we can do lunch or something. That might ease the pressure .
    She settled in the front seat, thinking about the article she was going to write as Daryl and Lance talked about the Dodgers.

Chapter 7
    Daryl Garcia finished the evening edition of the Los Angeles Times with Rachael Pearce's two-part retrospective story of the Eastside Butcher and folded it up, placing it on the coffee table. He leaned back on the worn sofa in his living room. It was a damn good piece of investigative journalism. He had been worried that her exposé on the murder series and how the LAPD was handling it would be a blow to the department and hinder the investigation somehow. If anything, the article had helped them. Since publication of Part One yesterday, the department had been flooded with calls by people with tips. By this afternoon Parker Center had received almost four hundred tips from citizens ranging from people voicing suspicion of a neighbor or loved one, to people calling to voice concern over strange goings-on in their neighborhood. A few crackpots even called to confess to the murders but were quickly eliminated when they couldn't provide intimate details of the emasculations and post mortem sexual abuse performed on the corpses. They would probably be getting more false confessions in the weeks and months to come. Daryl reached for a glass of beer he had poured for himself upon returning home and drained the glass dry. He sighed again. It had been a long day and he was very tired.
    He heard the click of toenails on the linoleum floor and looked up. A white and tan pit bull terrier was standing in the doorway, wagging its tail so hard that the animal's hindquarters were swishing back and forth. Daryl broke into a grin. “How ya doin', Petey?
    Have a nice nap?"
    The dog barked happily and trotted over to Daryl. He set the paper aside as the dog practically leaped into his lap and began smothering his face in dog kisses, wagging his tail harder. Daryl laughed, patting and rubbing the dog's back. “Yes, I love you too, you big mutt. Boy, are you happy today."
    Petey grabbed Daryl's right hand gently in its jaws and tugged slightly. Daryl knew what the dog wanted. “Okay, but just for a little while. I've still got the paper to read, okay?"
    He got to his feet and followed the happily bouncing dog through the living room and out to the back patio. He grinned. The few people he'd had over at the house