The First Cut by Dianne Emley Page A

relationship, Frankie went silent about it.”
    “How did Moore and Frankie meet?” Kissick asked.
    “Backyard barbecue given by mutual cop friends.”
    Early rubbed her eyes with her fingertips for the umpteenth time that day. “What about Moore’s wife? Did she know?”
    “She’s used to him working long hours.” Schuyler said it in a way that suggested Moore’s wife had become accustomed to him screwing around with other women. “I reiterate that I found no evidence linking Moore to Lynde’s disappearance.”
    “Did he try to horn in on your investigation?” Kissick asked.
    Schuyler thought before responding. “He called once or twice to ask how it was going. That was it, other than showing up today.”
    “Her dad told me you’d tracked down a dozen or so guys Frankie was involved with.” Ruiz’s voice was low as if trying to preserve Frankie’s honor. “You like any of them?”
    Schuyler shook his head. “No evidence she’d been in contact with them for a long time. Frankie was known for partying hard, but when she took up with Moore, she cut out the rest.”
    “She was in love,” Vining said.
    The way she’d been staring at the table would lead one to believe she had been daydreaming.
    They all looked at her.
    She looked back. “She talked to her friends about the other men in her life, but not about Moore. She even stopped sharing information about him with her best friend. She knew what they would say and she didn’t want to hear it.”
    “She thought she was in love.” Caspers sneered.
    “If she thought she was in love, then she was,” countered Vining. “There’s no blood test for love. Moore ended it, and her life went spinning out of control.”
    Ruiz grinned. “I think you watched too much of that Lifetime channel for women while you were gone.”
    Vining gave him an amiable smile, showing she could take a joke, while thinking, Just keep pulling the rope, my friend. Eventually, you’ll hang yourself.
    Early raised her index finger. “Vining’s got a point.”
    Ruiz’s grin stiffened.
    “Granted, Moore’s got some agenda he’s working through, but we’re ignoring that little play Frankie and Chauffeur Girl put on at the strip club. Who was the girl? Where was Frankie for the past two weeks? And why the hell was her body dumped in Pasadena?”
    “Let’s back up and start at the beginning,” Kissick said.
    Schuyler took the lid off the banker’s box. “Frankie Lynde,” the date of her disappearance, and the case number were written on the side in black marker. “I have Lynde’s paper trail for the past two years at the station. Feel free to come down and run our copy machine. I brought copies of my and my partner’s notes, the reports of the interviews we conducted, and the other research we did.”
    From the box he took out the flyer that was posted all over L.A. County, that had appeared in all the local newspapers and on the local and national news. The flyer showed Lynde’s official police portrait, in uniform in front of the U.S. flag, and a second photo of her on a sailboat, tanned, windblown, and smiling.
    For the next hour, Schuyler summarized what he’d learned.
    Frances Susan Lynde was twenty-eight years old. She had been an LAPD officer for seven years, the last three working undercover vice out of Hollywood. She had a reputation as a solid cop. She and her team were awarded medals for their role in busting a group of Thais running a prostitution ring out of a house in East Hollywood, smuggling in women to work as sex slaves. She’d also done important work in busting porno film producers who were hiring underage actors. By all accounts, she was passionate about her job.
    She grew up in Azusa, a small city in the San Gabriel Valley about fifteen miles east of Pasadena. She was an only child. Frank and Debby Lynde decided to name their first-born after Frank whether a boy or a girl. Frankie grew up to be a tomboy who loved hanging around with her father.